[illustration: "boy blue and shep play together in the fields."] boy blue and his friends by etta austin blaisdell and mary frances blaisdell authors of "child life," "child life in tale and fable," "child life in many lands," "child life in literature," etc. copyright, , by little, brown, and company ~preface~ this is a book of short stories for the youngest readers,--stories about old friends, which they can easily read themselves. here they will learn why mary's lamb went to school, what the mouse was looking for when he ran up the clock, why one little pig went to market, how one little pig got lost, and the answers to a great many other puzzling questions. the stories are written around some of the mother goose rhymes because the children love to meet old friends in books just as well as we do. the vocabulary is limited to words easily recognized by beginners in reading, and the sentences are made short and direct, so that they will be understood. the stories progress gradually from very easy to more difficult matter, keeping pace with the child's increasing knowledge and ability,--the book being carefully arranged for use as a supplementary reader, or for home reading for the little ones. ~contents~ little boy blue snowball fire-cracker boy blue's dream mary's lamb the lamb at school little bo-peep hickory, dickory, dock mistress mary tommy tucker five little pigs jack and jill jack horner's pie the old woman in the shoe miss muffet humpty dumpty the mother goose book little boy blue, come blow your horn, the sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn. where's the little boy who looks after the sheep? he's under the haycock, fast asleep. [illustration] little boy blue little boy blue was not his real name. oh, no! his real name was richard snow. but his mother always called him "little boy blue." his father called him "boy blue," too. every one called him "little boy blue," and so i will. boy blue's eyes were as blue as the sky on a summer day. when he was a baby he always wore a blue ribbon in his hair. when he was five years old he wore a blue blouse and a blue cap. now he wears a blue suit and a blue tie. for boy blue is seven years old now, and is a big boy, you see. boy blue lives on a large farm in the country. there are horses, and cows, and sheep, and pigs, and ducks, and hens and chickens on the farm. of course, boy blue likes the cows and sheep best. he likes to drive the cows to the pasture in the morning. sometimes, at night, he drives them home again. he likes to watch his father milk the cows and feed them. "when i am a big boy," he says, "i shall milk my own cow every day." sometimes he goes with the boy to watch the sheep. shep, the dog, always goes with them. he watches the sheep all day long. they like to get into the meadow where the grass is green and sweet. but shep drives them out every time. boy blue and shep play together in the fields. they run and jump and chase each other. boy blue hides, and shep finds him. "bow-wow!" shep says. "here you are! now for a frolic." and off they go again. boy blue likes to feed the chickens. he likes to drive the ducks down to the brook and watch them swim about in the water. sometimes he helps his mother take care of little sister. then she calls him her "little helper." "no," he says, "i am your big boy blue." snowball one morning boy blue had tears in his big blue eyes. he could not find his snowball. you will laugh when i tell you who snowball was. she was not hard and cold. she was soft and warm. snowball was a pretty, white hen. she was boy blue's very own, and she would follow him all over the yard. she would eat grain from his hand, and let him smooth her white feathers. but now boy blue could not find her. he had looked in the hen-house and all over the yard. "have you looked in the barn?" asked his mother. "oh, no!" said boy blue, "and i saw her coming out of the barn yesterday." "so did i," said his mother. "i think you will find her in the hay." boy blue climbed up on the hay. there in a corner he found his snowball. when she saw her little friend, she began to scold. "why, snowball, what are you doing here?" said boy blue. "cluck, cluck," said snowball. "do not come too near." [illustration] "i have some eggs in this nice warm nest. "soon i shall have some little chickens for you. "oh, oh!" cried boy blue, "i must tell mamma." "you must feed snowball," said his mother. "give her some corn and a drink of water." boy blue took very good care of his pretty, white snowball. he gave her corn and fresh water every morning. three weeks seemed to him a long time to wait. but snowball did not seem to think so. one morning boy blue went out to feed her, and she would not leave her nest. "cluck, cluck!" said she, "i can hear my little chickens." boy blue kept very still and listened. "peep, peep, peep," he heard. "yes, snowball," he said, "i can hear your chickens, too." all day he was busy helping john build a chicken house. they built the house in the field near the barn. "i know snowball will like this house," said boy blue. the next morning snowball let him see her chickens. "cluck, clack, cluck!" she said. "oh, how pretty they are!" said boy blue. "one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. "you have seven dear little snowballs." snowball was proud of her babies, boy blue put them in his hat. they were too little to walk. "come, snowball," he said, "i have a new house for you." "cluck, cluck! this is a good house," she said. snowball and her seven little balls were very happy. boy blue took good care of them, and they grew fast. when the summer was over, he had eight big white snowballs. fire-cracker fourth of july! fourth of july! this is the best day for boys in all the year. boy blue liked the fourth of july. he liked fire-crackers and torpedoes and fire-balloons. he liked everything that made a noise. this was the fourth of july, but poor little boy blue had no fire-crackers. he could not even blow his horn. little sister was sick, and mamma had said he must be very quiet. it did not seem one bit like the fourth of july. he was sitting on the steps, whistling and trying not to care. "boy blue," called his father, "i have something to show you out here." the little boy jumped up and ran to the barn as fast as he could. perhaps he was going to have some fire-works after all! he ran into the barn, and what do you think he saw? there stood a little pony. he had a glossy brown coat and a white star on his forehead. "oh! oh!" cried boy blue. "is this pony for me?" "yes, my boy, it is for your very own." "what a beautiful pony! what is his name, papa?" "i do not know his name." [illustration] "you must name him yourself." "'star' would be a good name,--or i might call him 'brownie.' "oh, i know a good name! i shall call him 'fire-cracker.'" "this is the fourth of july, you know, and i did want some fire-crackers so much!" fire-cracker was a good little pony. he and his master soon became very fond of each other. boy blue learned to ride on his pony's back, and he took long rides with his father. one day he said, "i wish i had a pony cart, then i could take little sister to ride. "fire-cracker is very strong. i am sure he could draw both of us, if we did not go very fast." papa thought that was a good idea. the next day he took boy blue to town to buy a pony cart. they went to two or three stores but they could not find one small enough for fire-cracker to draw. at last boy blue saw one in a window. it was painted blue and had red wheels. it had a seat just big enough for boy blue and little sister. so papa and boy blue went into the store and bought it. the next morning boy blue took little sister for a ride. fire-cracker was very careful. he walked slowly and looked around very often to see the two children. perhaps he was thinking, "how fine we all look this morning! "that is a very pretty carriage, and i like this harness, too. "my coat shines in the sun and boy blue put a red ribbon in my mane. "how proud he looks, holding the reins! "i think he likes to take little sister for a ride. "i like to see them both so happy. "good-bye, i am going to trot fast now." boy blue's dream it was a very hot day. boy blue had played all the morning and he was tired. little sister had been making mud pies and she was tired, too. mamma was too busy to read to them. "come, little sister," said boy blue, "it is too hot to play. i will read my story-book to you." "where shall we go?" asked the little girl. "let us sit under the maple tree," said her brother. "it looks cool there." little sister had her baby doll. she rocked back and forth as boy blue read to her. soon little sister and her doll were fast asleep. all at once boy blue heard a voice. he listened. it seemed to be saying:-- "little boy blue, come blow your horn, the sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn." [illustration] "oh," thought the little boy, "i must hurry!" he looked for his horn. there it lay in the grass. but he was so sleepy,--he couldn't run after the sheep. in a moment he fell asleep. then he heard the voice again:-- "little boy blue, come blow your horn, the sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn." yes, he could see the cow eating the corn in the field. and there was the sheep in the meadow, eating the fresh green grass. he must call them away. so he took up the horn and put it to his mouth. then he blew one loud call. "oh!" he said, as he opened his eyes, "what a loud noise that was!" then he laughed and rubbed his eyes. "i guess i was dreaming," he said. "i guess i was dreaming, too," said little sister, opening her blue eyes. then she waked up her doll, and boy blue went on reading from his story-book. mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow, and everywhere that mary went the lamb was sure to go. he followed her to school one day, which was against the rule. it made the children laugh and play to see a lamb at school. and so the teacher put him out, but still he lingered near, and waited patiently about till mary did appear. mary's lamb of course you know all about mary and her little lamb. the little girl in this story was named mary, and she had a little lamb, too. mary was boy blue's cousin. she lived in the city, and her father owned a big toy-store. mary liked to go to the store with him. she liked to see all the dolls and toys and books. sometimes she played store with her own toys. but i must tell you about her lamb. one summer mary went to the country to visit boy blue. of course there were cows, and pigs, and sheep, and lambs on the farm, mary liked the lambs best, and one of them was a great pet. she called him fleecy, and pulled sweet clover for him to eat. fleecy followed mary all over the farm. sometimes he even ran down the road after her. when mary was going home her uncle said to her, "you may take fleecy with you, if you wish." so the next day fleecy had a long ride in the train. [illustration] i don't think he liked it very well, but he didn't say a word. when mary took him out of the box he was glad to run about in the yard. he soon became used to his new home. he liked to play with the children. they often played hide and seek. when they hid behind the trees he could always find them. the lamb at school one morning fleecy could not find mary. he looked everywhere for her. she was not in the yard, and she was not in the barn. he went to the gate, and looked down the street, but he could not see her. then he went to the back door, and called, "baa-a, baa-a!" but she did not come. where could she be? after a long time she came running into the yard. fleecy trotted up to her. "baa-a, baa-a!" he said; which meant, i think, "where have you been, mary?" "i have been to school," said mary. you see she knew what he meant. "to school," thought fleecy. "i wonder what that is." everyday mary went away and left him. did i say every day? once in a while she stayed at home. then mary and the lamb played together in the yard. "now," thought fleecy, "she is going to stay at home with me." but no, on monday mary went away again. at last fleecy could bear it no longer. "i must go to school, too," he said. "i must see what mary does all day. "if she goes to school to play games, i can play with her." the next day fleecy watched mary go through the gate. then he followed her very quietly. mary ran along with the other little girls and boys. they were playing tag and they did not see fleecy. soon he heard a bell ring. then how the children ran! they all ran into a little house and shut the door. "oh!" thought fleecy, "what shall i do? i can never open that door." just then he saw a little boy running very fast. the boy ran up to the same little house. he opened the door and went in, but he did not shut it. fleecy climbed up the steps. he put his head in at the door and looked around. he could see no one, so he walked in. there was another door, and that was open, too. fleecy stood still and listened. the children were singing as if they were very happy. then he put his head against the door and pushed it wide open. what a room-full of children he saw! and they were all sitting very still, and not playing at all. "i don't think i shall like school," thought fleecy. just then the children saw him. how they did laugh to see a lamb at school! the moment fleecy saw mary he ran up to her. [illustration] the children laughed and laughed. the teacher laughed, too. of course the lamb