"Beats all," said good old Mr. Hurlbut to good old Mrs. Hurlbut, as he
laid down the paper from which he had been reading--"beats all what
mizzable little fellers some o' them poor children in the city be. It
seems a good many folks on farms, like us, Sereny, have took 'em in 'n'
kep' 'em a spell. Must 'a done the poor little things good. Law! makes
me feel bad."
Good Farmer Hurlbut took off his spectacles and wiped them with great
thoroughness. He was thinking not only of the little newsboys, and the
other poor children of whom he had been reading, in the city, fifty
miles away, but of a certain little boy of his own and "Sereny's," who
had gladdened their home for nine short years, and then had died,
leaving them desolate indeed, but with a warm place in their hearts for
all his kind.
Presently Farmer Hurlbut spoke again, and, it seemed to Aunt Sereny,
rather irrelevantly:
"Lots o' nuts this year up in the north pastur. The clump o' chestnuts
is fuller 'n ever--the biggest chestnuts I ever see; 'n' up higher
there's more walnuts 'n' butternuts than you ever see in your life.
Guess we'll have to go over and get George's folks 'n' Eliza Jane 'n'
the girls, 'n' have a picnic some warm day up there, and gather 'em."
"Yes, we must," assented kind Aunt Sereny.
"It would be sorter nice for them poor little fellers in the city to
take a day off in the woods so," continued Farmer Hurlbut, jerking his
thumb toward the paper from which he had been reading.
"Yes, it would," concurred Aunt Sereny.
"But," went on Farmer Hurlbut, with a puzzled expression, "how to get at
'em--that's the question."
"I should think so," said Aunt Sereny, whose sole mission in life was to
agree and to smooth over and to dispense peace generally.
Suddenly Farmer Hurlbut seized his paper, and began to look over what he
had been reading, passing his finger patiently along the lines.
"I thought so!" he exclaimed at last, pinning a particular place with
his big thumb. "I thought I see the name of the superintendent of the
society, 'n' I did. He'd know, I s'pose."
"Know what?" asked his wife, mildly.
"Why, how to get at 'em."
"Oh!" Aunt Sereny brightened up wonderfully.
"How d'ye s'pose 'twould do to ask a whole raft on 'em to come?" asked
Farmer Hurlbut, reflectively.
"I'd be kinder afraid on 'em, so many, seems to me"--with a little
deprecatory laugh.
"Thet's so," said her considerate husband. "They be wild little
critters, so I've heerd. Mebby five or six would be enough. My! how
their eyes would shine to see them nuts!"
Aunt Sereny laughed--a wholesome, sunshiny laugh as ever was heard.
"'N' I know," continued Farmer Hurlbut, affectionately, "that you'd feed
'em up, 'n' pet 'em, 'n' do 'em more good 'n all the mission schools in
creation."
Aunt Sereny protested modestly, but was sure she would be willing to try
and see what she could do.
There was a little time of silence, during which the clock struck nine.
"Wa'al, what say, Sereny?" said the old farmer at last.
The old lady understood him perfectly.
"I say, Josiah," she replied, with considerable emphasis--"I say, do
just as you've a mind to."
The consequence of this conversation was a letter from Farmer Hurlbut to
the superintendent, and later, the appearance of six ragged boys,
equipped with bags, on a pleasant Wednesday morning in early November,
at the railroad station in the city, ready to take the train which would
reach Farmer Hurlbut's at nine o'clock in the forenoon. That is, six
boys were expected. But when the gentleman who was waiting at the
station to put the little party on the cars came to count them, behold!
there was a seventh figure, very much smaller than any of the rest,
holding on tight to a bigger boy's hand.
It was a shrunken little mite, with a big coat on it that came to the
floor, and a hat that must have belonged to somebody's grandpa--a
comical, pitiful, heart-breaking little figure as ever was seen.
"Who's that, Tim?" asked the gentleman of the boy to whose hand the
little creature was desperately clinging. He didn't know Tim very well,
and had never encountered this tiny object before.