could not stay in school all the morning. the children could not work because they liked to watch him. so mary put him out and shut the door. but fleecy nibbled some sweet clover and waited for mary. when the children came out he trotted home with them. after that day fleecy often went to school with the children. but he never went in again. i think he liked clover better than books. little bo-peep has lost her sheep, and can't tell where to find them; leave them alone, and they'll come home, and bring their tails behind them. little bo-peep fell fast asleep, and dreamed she heard them bleating; but when she awoke she found it a joke, for they were still a-fleeting. then up she took her little crook, determined for to find them; she found them, indeed, but it made her heart bleed, for they'd left their tails behind them. little bo-peep alice is seven years old to-day. she is going to have a birthday party. alice's aunt wrote the invitations, and alice gave them to all her little school friends. the invitation said:-- "little bo-peep is to have a birthday party. she would like to have you come and help her take care of her sheep. please come friday afternoon after school." of course the children asked alice about her party. "are you little bo-peep?" they said. "have you lost your sheep? "are we going to help you find them?" "no," said alice, "but my sheep have lost their tails, i think. "you'll know all about it on friday." at last it was friday afternoon. the children came to school all dressed for the party. it was very hard to wait. how slowly the clock ticked! two o'clock! three o'clock! four o'clock, at last! the children ran almost all the way to alice's house. when they were all ready alice put on a tall cap. then she took a long crook and stood in the middle of the floor. as she called the names of the children they stood in a line behind her. then they began to march and sing: "little bo-peep has lost her sheep, and can't tell where to find them; let them alone, and they'll come home, and bring their tails behind them." the children marched around the room, and through the hall into the dining-room. there they saw a big green curtain, and there they found the sheep. "she found them, indeed, but it made her heart bleed, for they'd left their tails behind them." sure enough! there was a sheep on the curtain, but it had no tail. there were some tails in a box on the table. bo-peep's mother gave one of them to each of the children. "now," said bo-peep, "i will try first to pin a tail on the sheep." so her mother tied a handkerchief over her eyes, turned her around three times, and said, "go." bo-peep started off bravely, and pinned the tail to her mother's apron! how the children laughed! and bo-peep laughed too, when she saw what she had done. boy blue was sure he could pin a tail on the sheep. but he pinned it right on the corner of the table cloth. then it was mary's turn. she shut her eyes tight and walked very straight. she was going to pin the tail in just the right place. all the children stood still and watched her cross the room. she pinned on the tail, and how they all shouted! she had put it into the sheep's mouth. but she did better than any one else. so bo-peep's mother gave her a little woolly lamb to take home to her baby brother. all the children had a good time at the party. they played games and ate ice-cream and cake and candy. then they sang songs, and alice's mother told them some stories. last of all they sang "little bo-peep" again. and to this day they call alice "little bo-peep." [illustration: "all the children had a good time at the party."] hickory, dickory, dock! the mouse ran up the clock. the clock struck one and down he run. hickory, dickory, dock! hickory, dickory, dock it was very quiet all over the house. little boy blue was fast asleep, dreaming of santa claus. boy blue's father and mother were asleep, too, but i don't know what they were dreaming about. "not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse." hark! was that a mouse? yes, i think it was. some one was awake after all. mr. and mrs. mouse lived in a hole in the pantry wall. they were talking quite loud now. "yes, we must move right away," mrs. mouse was saying. "this nest is not large enough for six." "that is true," said mr. mouse. "i can't get my tail in now, and when the babies grow, it will be still worse." "but where shall we go?" said mrs. mouse. "i will go house-hunting this very night, my dear." "be sure you find a large house, where the cat can't find us." "yes, indeed!" said mr. mouse. then he whisked through a little hole and went away. "be careful, dear," called mrs. mouse, and she peeped through the hole and watched him out of sight. mr. mouse ran across the kitchen floor into the dining-room. it was very still! then he ran into the hall. "this is too far from the kitchen," he thought. "i am afraid the babies would have to go to bed hungry in here." then he went back into the dining-room. "this would be a good place for us," he thought. he looked all around the room. where could he find a home? it must be high up out of the reach of pussy cat, and big enough for mrs. mouse and her four babies. what was that in the corner? it was like a box, only very, very tall. mr. mouse certainly did not know what it was, but i will tell you. it was boy blue's grandfather's clock. it had stood in that corner a long, long time, but mr. mouse had never seen it before. "i think i could make a good nest on top of that box," he thought. "pussy cat could not get up there, i know." so mr. mouse began to run up the clock. he heard it ticking very loudly. "tick-tock! tick-tock!" it was saying. "i wonder what that noise is," he said to himself. "i hope it doesn't make that noise in the day-time. "it might keep the babies awake." he climbed a little higher, looking this way and that. "i think mrs. mouse will like this," he thought. just then the clock struck one. how mr. mouse trembled! he nearly fell off the clock, he was so frightened. he took one jump down to the floor, and then he ran. oh, how he ran! across the dining-room, across the kitchen, across the pantry, and into his hole he ran! "oh, my dear, my dear! what is the matter?" cried his wife. "did you see the dog? was the cat chasing you?" "no, no!" panted mr. mouse. "i was hunting for a house, and i climbed up on a tall box. "just as i had found the very place for us, there was an awful noise inside the box." "that was a clock, my dear," said his wife. "it tells boy blue's mother when to have dinner, and when to put the baby to bed. "i have heard her telling boy blue about it." "i think it was telling me it was time to go home," said mr. mouse, and they both laughed softly so as not to wake up the babies. the next night mr. mouse went house hunting in the barn. there he found a very good home in a box of grain. mistress mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? with silver bells, and cockle shells, and pretty maids all in a row. mistress mary once upon a time there was a little girl named mary. she had no brothers and sisters, but she had a dear, good father and mother. mary always went to school with her little friends. she played with them after school and on saturdays. one saturday in winter all the children went coasting down the long hill near the school-house. mary took her new red sled and went with them. oh, it was such fun to coast down that long hill! the children ran and laughed and shouted all the way. they had not been coasting long when mary fell off her sled right into a snow bank. that was fun, too, and mary didn't care one bit. but when she tried to stand up, it hurt her so it made tears come into her brown eyes. "are you hurt very much?" asked little boy blue. "my foot hurts," said mary, trying not to cry. "we'll give you a ride home," said jack horner. so mary sat on her sled, and boy blue and jack horner played they were her horses. they trotted so fast that mary was soon at home and in her mother's arms. when the doctor saw mary's foot he shook his head. "this little girl has sprained her foot," he said. "she will have to stay in the house for some time." i am afraid mary cried when the doctor said this. she did not like to stay at home. she wanted to go to school with all her playmates. she wanted to go coasting and skating and play in the snow. in a few days mary could sit by the window and watch the children. then she was not so lonely. jack brought home her school books and she studied very hard. "i want to keep up with my class, mamma," she said. so every day mary and her mother played school together. every week miss brown came in to see how the little girl was getting along. of course the children went to see mary very often. they told her everything they had been doing in school. one day jack said, "i think it would be good fun to give mary a surprise party." "oh yes," said alice, "and we can all take something to make her happy." "we can have the party next saturday afternoon," said jack. "i asked mary's mother, and she said we could come at two o'clock." at recess the children told miss brown about the surprise party. "why don't you take some plants to mary?" she said. "then she could have a garden to watch while she has to stay in the house." "oh, that's just the thing for mistress mary," said jack. and all the children began to sing:-- "mistress mary quite contrary how does your garden grow? with silver bells, and cockle shells, and pretty maids all in a row." saturday afternoon mary was playing with her dolls when the bell rang. "alice has come to play with me," she thought. just then the door opened and there stood twelve little boys and girls. [illustration] each one was carrying a plant with a pretty, bright blossom. they marched in singing "mistress mary," and little mistress mary laughed, and cried, and clapped her hands, all in one minute. then the children put the plants on a table near the window where mary could see them. there were geraniums, and pinks; a sweet heliotrope, and a rose-bush with a pink rose. alice brought the heliotrope, and jack brought the rose-bush. how bright and cheerful the plants made the room look! the children stayed an hour and played games with mary. they played "hide the thimble" and one or two guessing games, because mary could not run around the room with them. then they had some little cakes and cookies which mary's mother had made for them. when it was time to go home they left a very happy little girl. "good-bye," said mary, "i hope you will come very often. "thank you for the lovely plants. my table looks like a flower garden." "yes, mistress mary," said jack, "we'll come to see how your garden grows. you ought to have some silver bells and some cockle shells." in a few weeks mistress mary, as every one called her now, came back to school. she could run and play as well as any of the children. but she did not forget her garden, and she often brought some of her flowers to school. when the spring came she made a garden out of doors for her plants. and what do you think she put all around the flower bed? she put a splendid row of little white shells. little tommy tucker, sings for his supper. what shall he eat? white bread and butter. how can he cut it without any knife? how can he marry without any wife? tommy tucker one summer mary went to make grandma hall a visit. grandma's little girls were all grown up now, and grandma and grandpa lived alone on the farm. mary liked to go there to visit because grandma could tell such splendid stories, and there were always so many things to do. it was saturday and mary had been busy all the morning helping grandma make cookies, and pies, and cakes. after dinner grandma and little mary took their sewing and sat out under the old apple-tree in the garden. grandma was making a cap, and mary was making a white apron for her mother. they had been sitting there only a little while when mary saw a ragged boy coming down the road towards the house. running along close behind him was a ragged little dog. the boy had a violin in his hand. when he saw the little girl and her grandmother he stood still and began to play. as he played, the little dog stood up on his hind legs and tried to sing. "bow--wow, wow!" he barked, and oh he did look so funny! "please ask the boy to bring that funny dog over here, grandma," said mary. "come here, little boy," said grandma. "what is your name?" "my name is tommy," said the boy, "and this is my dog rags." "run and get tommy and the dog some cookies, mary," said grandma, "i guess they are both hungry." tommy looked so tired that mrs. hall asked him to sit down and rest. "where do you live?" she asked. "i don't live anywhere," replied tommy, "i just have my dog rags, and he and i sleep wherever we can." "well," said grandma, "you must both stay here to-night. we can find a place for a boy and a dog somewhere in this big house." i can't tell you how happy tommy was. rags seemed happy, too. he did all the tricks he knew, and for every trick he got a big, sweet cookie. after supper tommy wanted to help, so he went out to the barn with grandpa hall. rags trotted along behind him, wagging his tail and barking at everything he saw. "what can you do, tommy?" asked grandpa. "i can play my violin and sing," said tommy. "that is all i know how to do." "little tommy tucker, sings for his supper. "i think we shall have to call you 'tommy tucker'," said grandpa. but tommy could do many things besides sing and play. he helped grandpa hall feed the hens and chickens. he gave them fresh water and found all the eggs. then he brought in some wood for grandma's fire. there are a great many things for a boy to do on a farm. that night, after the children had gone to bed, grandpa said, "i wish tommy could live here with us all the time. "i would like a good boy to help me." "that is a good idea," said grandma. "it is lonely now that all our children are gone. "and tommy is just the kind of a boy i like." so the next morning grandma asked tommy if he would like to live with them. [illustration] "could rags stay here, too?" asked tommy. "of course he could," said grandma. "you could help grandpa in the summer, and in the winter you could go to school." what do you think tommy did? he couldn't say a word. he threw his arms around grandma's neck and kissed her. "bow-wow," said rags, jumping up beside them and barking as hard as he could. "bow-wow, this is a good home, tommy." and tommy thought so too. this little pig went to market, this little pig stayed at home, this little pig had bread and butter, this little pig had none, this little pig cried, "wee, wee, wee! i can't find my way home!" five little pigs tommy tucker and mary had been busy all day helping grandpa hall pick apples. now the supper dishes were done and the lamp was lighted. "tell us a story, grandma," they begged. "what shall i tell you?" said grandma. "shall i tell you about 'the three bears,' or 'tom thumb,' or 'red riding hood'?" "tell us a new story, please," said mary. "well, i will tell you the story of the 'five little pigs'." "what five little pigs?" the children asked at the same moment. "you know," said grandma. "this little pig went to market, this little pig stayed at home, this little pig had bread and butter, this little pig had none, this little pig cried, 'wee, wee, wee! 'i can't find my way home!'" "is there a story about those little pigs?" asked mary. "i know i should like that." so grandma hall told the children this story: once upon a time there was a mother pig and she had five little pigs. they were the very prettiest little pigs you ever saw. they were every one white, with pretty pink noses and very curly tails. perhaps the mother pig tied each little tail up at night to make it curl more tightly. curly and whitey, pearly and twisty, and baby, were the names of the five little pigs. one day the mother pig said to curly: "you must go to market to-day, my son. i want a nice big cabbage for my soup." so this little pig went to market. the market was not very far away,--just down the road and across the field to grandpa hall's cabbage patch. "be sure and get a good large one," said the mother pig, as curly trotted away. "oh, mother," said whitey, "may i go to market with curly?" "no, whitey," said his mother, "i want you to stay at home and take care of baby. "i shall be very busy all the morning. "you may take baby out into the yard and play with her." so this little pig stayed at home. whitey took baby and went out into the yard. pearly and twisty were out there, but they were not playing. i am sorry to have to say that they were quarrelling, for one little pig had some bread and butter and the other little pig had none. after a while the two little pigs stopped quarrelling, and then they all began to play together. first they played tag, then they played hide and seek. "oh, there is curly!" said whitey. "see what a big cabbage he has!" sure enough, curly was coming down the road with a cabbage as big as his own head. mother pig took the cabbage and put it into her soup. oh, how good the dinner did smell to the hungry little pigs! "come to dinner, children," called their mother at last; and then what a scampering there was! one, two, three, four little pigs. they almost fell over each other, they were in such a hurry. "where is baby?" cried mother pig. then all the pigs were so frightened that their noses turned white. where was she, indeed? they had forgotten to watch her while they were playing hide and seek. where could she be? they all ran out of the house faster than they ran in. "perhaps she ran after me and got lost," thought curly, and he ran down the big road. pearly thought she would go to the woods behind the barn. twisty ran across the big meadow. mother pig walked slowly up the road, looking behind all the trees and under all the bushes. "baby, baby, baby!" you could hear them all calling. as twisty ran along beside the brook, she thought she heard a noise. "baby, baby!" she called. "wee, wee, wee!" cried baby pig, "i can't find my way home." when twisty heard this she ran so fast she nearly fell into the brook. there sat baby pig on a stone, wiping the tears out of her eyes with an oak leaf. "oh, baby!" said twisty, giving her sister a good hug, "what made you run away?" "i didn't run away, i got lost," said baby, "and i want to see my mother." so twisty and baby ran home as fast as they could. there were all the little pigs looking very sad because they had not found baby. when they saw her coming they ran to meet her, and curly carried her into the house "pig-a-back." then they ate their cabbage soup, an it tasted all the better for waiting. jack and jill went up the hill, to get a pail of water. jack fell down and broke his crown, and jill came tumbling after. jack and jill tommy tucker and mary had many good times together that summer. they fished in the brook at the end of the meadow. they went berrying and took their dinner with them. they rode to market in the big wagon with grandpa hall. in fact, they did everything that boys and girls who live on a farm like to do. but they did not always play alone. in the very next house lived another little boy and girl. this little boy and girl were twins, and they looked as much alike as two green peas. mary called them jack and jill, but i don't know what their mother called them. jack and jill lived in a little house at the top of the hill. in the winter, when the snow was on the ground, it was fine coasting down that long hill. the twins had new red sleds that santa claus had left them on christmas morning. jack's sled was named "racer," and jill called hers "lady bird." their father had to paint the names on the sleds, for the sleds were twins, too. after school and on saturday you could often find jack and jill, with "racer" and "lady bird," coasting down the hill together. but this story is not about coasting in the winter. it is about a slide jack and jill took one day in summer. mary and tommy tucker went to jack's house one morning to play with the twins. jill saw them coming and ran out to meet them. "come down to the sand-bank," she cried. "we've got something new down there. papa gave it to us." so they all took hold of hands and ran down the hill. "be careful, jack," said tommy. "don't fall down and break your crown." when they reached the sand-bank, what do you think they found? there was an old stove with a great big oven. some of the covers were gone, and there was no funnel. but the oven was all right, and that was what mary needed. "let's make our oven full of cakes and pies," said mary. "i'll build the fire," said jack. "and i'll help you get the wood," said tommy. how the boys worked to get some dry leaves and sticks! of course they could not light the fire but it was almost as much fun. the little girls went to work at once getting out their table and dishes. the table was a long board, and their dishes came from everywhere. the pie plates were pretty, round shells that mary had brought from the seashore. grandma hall had given them some small tins to make cakes in. then there was a cracked bowl and a teapot without a handle. plenty of dishes, you see, for a morning's baking. "what shall we bake this morning?" said mary. "oh, let's make some plum cake and blueberry cake. "then we can make some blueberry pies and some apple pies." "oh yes!" said mary, "and i'll make some apple turnovers." by this time the boys had the fire laid and the wood-box filled with wood. "what can we do now?" said tommy. "you can get us some blueberries for our cakes and pies," said jill. so the boys took the cracked bowl and filled it with little round seeds they called blueberries. "i know where i can get some apples," said mary, and away she ran across the field. she was back again in a few minutes with her apron full of little green apples. "you know, jill," she said, "green apples make very good pies." just then the boys came back with the berries and the baking was begun. after a dozen pies had been put into the oven, jill said, "oh, jack! we must have some more water. "will you run up to the house and get some?" "yes," said jack, "if someone will go with me." tommy had gone for more apples and mary was mixing her cake. "i will go with you," said jill. "here is our pail." so jack and jill went up the hill to get a pail of water. their mother let them fill their pail. then she gave them four cookies that she had just taken from the oven. when they started down the hill, jack began to run. [illustration] "oh, do be careful, jack!" said jill, "or you will--" but she didn't say any more. for down went jack, down went jill, and down went the pail. tommy and mary saw them fall and ran to help them. "oh, jack!" said mary, "did you break your crown?" "no," laughed jack, "but jill came tumbling after." "we ought to have known better than to let jack and jill go for a pail of water," said tommy. "i've broken the cookies," said jill. "let's go and ask mamma for some more." so they all went up the hill for more water and cookies. this time mary and tommy carried the water down the hill. the pies were baked, and the cakes ready to put into the oven in a very few minutes. when jill's mother called the children to dinner, there was a long row of cakes and pies and, cookies. "we ought to eat our dinner here," said mary. "i like mother's pies and cookies best," said jack. so jack and jill ran up the hill once more, and mary and tommy climbed over the fence and ran across the garden to see what grandma hall had for their dinner. little jack homer sat in a corner, eating his christmas pie; he put in his thumb and pulled out a plum, and said, "what a big boy am i!" jack horner's pie i am going to tell you about another one of boy blue's friends. his name was jack horner. at least, boy blue called him jack horner. and i'll tell you why he called him jack horner, too. his real name was jack horne. jack was a very jolly boy. he had round red cheeks and twinkling eyes, and he was always running and jumping about and laughing at everything. one morning when he waked up he was happier than ever. in fact, he was the happiest boy in town. i know he was, for he said so, and he ought to know. his birthday was coming. indeed, it was the very next day. and the very next day was christmas, too. think of having a birthday and christmas on the same day! how would you like that? jack was going to have a birthday party. or was it a christmas party? jack couldn't tell which it was. all the children were coming,--boy blue, and mary, and alice, and tommy tucker, and ever so many more. there was a secret about the party. jack's mother had told him, but he would not tell. boy blue tried to guess. "is it a christmas tree, jack?" "are we going to make candy?" "is santa claus coming?" "are we going on a sleigh-ride?" "no, no, no!" said jack. "you will never guess." at last christmas day came. jack could hardly stop to look at all of his presents. he was thinking of the party and of getting the secret ready. at two o'clock the children came to the party. they each brought jack a present. mistress mary brought him some roses. "they grew on the rose-bush you gave me," she said. at first the children played games. they played "blind man's buff," and "hide the thimble," and "button, button, who has the button." at four o'clock jack's mother came into the room. "i think you must all be hungry by this time," she said. "will you come and see what i have for you?" so the children followed mrs. horne through the long hall into the dining-room. oh, there were such good things for hungry children! there were pretty little cakes with pink and white frosting, and oranges, and nuts, and raisins, and apples, and candy. boy blue's father had heard about the party and had sent the apples from the farm. boy blue's mother had sent some candy made of maple sugar and nuts. oh, it was so good! when each one had eaten some of the cakes, and some of the nuts, and some of the candy, mrs. horne went out into the kitchen. jack began to laugh and his eyes looked very big and wise. "the surprise is coming!" cried boy blue. "the surprise is coming!" and sure enough! in came mrs. horne, carrying a huge pie in her hands. "this is jack horner's pie," she said. "i think it is full of plums." [illustration: "then he had put in his hand and pulled out something."] then she put it on the table in front of jack. he stood up and said:-- "little jack horner stood near a corner cutting his birthday pie. he put in his thumb and pulled out a plum, and said, 'what a big boy am i!'" how the children laughed! jack had cut the paper crust of his birthday pie. then he had put in his hand and pulled out something. it was surely too big for a real plum. "for boy blue," said jack, giving him the package. boy blue took off the white paper and there was a tiny horn, tied with a blue ribbon. then jack pulled out another plum. it