"I don't know as you'll like it," gasped Tim, apparently in great terror
lest he was going to be circumvented, "but it's the Baby, 'n' he's five
years, on'y he's little, 'cause he hasn't growed, 'n' he's been sick,
'n' mother said as how a whiff o' country'd do him good, 'n' mebby he
could go 'stead o' me. Philly here'll see to him."
"Yes, sir," said Phil Barstow, whose outfit was only less imposing than
the Baby's own. "I know the Baby, 'n' the Baby knows me, 'n' if you
think it's too many for Tim to go too, we kinder decided--Tim's mother
'n' Tim 'n' me--that mebby the Baby'd better go 'stead o' Tim, or,"
added Phil, with unexpected heroism, and swallowing hard, "or 'stead o'
me."
"It's all right," said the gentleman, who was sure, from the tone of
Farmer Hurlbut's letter, that he wouldn't mind having seven any more
than six. "It's all right, Tim. Now take good care of him, and sit
still, all of you."
So "the Baby" was put on board, and the cars moved slowly off.
At the end of their journey, there was Farmer Hurlbut with his big
lumber wagon, which had three boards laid across it for seats. The boys,
with their bags and their dreadful costumes, filed out as soon as the
train stopped, their glowing faces revealing unmistakably their
identity.
They were immediately pounced upon and conveyed to their seats in the
wagon, where Aunt Sereny was waiting for them.
Farmer Hurlbut was overflowing with joviality and good-humor. Two great
suggestive baskets and a mighty jug were packed into the front of the
wagon, and behind were various boxes and barrels to hold the surplus
nuts.
"And who's this?" asked Aunt Sereny, beaming delightfully from the front
seat of the wagon, and fixing her gaze particularly upon the forlorn
little straggler clinging tight to Tim's hand.
"Please, mum," said Tim, eagerly, "it's the Baby, 'n' he's sick, 'n'
mother was for havin' him come 'stead o' me, but they said mebby you'd
take us both."
"Take you both!" exclaimed the dear old lady, wiping her eyes
vigorously, and kissing the Baby's weazened little face, "I guess we
will! It'll do him good, likely's not, bless his heart! Josiah,
mebby"--as the horses started off briskly--"mebby," significantly, "the
boys are hungry after their journey. Just get out the little tin cups
'n' I'll give them a drink o' milk apiece, 'n' mebby a sandwich 'n' a
turn-over as we're riding along. It's a good ways up to the north
pastur'," continued the old lady, as she dealt out the things liberally,
and watched them grasped eagerly by the half-starved little creatures.
"There's plenty, boys; eat all you want. Goodness me! Josiah Hurlbut,"
she whispered to her husband, "they haven't had nothing to eat for a
week--I know they haven't!"
But the chief ecstasy was on the back seat, where the Baby was ensconced
between Tim and Philly, and eagerly swallowing a cup of Aunt Sereny's
rich yellow milk.
"Massy, Phil," cried Tim, admiringly, "see the Baby a-drinkin'! How does
it taste, Baby?--good?"
The Baby nodded, a grave smile settling upon his poor little visage
under the big hat.
"More," he said, weakly.
"More! My gracious!" said Tim, in the wildest spirits--"more! He wants
more, Philly. Hain't et or drinked so much as this for a month, I sh'd
think. Can he have some more, mum?" reaching out a claw-like hand with
the tin cup, which went back brimming full.
Pretty soon the boys began to talk.
"See there!--quick! That's a squirrel, boys--a reg'lar squirrel. Ever
see one before?"
"Trout in that brook, bet you a cent, boys! Won't the rest o' the
fellers stare when we tell 'em what we've seen?"
"Are there more nuts 'n that"--pointing to a heavily laden tree which
they were passing--"in the place we're going to?"
"Humph!" returned Farmer Hurlbut, the sight of whose ponderous fist had
impressed his wild little crew as much perhaps as his kindness and
generosity; "there's more nuts up in the north pastur', where we're
a-goin', than you'll see all the way put together."