was a book about flowers for mistress mary. tommy tucker had a knife. "that's to cut your bread with," said jack horner. mary found a woolly lamb in her plum. the lamb's head would come off, an inside was a tiny bottle of cologne. jack and jill each had a little pail filled with candies. jack's plum was in the very bottom of the pie. it was a dear little watch. "now, i shall not be late to school again," he said. it was jack, you know, who let mary's lamb into school. he was late that morning and did not shut the door. when it was time for the children to go home mr. horne packed them all into his big sleigh. "good-bye, jack!" they cried. "good-bye, jack horner, we have had a lovely time!" there was an old woman who lived in a shoe, she had so many children she didn't know what to do, she gave them some butter without any bread; then she spanked them all soundly, and sent them to bed. the old woman in the shoe you remember i told you that boy blue lived on a big farm. in the winter boy blue could not go to school because the school-house was so far from his home. so mary's mother said, "boy blue can spend the winter with us and go to school with mary." of course the children thought that would be fine. mary didn't have any brothers or sisters, and sometimes she was rather lonely. so boy blue went to spend the winter with mary. he was sorry to leave fire-cracker and his eight white snowballs. "i shall be back in the spring," he said. "john will have to take care of you this winter." boy blue had never seen such a large school in all his life. in the little country school there were only ten children. in mary's school there were fifty boys and girls in one room, and there were ten rooms in the school-house. now it was winter, and there was snow on the ground. the children had been to school three months. every afternoon they had great fun coasting down the long hill behind the school-house. one day miss smith said, "children, do you know what month this is?" "yes, yes!" they all said. "this is december." "christmas comes this month," said one little girl. then they all talked at once. oh, how they liked christmas, and santa claus and christmas trees! they hoped santa claus would bring them many presents. at last miss smith said, "shall we have a christmas tree this year in school?" of course they all wanted one. "i know something better than a christmas tree," said miss smith. "something better than a christmas tree!" said mistress mary. "what can it be?" "i must tell you about it," said miss smith. "you know i have told you about mrs. brown." "yes," said boy blue, "she is the 'old woman in the shoe.'" miss smith laughed. "is that what you call her?" she said. "yes," said mary, "you know she has a great many children." "well, tommy and betty brown have been sick a long time. "mrs. brown has had to work very hard to get food to eat. "i am afraid they will not have a happy christmas. "i think we might have a christmas box, and fill it with all kinds of good things. "we can put things to eat and wear in the box, and you can bring some toys, too. "then on christmas day we can send the box to mrs. brown. "that would make her happy, and it would make us happy, too." the children all thought this was a very good idea. jack said, "i think it would be great fun if we could have a box the shape of a big shoe. i know my father could make us one. i will ask him to-night." so jack's father made a big wooden shoe, and the boys helped him paint it black. when the shoe was finished, the children began to fill it. in the toe of the shoe jack put two large squashes. mary brought a bag of potatoes and some big red apples. boy blue wrote a letter to his mother and told her about the christmas shoe. so mrs. snow sent a roasted chicken, a dozen eggs, and some fresh butter that she had made. i cannot tell you all the things that found their way into that wooden shoe. there was everything that hungry little boys and girls like to eat. there were games and toys for the boys, and dolls with pretty dresses for the girls. and there was a fine new dress for mrs. brown, too. the day before christmas the shoe was ready and mr. horne came for it with a big wagon. miss smith put a card in the shoe. it said:-- "a merry christmas to mrs. brown and all the little browns, from maggie's and tommy's schoolmates." "look, mamma!" said little maggie brown. "what is that wagon stopping here for, and what is that funny thing in it?" mrs. brown came to the window just as mr. home took the shoe out of the wagon. [illustration] "why, it is a big shoe," laughed mrs. brown. "i guess it is for me to keep you all in." tommy, and katie, and mary, and alice, all ran to see. oh, they were so happy when the shoe was brought in and they found it was something for them! mrs. brown was happy, too, to think that her children would have such a merry christmas. she told mr. horne to wish all the children who sent the shoe a very, very happy christmas. "and tell them," she said, "to come and see 'the old woman in the shoe' and her children!" little miss muffet sat on a tuffet, eating her curds and whey; there came a big spider and sat down beside her, and frightened miss muffet away. miss muffet it was the christmas vacation and boy blue and mary were at home every day. boy blue wished to go to his own home on the farm in his vacation. he wished to see his father and mother, and little sister, and fire-cracker, and his eight snowballs. but one night he had a letter from his mother. of course he could read it himself, because he was seven years old and had been to school two years. when he read the letter he danced up and down for joy. he danced right through the hall into the dining-room and showed his letter to mary. then she danced, too, because the letter said that boy blue's father and mother were coming to see him the very next day. and, best of all, little sister was coming to stay two weeks. when it was time to go to the station to meet little sister and her mother. boy blue could hardly wait for the train. at last it came, bringing the two dearest people in all the world, and boy blue laughed, and cried, and asked questions, all in the same minute. "where is papa? "is he coming to-morrow? "how is fire-cracker? "are you going to stay two weeks?" "wait, wait, children!" said mrs. snow, "ask one question at a time." they rode to mary's house in a car, and all these questions and many others were asked and answered. it was the night before christmas and the children were going to hang up their stockings. "hang them by the chimney in your playroom," said mary's mother. "then santa claus won't have far to go." so the children ran up to the playroom with their stockings. "oh, look!" said boy blue. "sister's stocking is so small that santa claus can't get even a rag doll into it." mary found a basket for little sister. "you can put this right under your stocking, dear," she said. "i will write a letter to santa claus and tell him where to put your presents." so she wrote this letter and pinned it on the toe of the tiny stocking: "dear santa claus:--little sister's stocking is so small i have given her a basket. please put her presents in it." santa claus must have read the note, for the next morning the basket was full. there was a basket under each of the other stockings, too. on each one was a note, saying:-- "your stockings were not large enough. i had to get a basket for you, too." santa claus. in boy blue's basket there were a horn and a drum, a box of tin soldiers, and three books. under the basket was a new red sled. mary found two dolls and a trunk full of dresses for them, a toy kitchen, and a writing desk in her basket. little sister sat on the floor and began to take the presents out of her basket, one at a time. first, there was a big wax doll in a doll carriage. it was such a pretty doll, with a blue coat and white hood, all ready to take out to ride! then there were some picture books and another doll,--a big one that could open and shut her eyes. [illustration] but what was this in the bottom of the basket? it was very soft and white and had curly hair. little sister picked it up carefully. "put it on your head," said boy blue. so sister put it on. it was a fur cap. then she found a fur collar, and last of all, a dear little fur muff. when she had them all on, she ran up to her mother. "see my muff, mamma!" she cried. then she ran to every one, saying:--"muff! muff! see my little muff!" "what a dear little miss muffet you are!" said uncle jack. "oh." said boy blue, "we shall call you 'miss muffet'!" "merry christmas, miss muffet!" humpty dumpty sat on a wall; humpty dumpty had a great fall; all the king's horses, and all the king's men, couldn't put humpty dumpty together again. humpty dumpty tommy tucker had lived on the farm with grandma and grandpa hall a long time. he and rags were very happy in their new home. rags was getting fat now, and every saturday he had a fine bath. at least tommy said it was a fine bath, but rags did not seem to agree with him. "bow-wow," he would say, when he saw the big tub full of water, "i must run and hide." but tommy always found him, and rags always had his bath. when school began in september, grandma hall took tommy to school. he had a new suit of clothes, a new pair of boots, and a pretty cap to match his suit. the school was two miles from the farm, so that the first morning he rode in the carriage with grandma hall because she could not walk so far. every day after that tommy walked to school in the morning and home again at night. he carried his dinner in a new pail, and he always found something very good in that pail when he opened it at noon. all the rest of the children brought their dinner, too, and if i should tell you all the things those children did at noon, it would fill a book. when the nuts were ripe, they went into the woods and gathered big baskets full. they found pretty flowers and autumn leaves and made their school-room bright with them. they played ball, and hide and seek. oh, there were such beautiful places to hide,--behind the wood-pile, in the wood-box, behind trees and fences, and in the woods! tommy had never had such a good time in his life. he did not play all the time, because he was working very hard to catch up with the other boys. before the winter was over he was in the class with jack and jill, and grandma said she was very proud of him. but i must tell you of the jack-o'-lanterns the children made for hallowe'en. tommy did not know much about hallowe'en, for he had always lived in the city. he had seen boys make jack-o'-lanterns out of paper boxes. but he had never seen a real pumpkin jack-o'-lantern in his life. one day, near the last of october, the children were all talking about hallowe'en and the fun they would have with their lanterns. "you'll make one, won't you, tommy?" said jack. of course tommy wanted to make one if the boys would show him how. "i know what would be fun," said jill. "let's bring our pumpkins to school and make our lanterns at noon." "yes, yes, that is just the thing!" they shouted. "then when they are finished we can ask miss phillips which is the prettiest." as if a jack-o'-lantern could ever be pretty! the next morning there was a funny sight in the dressing-room. under each hook was a pumpkin. there were big ones, little ones, fat ones, long ones, short ones, yellow ones, and green ones. in fact, no two pumpkins were alike, except of course, jack's and jill's. "it will never do for us to have ours different," said jill. so they hunted a long time to find two that were just alike. tommy tried very hard to think of his arithmetic and geography and spelling that morning. but he couldn't help thinking of his pumpkin, which was waiting to be made into a jack-o'-lantern. at last it was noon. i am afraid the children did not care what they had for dinner that noon, and they ate very fast. they needed all the time they could get for their jack-o'-lanterns. first, they cut off the top of the pumpkin, and cut out all the seeds. then came the fun of making the lantern's face. he must have two eyes, a nose, a mouth, and two ears. jack cut two round holes for eyes. a long cut in the middle was the nose. the mouth curved up at both ends, and the holes at the sides were ears. some of the lanterns had two very good rows of teeth. tom's pumpkin was long and narrow. he said it looked so much like a big egg that he was going to name it "humpty dumpty." "oh, let's all name our lanterns!" said the children. "mine is so round i shall call it 'tubby'," said jack. then jill named hers "bubby." one of the boys named his "green top," and another was "big eyes." just as the bell rang for school the last one was finished. how miss phillips laughed when the children marched in, each one carrying a funny jack-o'-lantern! she said she could not tell which one was the prettiest. after she had been introduced to each one they were put into the hall to wait for school to be over. hallowe'en night every lantern had a candle in it, and the children had great fun trying to frighten their mothers and fathers and each other. of course grandpa hall jumped and ran when he saw a big bright face coming at him from the barn. then grandma hall saw it in the woodshed, and she ran and hid behind the kitchen door. tommy played with humpty dumpty for several days. saturday morning he was in the meadow playing with humpty dumpty when jack and jill came to ask him to go with them to the woods. tommy put humpty dumpty up on the stone wall and ran off with the twins. grandpa hall's old white cow was in the meadow eating grass. as she came near the wall she saw something that looked very much like a pumpkin. mrs. cow was fond of pumpkins, so she thought she would go and see what it really was on the wall. "why, it surely is a pumpkin," said mrs. cow, "but i wonder what all those holes are for." humpty dumpty felt very much hurt to think that mrs. cow should speak of his eyes and mouth as holes. "but then, of course," thought humpty, "she does not know that i am not a pumpkin now." mrs. cow kept putting her nose nearer and nearer to humpty. at last she got so near that she made him jump. at least, i think he must have jumped, for he fell from the wall to the ground. when mrs. cow saw the pumpkin all broken in pieces she thought she might as well eat it, and she did. [illustration] at first she liked the pumpkin very much, but then she thought it didn't taste just right. "i don't believe pumpkins with big round holes in them are good to eat," said mrs. cow. but when tommy found what had happened to humpty dumpty, he said to grandpa hall, "i wonder which mrs. cow liked best, the jack-o'-lantern or the candle!" the children in miss smith's room had been just as busy as bees all day. now they were tired, and they could not work any more. mary put her head down on her desk and nearly went to sleep. most of the boys were looking out of the window, because they liked to watch it snow. it had been snowing hard all day and they were thinking of the snowballs they would make, and of the snow forts that they would build on the hill. how could they study when they were thinking of all those things? "miss smith," said bo-peep, looking up from her work, "won't you please tell us a story? it is getting so dark that i cannot see to write." miss smith thought a minute and then said, "how would you like to play at being a book?" every little face brightened. the boys looked at miss smith and forgot about the snow forts. mary sat up and did not feel one bit sleepy. "why, miss smith," said mary, "how can we be a book?" "i will show you," said miss smith. "we will play that we are the mother goose book. "you must each think of some child from mother goose land whom you would like to be. "then each one can come to the front of the room and play at being that little child. "the rest of us will try to guess who the child is." the children all thought that would be great fun, and for a few minutes it was so quiet they could almost hear the snow falling. at the end of five minutes miss smith said, "now it is time to begin. you may be on the first page in our book, jack. "you may use anything in the room you need to help you in acting your part." jack went into the hall. in a minute he pushed the door open a little way and looked in. then he came into the school-room. he had his books under his arm, and as he came in very slowly he looked at the clock. "oh, i know!" said john. "hickory, dickory, dock." [illustration: "she looked so funny as she came into the room riding on a broom"] "no, no," said mary, "that is:-- 'a dillar, a dollar, a ten o'clock scholar, what makes you come so soon? you used to come at ten o'clock, and now you come at noon.'" "that is right," said jack. "mary guessed it." then it was mary's turn to be a page in the mother goose book. when she came in she had on miss smith's long white apron, her hair was done up high on her head, and she was riding on a broom. she looked so funny that all the children laughed. at last edith stopped laughing and began to sing: "old woman, old woman, old woman, said i. oh whither, oh whither, oh whither so high? to sweep the cobwebs out of the sky; but i'll be back again by-and-by." yes, edith had guessed right, so she ran out of the room. when she came back the children all looked and looked. who could she be? she hadn't changed herself one bit, and she only stood still and looked at them. "we are caught this time," laughed miss smith. just then a little girl in the back of the room jumped up and said: "oh, see the curl in the middle of her forehead! i know who she is! 'there was a little girl, and she had a little curl. and it hung right down on her forehead. when she was good she was very good indeed; but when she was bad she was horrid.'" tommy went out next, and when he came back he had a little toy pig under his arm. "i can think of ever so many pigs in mother goose," said alice. "have you been to market, tommy?" "no, no," said tommy, "i did not buy this good fat pig." "i know who you are, and where you got your pig," laughed jill. "tom, tom, the piper's son, stole a pig and away he run." mistress mary came in with her watering pot to water her flowers. boy blue was quickly guessed because he had a horn. just as jack and jill came in with a pail of water, the bell rang. it was time to go home! every one of the children was sorry not to see all of the book. "some day we will play this game again," said miss smith. "then we can see the rest of the pages." as they ran home together they were all talking of the new game. that night they got out their mother goose books and read them through, so that the next time they would be sure to guess every rhyme. the summer holidays: a story for children. by amerel. new-york: d. appleton & company, broadway . entered according to act of congress, in the year , by d. appleton and company, in the clerk's office of the district court for the southern district of new york. [illustration: daddy hall's donkey.] contents chapter i. uncle harvey's parlor chapter ii. the evening walk chapter iii. a visit to daddy hall chapter iv. the walk through the woods chapter v. what uncle harvey said about rain chapter vi. how thomas killed a hawk chapter vii. about bats chapter viii. the walk to the creek chapter ix. the hard battle chapter x. about corn and the uses of animals chapter xi alice gray chapter xii. locusts chapter xiii. the return home the summer holidays. chapter i. uncle harvey's parlor. mr. harvey's two sons, thomas and john, were very anxious for their cousin, samuel reed, to spend the august holidays with them. his father said that he might; and when school was closed for the season, samuel bade his father good bye, and was soon in the carriage, driving toward uncle harvey's country seat. the boys had not seen each other since new year's day. it was a happy meeting when samuel jumped out of the carriage, by the gate leading from the main road up to mr. harvey's house; for there his uncle, and two cousins, were waiting for him. thomas and john, each grasped a hand, while their father led the way to the house. "we were afraid you were not coming," said john. "how tall you have grown since christmas," exclaimed thomas. "were you not tired of being in the hot city such weather as this?" samuel said that he was; and then they all entered the house, while the driver brought in samuel's baggage. it was about five o'clock in the afternoon when samuel reached his uncle's house. he was taken into a small parlor, which opened upon a garden where many flowers were in bloom. it was a warm day, but this room was cool and fragrant; and on the table were several plates of fruit, and some cakes, which his uncle caused to be placed there, so that he might eat some as soon as he arrived, while samuel was eating some of them john said: "we are so glad you have come, samuel. last winter you could see nothing but snow." "what became of the snow-man we made last winter?" asked samuel. "it froze very hard for more than a week after you left," replied thomas; "but john and i broke its head a great deal, with snow balls, and afterwards a warm rain fell, and washed it away." "is it warm in the city now?" asked john. "yes," answered his cousin. "in the middle of the day the pavements seem to be about on fire, and people are afraid to walk far, lest they may be sunstruck. yesterday two men died with the heat. there seems to be no air stirring from morning till night. besides, there is much sickness in town, and many persons have left their houses, and gone into the country. "father," said thomas, "how miserable we should be if we had no water to drink this weather, like those poor arabs that you told us of the other day." "yes," answered mr. harvey, "the sun must be burning hot in arabia now." "how can they live in such a place?" asked john. "they are not all so miserable as the party i told you of the other day," replied his father. "besides, you know it is their country, and god has taught them to love it. if an arab were brought here, he would, probably, think it a most dreary land, except in summer." "but what do you do in town, samuel," asked john, "when it is too warm to go out?" "it is very hot only in the middle of the day," replied his cousin, "and then, you know, we are at school. in the afternoons, i sometimes rode out with father, or went on the steamboat. last week a balloon went up, from the other side of the river. we had a fine view of it from the roof of our house. two men were in it, and when they had risen so high that the balloon appeared quite small, they threw out a little machine, called a parachute. it looked something like an umbrella, and had a dog to it. the balloon sailed a great distance through the air, and came down safely." it was now six o'clock, and mr. harvey told the boys that they might go to supper, which he had ordered to be ready earlier than usual. [illustration] chapter ii. the evening walk. after supper, samuel and his cousins took a walk in the meadow, toward the mill pond. the air was now cool and pleasant, and as the boys moved through the narrow path, among the low grass, thousands of grasshoppers, and other insects, filled the air with their cheerful hum. thomas, with his companions, passed round the mill, and then climbed a fence which led through a field of corn. the corn was not very high, so that they had to be careful not to tread upon it. when they reached the other side, samuel saw that the fence was covered with raspberry vines, from one end to the other. he asked what they did with so many. "all that father wishes to use, or to eat," replied thomas, "he gathers out of the garden; but these he leaves for two or three poor families, who live not far off, and who take them to town to sell. it helps them to pay their rent." "and does he give away blackberries, too?" asked samuel. "yes, and many other kinds of fruit," replied his cousin. "he has such large fields and orchards, that he can afford to give away great quantities of apples, peaches, currants, grain, and vegetables." [illustration: the old soldier's house.] the boys roamed about the fields, talking in this manner, until after sunset, when thomas said it was time to return. they crossed into a bye path, and walked toward the house through a field in which wheat had been growing. among the short straw, left by the reapers, samuel saw many birds' nests, and deep holes that had been dug by rabbits, field mice, and other small animals. in a short time they passed a very old house, whose sides appeared as if they would fall every moment. the roof was covered with moss and grass, and the boards had crumbled and separated from each other; a number of bats and swallows were flying about it, and thomas said that dozens of these little animals, beside rats and mice, lived inside. samuel asked him if any body lived there. "no," said his cousin; "but father remembers very well when an old soldier, that the farmers called jack, did live in this house. his leg had been shot off in battles with the indians. after it healed he moved to this place, and lived on the vegetables he could raise in a little garden, besides what people gave him. every night he came out and sat on the log by the door, playing on an old fiddle. then the school children would collect around him, and give him pennies, or fruit, and such things. sometimes he told them stories; for he had travelled in many lands, and knew a great deal about them. in the summer nights, father says, he often heard poor old jack singing the songs that he had learned when he was a boy; and sometimes he could be seen hobbling down this lane, on his crutches, or sitting by the water catching some fish for his supper. one day he was missed, and folks thought he was sick; but they waited till the next morning, and then a great crowd collected round the house, and called him. no one answered; so some one lifted the latch and went in. old jack was not there, and the people began to get frightened. they hunted for him all that day, and many days afterward; but he was never found. some think that he was drowned; others that he went away with strangers, and a few are foolish enough to believe, that he is still living, and will one day come back. since that time, no one has ever lived in his house, and in a few years it will tumble down with old age." while thomas had been giving this account of poor jack, the soldier, john was very busy moving round the old house, and peeping through the cracks in the boards. at last he motioned thomas and samuel, to come to him, and then whispered: "stoop down--don't make a bit of noise--and peep through this crack. you'll see the biggest owl that ever you did see, in all your life." both of them looked through. it was very dark, but samuel saw two great eyes, like balls of fire, and in a little while he could perceive the body of an owl, which, as