In about an hour the north pastur' was reached, and the boys tumbled out
of the wagon amid a jumble of sweet-fern and pennyroyal, and other sweet
woodsy-smelling things.
Aunt Sereny found a comfortable seat near by, and fell to knitting as
usual, and Farmer Hurlbut, going to a thicket close at hand, pulled out
two long stout poles, which he had prepared for this very occasion, and
laid away a week before.
Then Jim Bowker and Sammy Jones, two of the biggest boys, were sent up
two of the best trees, and once well up, they lay flat along the great
branches, and plied the poles vigorously. The glossy brown nuts and
prickly burrs came flying "fast and furious."
The Baby crept timidly out of the wild bombardment, and sat down beside
the ample figure of Aunt Sereny. His tiny hand--the fac-simile of Tim's
only less skinny--grasped her dress firmly. Aunt Sereny put her hand
into her pocket and drew forth unheard-of treasures of peppermints,
sweet-flag root, and caraway-seeds. These the Baby gravely took and
devoured.
Noon coming ever so much too soon, Aunt Sereny, amid great applause,
suggested something more in the line of refreshments. She accordingly
spread a white cloth over a great flat rock, and set forth a feast
calculated to drive a hungry boy crazy with delight. Even the Baby
fairly laughed aloud.
"I tell you, boys," said Tim, springing to his feet as he heard it, and
even dropping a precious tart in his enthusiasm--"I tell you the Baby
hasn't laughed like that since I can remember. Hi! ain't it jolly?"
The meal fairly over, they lay a little while on the warm dry grass
enjoying the mild sunshine, Aunt Sereny knitting peacefully on. Two or
three boys dozed a little, and the Baby crept up to his old place beside
Aunt Sereny, and gathering up his tiny figure upon her dress, went fast
asleep. She spread a light shawl over him, and drew him closer, amid
affectionate and admiring glances from Tim. Tim adored anybody who was
good to the Baby.
Pretty soon Farmer Hurlbut roused them up to go to the walnut-trees, and
two other boys were detailed for duty in the branches, which they beat
and beat again with their poles. "Shucks" were new things to them all.
"Shure enough," said Larry O'Brien, with a fine brogue, "and now I'll
know what they mane whin they say I don't know shucks--but I do,
though."
This caused an uproarious laugh, and Larry kept on saying witty things,
to the great amusement of all. Not Sydney Smith himself was ever the
source of more delight.
The train was to start at five, and it was nearly that time when the
tired, sunburned, happy little crowd drew up at the railroad station.
Aunt Sereny had been having a whispered consultation with Farmer Hurlbut
on the way home, and when they stopped, she took Tim and the Baby aside.
"Tim," she said, "can't you leave the Baby with us a little while--to
stay a week or two, you know? You tell me where to write, and I'll let
your mother know how he gets along. We'll take good care of him."
Tim gazed at her with open mouth and shining eyes. "The Baby?" he
gasped. "Why--mother--and--me" (slowly) "can't get along 'thout the
Baby. He sleeps with me"--his lip trembling--"every night. Seems 's if I
couldn't sleep nohow 'thout his little hand hold o' mine."
"But he says he'd like to stay," Aunt Sereny answered, coaxingly. "I
asked him"--for the mite had ridden home in Aunt Sereny's lap.
"Does he?" said Tim, brightening. "If he _wants_ to--mebby--well-- D'ye
s'pose mother'd like it?"
But Aunt Sereny settled Tim's doubts, and the train finally rolled away
without the Baby.
There he staid at the farm-house, and grew so strong and well that he
was allowed to remain for many a long year. Tim and his tired,
overworked widowed mother became frequent visitors to the same
hospitable spot, as well as the rest of the boys who had formed the
memorable nutting party. In fact, a nutting party in the north pastur'
became an annual institution, which continues to the present time.