john had said, was the largest he had ever seen. "let us go in and catch him," said john. but thomas answered, that as it was now dark the owl could easily fly away; and besides, as they did not wish to kill it, it could be of no use to them, if they should catch it. "it might do for cousin to look at," replied john; but he did not insist upon entering the house. as they were going away, samuel asked his cousin if he did not think owls were ugly. "no, indeed," answered john. "i would rather see an owl any time than these little birds that can do nothing but sing. see how soft his feathers are--all barred and spotted with black and brown, which is more handsome than to be all over red or yellow. i know he can't sing; but he's got nice, long ears, and that no other bird has. and how nice and round his head is. then he sits on a tree, and looks wise, as father says. the canary, and the mocking bird, are good enough to keep in cages, but of all birds, give me an owl." thomas and samuel laughed at this notion, but john continued: "thomas, did not some people, who lived a long while ago, call the owl the 'bird of wisdom?'" "yes," replied thomas. "i have heard father say that it was the athenians." "that shows how wise they were," said john. "i seems to me as though that owl, which we saw, was keeping house for poor old soldier jack." "do hush about owls," said his brother, laughing; and they ran together through the gate, and into the yard. [illustration] chapter iii. a visit to daddy hall. next morning, mr. harvey told his sons that they might go to see an old man, who lived in a small house, about two miles off, and who was so sickly that he could not work. this old man's name was hall, and the boys of the school called him daddy hall. he had once been rich; but sickness and misfortune had reduced him to poverty, so that he now lived with his little son, in a small hut, near a hill. every week he sent fruit and vegetables to market, in a cart, drawn by a donkey, which some of the neighbors had given to him. every week mr. harvey sent either a servant, or one of the boys, to see how he was getting along, and to carry him something nice. the two boys, with their cousin, were soon off, carrying with them a basket full of things for the old man. they went by the road across the meadows, and through a small gate in the hedge. samuel observed, that the hawthorn of the hedge grew very thick and close, so that a bird could scarcely get through it. the roots and branches were twisted into each other, appearing like strong, thick chains woven together; and on the vines grew sharp thorns, longer than a needle. mr. harvey's boys told their cousin, that neither man nor beast could get through such a hedge; and that if a man were placed on the top, he could walk on the vines without sinking down, they were so strong and close. "it would be uneasy travelling, though," added john; "for his feet would be torn to pieces by these spiky thorns." they now left the hedge, and went on through two wide fields, until they reached some hills that stood by themselves, and were steep and bare. three of them had deep pits dug in them, while piles of rock, stones, and sand, were lying around. samuel asked his cousins what place it was. "it is an iron mine," said thomas; but it is not worked any more, because there is not enough of iron found to pay for the trouble. all these stones lying about here are pieces of ore; but the quantity of iron in them is so small that it will not pay for the expense of taking it out from the ore." "how is iron taken from the ore?" asked samuel. thomas replied: "the ore is first crushed into coarse dust, and then washed. afterwards this dust is melted in a hot furnace, and the iron is separated from the melted stone, or dross, in a manner which is very troublesome, and which father can explain to you better than i can. sometimes the ore is almost all iron; john and i have some pieces in our cabinets, in which you cannot see any stone." "but did men go down this deep well?" asked samuel. "yes; they were lowered down in buckets. and the water was pumped out by a machine. the water was so cold, even in the middle of summer, that one could scarcely hold his hand in it." the boys began to throw stones down one of the wells, so that they might guess by hearing them strike the bottom, how deep it was. the first stones were too small to be heard; then they threw larger ones, and listened, but could hear no sound. at last, john took up a piece of rock as big as his head, and rolled it into the well. it fell with a hollow, rumbling noise, and all was then still. the boys thought it had reached the bottom; but all at once they heard it splash into water. then the boys knew that the well was very deep, for the stone had been falling several seconds. they then hunted among the piles of ore for some handsome pieces to give to samuel; after which, they picked up their basket, and hurried on toward daddy hall's. on reaching his house, they found the old man sitting at the door, while his son, a good boy, was preparing to take the donkey to market, with a cart load of turnips, radishes, peas, beans, and cabbage. daddy hall was pale and thin; but he arose to meet the boys, and seemed very glad to see samuel. although he was sick almost every day, and sometimes suffered great pain, yet no one ever heard him complain. he loved children, and was very fond of talking to them; and before he grew so weak and feeble, many of the farmers sent their little ones to him, to learn to read. after they had been seated a little while, john asked him if he did not get tired of staying in the house. "sometimes," said the old man, "i wish i could go out, as i once could, and work for myself; but i do not feel tired. besides, this is the best condition i can be placed in; and if you ask me why, i will tell you. god, my children, has placed me in it; and he knows what is best for each of us. he has given me many comforts, kind friends, plenty to eat and drink, and a son, who is one of the best of boys. there is nothing, john, more cheering to the heart of an old man than the kindness of a dutiful son; and let me ask each of you, to listen to the advice of one who owns such a blessing, and always to show honor and respect to your parents." [illustration] chapter iv. the walk through the woods. the boys left their basket with daddy hall, and set out on their return to the house. "let us go through the woods," said thomas, and they all walked toward a thick wood which stood not far from the hill, near which daddy hall's house was built. they were glad to reach its cool shade; for the sun was now getting warm. samuel saw a number of birds among the branches, that he did not know the names of; and many bright little flowers were growing in the shade, among the roots of oak and beech trees. a little distance in the wood, they reach a small rock, near which some large stones were lying, as if they had been thrown together. thomas stopped, and said, "samuel, this is the place where we killed a big snake last spring. you can see his hole under this rock. john and i tried hard to move these loose stones, but we could not. i dare say there are snake nests underneath." "perhaps we three can move one of them," replied his cousin. they all caught hold, and at last pulled the stone from its place. there was nothing underneath, but some old nut shells; but john said he was sure they would find snakes if they could but move the other stones. after much pulling, they raised another one; and under it was a large land tortoise, with several little ones, no larger than a walnut. after examining these, they observed a hole running under another stone, into the ground. samuel also found two or three snake skins, which his cousins told him the snakes threw off every spring, after which, a new and larger skin grew on them. they pulled hard at this third stone, but could not move it; but while they were going away, thomas said that they could bring an iron bar some day, and easily root it up. in the middle of the wood was a fine spring of water, which gushed from a rock, and then spread out into a little pool, so clear and quiet, that the smallest stones could be seen at the bottom. samuel tasted the water, and found it cold and refreshing. he asked his cousin how so much water could come out of the rock. "it does not come from the rock," replied thomas; "but only runs through it. father says, that spring water often comes from the hills and mountains, running under the ground through cracks and holes in the rocks, until it finds some outlet. i suppose this water runs down from the tops of the hills near the iron mine." "but this is not rain water," said his cousin. "it neither tastes nor looks like it." "it has become changed while passing under the ground," replied thomas. "after a heavy shower the water soaks into the earth until it reaches the sand, or rock underneath, then it runs through every little crack down the hill, and under the ground to some place like this where it can escape. the sand and gravel, which it meets with, make it pure and the lime and other substances of the rocks, alter its taste." [illustration] chapter v what uncle harvey said about rain. when the boys reached the house, mr. harvey was in his study. samuel was anxious to ask him some questions about springs, but he would not go up stairs to disturb him. but after dinner his uncle came into the parlor where the boys were, and then samuel asked him where all the water comes from that flows in the rivers and other streams. "from the ocean," answered mr. harvey. "i suppose you have seen water boiling, samuel." "yes, sir." "and have you seen the steam rise up from the water into the air?" samuel said that he had. his uncle continued: "whenever water is heated, it is turned into steam, or vapor, as it is sometimes called. if there is enough of heat to make water boil, the vapor passes off very fast, until the water is gone. now the sun is continually changing the water of rivers, ponds, lakes, and of the ocean, into vapor. this vapor rises. the air about a mile above the earth, is much colder than it is on the earth; so when the hot vapor from the ocean meets the cold air, it again becomes water, and forms clouds. i see you are ready with a question, john." "yes, sir," said john. "i cannot see, father, how the clouds can float in the air if they are nothing but water. why do they not pour down?" his father answered: "i expected this would be your question. the clouds, my son, are water, but not in a close mass, like that in a bucket or in the mill pond. you have seen soap bubbles, and know that a great many of them may be joined together without breaking. it is supposed by learned men, that clouds are nothing but many thousands of bubbles, which, being lighter than air, would, you know, float on it." "but, father," said john, "what makes it rain?" "that is not certainly known," replied mr. harvey; "but, no doubt, lightning has much to do with it. i will show you, this evening, several pictures about clouds and springs of water, which will help you to understand what i have said." "uncle," said samuel, "there is one more question which i would like to ask." "ask it, my boy," replied mr. harvey. "i have read, sir, that the water of the ocean is salt; why, then, is not rain water salt, too?" "because," said mr. harvey, "salt cannot be changed to vapor, and it is too heavy to be raised, in any quantity, in the air with the water. yet, i suppose, that a little salt is always mixed with the bubbles that form clouds." chapter vi. how thomas killed a hawk. this afternoon was very hot, and the boys spent it in their room, arranging their books and pictures, and in reading. at five o'clock, while thomas was standing by the window, he suddenly exclaimed: "there's a hawk!" both the boys ran to the window, and saw a large hawk, sailing slowly toward the barn. "he is the one that steals our chickens," said john. "and see, he's flying straight for the barn. thomas, run and ask father for the gun." mr. harvey kept two guns in his house; but he used them only for shooting hawks, when they were flying about to steal the poultry. john and thomas had learned to use them, and sometimes spent an afternoon in firing at a mark. but they never did so without their father's consent. [illustration: the hawk.] thomas soon joined the other boys, having the gun in his hand; and after mr. harvey had bidden them to be careful, they followed in the direction the hawk was flying. they kept close by the fence, so that it could not see them. in a short time it was over the barn yard, and sailing round and round, in order to make a sweep downwards. "hurry, thomas," said john; and thomas ran stooping along some bushes, followed by john and samuel, on their hands and feet. the hawk was now quite low, and the boys could hear the hens screaming and running about. at last thomas reached the barn fence, and his brother told him to fire. but he could not take aim, because the hawk was partly hidden by the corner of the barn. "i am afraid he'll get that little chicken," said samuel. "see if you can take aim now," whispered john. the hawk now made a sweep at one of the chickens; but it ran under the barn, and the hawk flew up a little higher. just then, thomas fired. the hawk came down head foremost, and thomas threw away his gun, and sprang over the wall. john and samuel jumped after him, shouting as loud as they could. in a few moments the hawk was dead. it was the largest one that either of them had ever seen. when they reached the house, mr. harvey was waiting for them; and on seeing so large a hawk, promised to have it stuffed for them. the gun was then hung up in its place. [illustration] chapter vii. about bats. this evening, while the boys were reading and talking to mr. harvey, several bats flew in at the window. john caught one of them in his hat, and placed it on the table for his cousin to examine. samuel asked his uncle if it would not fly away. "no," said mr. harvey, "it cannot raise itself from the ground. what we call its wings, are, you see, nothing but two thin skins, or membranes, stretched from its hind legs to its fore ones, and fastened to its sides. when flying, it spreads out its toes, so as to unfold these membranes, and thus balances itself in the air." "do not some people think that the bat is a bird?" asked samuel. "yes. but probably they never examined a bat closely. you see that it looks nothing at all like a bird." "father," said john, "where did those great bats come from, which you have in your cabinet?" "from the island of java," said mr. harvey. "they are called java bats. i have seen some with bodies as large as hens, and wings like umbrellas. hundreds of these animals fly about the gardens and orchards of that island, every night, destroying great quantities of fruit. the people there, spread nets over the trees, to protect the fruit, and shoot the bats with guns, as you did the hawk." "i have read, in a book of travels," said samuel, "that while persons are asleep, these bats, or some other large kind, suck their blood. is that true, sir?" "no," said mr. harvey. "such tales were long believed, even by writers on natural history; and i have some where a picture of a monstrous bat sucking the blood from a man's veins. but all this is now known to be fabulous. no kind of bat will attack an animal as large as itself, nor enter a house when there is an abundance of fruit and insects in the field." "shall we let this bat go now?" said john. mr. harvey said yes; and then john lifted it on a large sheet of paper, and threw it into the air. in a moment it spread out its thin wings, and after flying about the room two or three times, passed out of the window. mr. harvey told them, that although the bat was so feeble when on the ground, yet its strength of wing was greater than that of any bird. [illustration] chapter viii. the walk to the creek. the next day there was a heavy thunder shower, in the morning, which compelled the boys to stay in the house; and in the afternoon the teacher of the academy paid mr. harvey a visit. during the time that he staid, thomas, with his brother and cousin, were told to remain in the house. but the next day was cool and pleasant, and they started early on a ramble through the fields. as they passed close to a farm house, samuel saw a large dog chained to a tree, in the yard. it looked very fierce at them as they passed, and then began to growl and bark. thomas told his cousin, that this dog had bitten several persons in the neighborhood, and that some of the school boys had tried to poison it; but that the farmer was careful always to keep it chained, so that no body might get a chance to catch it in the road. about half a mile further onward was a fine stream of water. it began in the hills, and ran winding along, deeper and broader, to a great distance. mr. harvey owned several farms along this creek; and here thomas and john often came, in summer evenings, to swim. the water was clear and pure, so that hundreds of fish could be seen sporting around the shores. when the boys reached this creek, they sat down under a shady tree, to watch the fishes, and listen to the songs of the birds, on the bushes that hung over the water. in a short time, a number of eels came from under a large stone, one after the other, and after swimming about for a little while, buried themselves in the mud. samuel asked thomas where so many came from. "they live in the water," replied his cousin. "on a pleasant evening you can see many more swimming among the stones, and the roots of trees, by the edge of the creek. but, do you know, that they sometimes come out of the water, and glide about the meadows." "no," said samuel; "do they?" "yes," replied thomas. "at night you may sometimes see a great many among the grass. one evening last summer john and i met a whole company of them, going from the little creek, near daddy hall's house, toward the mill pond. we thought, at first, that they were snakes, and so moved out of their road; but by and by, we perceived that they were eels. the weather had been hot and dry for two weeks before, and these eels were travelling to find more water. so father told us afterwards." the boys now walked on, down the creek, until they came to a small bridge. on this a boy, about as large as samuel, was standing, throwing stones into the water. when thomas, and the other two, got near enough, they saw he was stoning frogs. every time one of these little animals put its head above the water, the boy pelted it with a stone; and two or three had been mashed to death, as they sat on the broad stones, near the water's edge. [illustration: stoning frogs.] now, all good boys and girls, who read this book, will say that this was a cruel boy--and so he was. as soon as john saw what he was about, he called to him to stop. the boy said he would not, and stoned harder than before. then john began to grow angry. you remember, children, i told you, that though john was a noble hearted fellow, yet he was quick of temper; and when he saw boys doing wrong, he was apt to get angry very soon, if they did not stop when they were told. so, seeing that the boy still threw stones, he called to him again, louder than before. "what shall i stop for?" said the boy. "because," said john, as he stepped on the bridge, "you have no business to stone frogs. what hurt do they do you?" "a good deal," said the boy; and he threw another stone. "i tell you to stop," replied john; "this is father's field, and they are his frogs, too; and you have no right here, if you can't behave yourself." the boy now threw off his cap, as if to fight, and said: "i don't care for you or your father either; i'll stone as long as i please, and no one shall hinder me," and as he spoke, he shook his fist in john's face. john was now very angry. "if you touch me," he said, "i'll throw you, head foremost, over the bridge. i tell you to quit stoning frogs, and you shall quit." thomas and samuel now came forward; for they were afraid that there would be some fighting. john and the boy stood looking at each other for a little while; but at last, the boy seeing that john was not afraid of him, picked up his hat and walked off, muttering that he did not care for any body. "he had better go," said john. when his brother began to grow calm, thomas told him that he ought not to get so angry, for he could have driven off the boy just as well, by speaking quietly to him. "i have seen him once or twice before," added thomas, "and i hear that he is a very bad boy." [illustration] chapter ix. the hard battle. in coming home by some cherry trees that stood near the fence, samuel saw a little animal, larger than a bat, fly swiftly from one branch to another. he asked his cousins if it was not a flying squirrel. thomas answered, "yes. several nests of them are in these trees. if you could examine one of these squirrels closely, you would see that its wings, as they are called, are not like bird's wings." "they seem more like a bat's wings," said samuel. "so they are," replied his cousin; "only thin skins, stretched along the sides from the fore legs to the hind ones. but these squirrels cannot fly far, nor stay long in the air, as bats can. they merely dart swiftly from one branch to another." "what other kinds of squirrels are there?" asked samuel. "the grey squirrel," said thomas, "much larger than this one. it is not often found about here. then the ground squirrel, that lives in the ground, instead of on the trees. the common squirrel, such as you see running about the fences and woods; and two or three other kinds. some people eat squirrels; but i have never tasted one." the boys now heard some one screaming, and stopped to listen. "it comes from that field," said john; "let us run and see what is the matter." they did so, and soon saw that the big dog they had passed in going to the creek, had got out, and was chasing a boy. this boy was screaming with fear; and john perceived that he was the boy who had been stoning frogs. but the boys ran with all their might to help him, picking up such stones and sticks as lay on the ground, in their way. when they reached the boy, he was pale with fear, for the dog was close to him. samuel also felt a little afraid; but he joined his two cousins in trying to beat the dog back. the fierce animal got john's stick in his mouth, and wrenched it out of his hand; but he kicked it in the jaws, and so kept it off with his feet, while thomas and samuel struck it over the head with all their might. as to the boy, he ran as hard as he could, until he was out of sight. thomas's stick now broke, but samuel ran his down the dog's throat, and john ran to bring a great pole which was lying a little distance off. with this they kept the dog from biting them, until some men came running down a lane, and over into the field. they had seen the dog run out of the farmer's yard, and were anxious to kill it. so they threw a rope round its neck, and dragged it away. they said it should be shot. the boys were very warm, and could scarcely get their breath. they walked, therefore, to a tree which stood in the field, and sat down to get cool, and rest themselves. thomas said he would be glad if the dog were killed, for such an animal was not fit to keep. "if we had each had a good stout club," replied his brother, "he would never have run after any of us again." they looked for the boy, but he could not be seen; and after resting themselves, they walked home. when mr. harvey heard of their battle with the dog, he said that it was a great blessing they had not been bitten; for that in summer the bite of a dog often caused madness, followed by certain death. [illustration] chapter x. about corn and the uses of animals. when samuel had been at his uncle's about two weeks. mr. harvey told him one morning, that he might go with his cousins to a field where early corn was growing and pull some to cook, if it was ripe. they had a merry time among the high corn. as they came back to the house, carrying their basket of ears, samuel asked his cousins, why corn was sometimes called indian corn. "it is because it formed the chief food of the indians, before white men came to this country," replied thomas. "father says its proper name is maize. it was first found in this country; and there are some parts of america where it is used altogether instead of wheat or rye. did you ever taste cakes made from it?" "yes," said samuel; "they were sweeter than wheat bread; but i would not like to eat them every day." "nor i either," said john; "but i like indian meal with sugar, eggs, and milk in it, and then baked brown in the oven. don't you, samuel?" "i never tasted it that way. but i think corn is best boiled on the ear, and eaten with meat and vegetables." mr. harvey's library, as i have already told you, was very large. he spent much time in the room where it was, either reading or writing. in the afternoon, after the boys had gathered the corn, he called them into this room, and showed them some beautiful pictures of animals and countries. while looking at them, samuel asked him if he thought every animal had been made for some useful purpose. "yes, my boy," answered his uncle; "we have reason to believe that even things which appear to be entirely useless, such as gravel stones, or weeds, have been made by god for some good end. the more we learn about animals and plants, the more plainly this appears. i will show you the picture of a very curious animal, called a sloth. it looks a little like a bear. now listen, boys, to a few words about this animal. it lives in thick, gloomy forests, so that it can scarcely ever be taken. when placed on the ground it cannot walk, but drags itself forward, with its fore legs, crying all the time, as if in great pain. its claws are long, and turn up under its feet. in the woods it lives all the time on the trees, hanging from a branch, with its back toward the ground. tell me what you think of such an animal." "i think it must be miserable all day long," replied samuel. "so every one thought, about fifty years ago," said mr. harvey; but men who have gone to the countries where sloths are, and seen them in the high trees, tell a very different story. they say that the sloth's home is in the branches, as much as a fish's is in the water; and he is there a strong and happy animal, although he looks so weak and miserable on the ground. he lives on fruit, and moves from one branch and one tree to another, with considerable swiftness. so you see that the sloth enjoys himself as well as any of us; and i have no doubt that he was created for some good purpose, although we may not be able to understand precisely what it is. "but do not some animals eat each other?" asked thomas. "yes," replied mr. harvey; "but this is of great use to man. what would the farmer do with all the insects that destroy his grain, if many of them were not eaten by little birds; and how much of his fruit would these very birds destroy, if they, too, were not eaten by hawks! if animals did not destroy each other, they would soon become so numerous as to crowd man from the earth." chapter xi. alice gray. one morning, after the three boys had taken a pretty long walk, they came to a small cottage, standing by a garden, round which was a neat hedge. part of this garden was planted with vegetables, and part with flowers, while many vines and sweet brier bushes stood before the cottage door. there were also large, white roses, which samuel thought finer than any he had yet seen; and in a corner of the garden farthest from the house, stood two bee hives. as the boys passed by, a young woman came out on the piazza, and asked them in. john and thomas had often been here; so they opened the gate and passed through with their cousin. the young woman, whose name was alice, brought out chairs, and some new milk in bowls, for each of them to drink. then she walked with them through the garden, showing them through the flowers, and telling their names. he was much pleased with the bee hives; they were made of wood, with glass tops, so that the bees might be seen at work. after watching them for some time, they returned through the garden to the cottage door. at this moment an old lady came to the door, and spoke to mr. harvey's boys. samuel observed that she was very feeble, and that her voice could scarcely be heard. she looked like one who had been often sick. when they left the cottage, he asked who she was. [illustration: alice gray.] "her name is gray," said thomas. "alice is her daughter. mrs. gray's husband was a sailor, and when alice was about three years old, he went on a voyage to catch whales, but was lost, with all the crew. mrs. gray was poor, and had four children; and as no one in the town where she lived would help her, she opened a school for little boys and girls. the money she got by teaching, supported her family, until her two oldest children died. soon after, the poor woman herself became sick, and the school was closed. then she moved into this part of the country, and tried to make her living by weaving mats out of rushes. but in the fall, the child older than alice, died; and mrs. gray again grew sick. her landlord was a hard hearted man: he turned her out of doors, and the poor woman would have died, if some neighbors had not taken her in, and provided for her until she could work for herself. at last she went to live on one of the hills that you can see near the iron mine. she did pretty well that winter; but one day in the spring, a great freshet ruined every thing that she had, and almost carried away her house. afraid to stay on the hill any longer, she was about to go to the city, and ask assistance from the societies which give help to poor people, when some persons, told her to move to the cottage she is in now, and that they would pay the rent. she did so. when alice grew older, she worked hard to support her mother, and she it was who planted all the flowers and vegetables that you saw in the garden. father made her a present of the bee hives. every body loves her because she has so sweet a temper." "and is the old lady still sick?" asked samuel. "yes," said his cousin, "she will never be well again. yet she is happy in having a good daughter and kind friends, and loves to see the young people, who sometimes stop to talk or read to her." at some distance from the cottage the boys met a bull in the road. it was standing still when they first saw it; but in a little while it began to strike the ground with its feet, and toss about its head. samuel was afraid to go on; but his cousins told him to follow them, without attempting to run. as they passed, the bull looked fiercely at them, and began to roar; but they walked on, keeping their eyes steady on it, all the while. it continued to make a great noise, but did not follow them. after they had passed it, thomas said they could then walk as fast as they chose, lest the bull might follow them. samuel asked him, if bulls had not sometimes killed people. "yes," he replied, "bulls are dangerous when any thing makes them angry. and at such times, if you run from them they are sure to follow. they often fight with each other; and farmer smith had a bull killed by another one last spring. if you meet them in the road, it is best to face them, without showing any fear. it is not often that they will attack any one who has courage enough to look straight at them." [illustration] chapter xii. locusts. mr. harvey's boys had a very fine fig tree, which had been presented to them by a friend of their father, and of which they took great care. it was kept in a large box, so that it might be placed in the house during the winter. the boys expected it would bear fruit next year. one day john burst into the room where thomas, samuel, and his father were sitting, and exclaimed with a doleful voice: "oh, father, it is dead--eaten by the locusts--i found a dozen on it." "what's the matter, john?" said mr. harvey. "what have the locusts eaten?" "our fig tree," replied john. "it is gone past all remedy. only come with me, and you'll see it." they followed him down the garden walk. on reaching the fig tree, mr. harvey saw that nearly all its leaves had been eaten off, with most of the bark and young branches. thomas and samuel were very sorry, and john said he would kill every locust he met, from that day forward. mr. harvey examined the tree, and found, that although much damage had been done to it, yet with proper care, it might be restored. "we ought to have covered it with a net," he said to the boys. while his father was talking with thomas and his cousin, john was stooping on the ground, hammering something with a stone. at last mr. harvey turned round, and asked john what he was doing. "i am killing these fine locusts that i have caught," replied john. "stop, my son," said mr. harvey, "that is foolish conduct, and very wicked. you are giving way to anger and revenge, two of the worst passions that a youth can indulge." "but, father, they will eat more trees." "the damage that a few locusts can do, is not much," answered his father; "and if we had taken proper care with the fig tree, they would not have reached it. let those under your hat go, and when we go into the house, i will tell you about the locusts of the eastern countries, of which you might kill as many as you chose, if you were there." john did as his father bade him, and said he was sorry for having acted so foolishly. then mr. harvey trimmed the fig tree with his knife, and said he would send a servant to place a screen over it. when they came to the house, john reminded his father of his promise concerning the locusts. mr. harvey took from a shelf several large pictures of insects, and laying one on the table, asked his son what he thought it was. "it looks like a large grasshopper," said john. "it is the locust of the east," replied his father. "these locusts are shaped almost exactly like the long-winged grasshoppers that fly about our fields; but they are two or three times larger. what do you think this picture is?" "it seems to be a great cloud of dust." "it is a swarm of eastern locusts. hundreds of thousands fly thus together, darkening the air, and driving every thing before them. when alighting they cover the earth for more than a mile round, and eat every green thing to the very roots. the noise of their wings is like thunder. they leave the country like a desert, so that the terrified people look forward to misery and famine. men, women, and children, turn out with guns and stones, to kill them; and sometimes large fires are kindled for the same purpose. the dead ones are taken by cart loads to markets, and sold for food." "to be eaten, sir!" said samuel. "yes," replied mr. harvey, "mixed with butter, and fried in a pan, they form almost all the meat that the poorer classes in those countries get." "its a shocking meal" said john. "not so bad as you suppose," said his father. "perhaps, if it were not the custom in this country to eat lobsters or hogs, we would look upon them with as much disgust as you do upon locusts. what do you think of dining off of spiders?" "horrible," said john. his father continued: "i have read of a man who ate nothing else, when he could get spiders. so you see that people's tastes differ. you know that john baptist's food was locusts and wild honey." "do the people kill all the locusts in a swarm?" asked thomas. "no," said his father, "a swarm is so large that after hundreds of cart loads are taken from it, it seems no smaller. generally, the wind drives them into the sea, where they perish. but their dead bodies, cast upon shore, become corrupt, and produce plagues." "i wish," said john, "that the wind would drive all we have into the sea, or else a good distance from our fig tree. who would think that such little animals could do so much mischief." "is it true that locusts return after every seventeen years?" asked samuel. "yes," said mr. harvey; "but not the common kind, such as ate the fig tree. all locusts come from eggs. in first coming from the egg, they are not winged, but look like grub worms. after a while these grubs cast off their skins, and become locusts. now, there is a kind of locust which is seventeen years in changing from the egg to the full insect it is this kind which is so numerous every seventeen years. if you go into the field when they are coming from the ground, you will see the grass and plants covered with them." "father," said john, "why did the locusts strip all the leaves from the fig tree, without touching any of the flowers or bushes around?" "i suppose," said mr. harvey, "it is because the fig tree is very tender. it comes, you know, from warm countries, and is there the proper food of the locust. had there been figs on the tree, they would, no doubt, have been eaten also." chapter xiii. the return home. a few days after this conversation, a large fox came, in the evening, into mr. harvey's barn yard; but as a dog belonging to one of the farmers was near, he was driven off before he could catch any of the chickens. the boys heard the noise, and ran down. they saw the fox running very fast away, while the dog, which could not follow through the hole under the fence, had gone round the barn, to get into the field. samuel and his cousins chased the fox as far as they could see it, and then returned to the barn yard to hunt for more. but none could be found, and they walked up to the house. [illustration: the fox.] at last the month of august rolled around, and the holidays drew toward a close. i have told you only about a few things that samuel saw in his walks around the country with his cousins; but you perceive that he enjoyed himself very much. he also learned a great deal. i hope, children, that you have also learned something by reading this book. samuel tried to remember all that his uncle and cousins told him, and often thought of it when he was by himself. it would be well if you would do the same. have you a little brother, or sister? see if you can tell it what mr. harvey told samuel about bats, locusts, rivers, the rain, and sloths. you may also tell the story of alice gray, and old jack the soldier. you remember that samuel was to go home at the end of august. thomas and john looked very sorrowful as the time drew near; for they loved their cousin very much, and wished that he could stay with them altogether. on the last evening, mr. harvey took all the boys to a branch of the river about seven miles off, to enjoy a sail in a boat, on the water. it was a beautiful moonlight evening, and they rode to the place in a carriage. samuel thought that the sight of the water, sparkling in the moon-beams, and stretching away so wide and still, with the dark bushes on each side, was the finest thing he had yet seen. when they were in the middle of the stream, and gliding slowly down it, mr. harvey and his sons joined in singing some simple song; and as they had brought plenty of food with them, they staid on the water until midnight. next morning, samuel started for town, at nine o'clock. he had received many beautiful and useful things from his cousins, and as he pressed their hands, and again and again, bade them good bye, he felt how much he would miss their company when he would be in the city. but they promised to write to each other, and as often as they could, send presents from one to another. then the horses trotted rapidly down the road, and mr. harvey, with his boys, returned to the house. [illustration] mother west wind "why" stories by thornton w. burgess author of "old mother west wind," and "the bed time story-books." _illustrations in color by harrison cady_ boston little, brown, and company [illustration: "he went right on about his business." frontispiece.] books by thornton w. burgess bedtime story-books . the adventures of reddy fox . the adventures of johnny chuck . the adventures of peter cottontail . the adventures of unc' billy possum . the adventures of mr. mocker . the adventures of jerry muskrat . the adventures of danny meadow mouse . the adventures of grandfather frog . the adventures of chatterer, the red squirrel . the adventures of sammy jay . the adventures of buster bear . the adventures of old mr. toad . the adventures of prickly porky . the adventures of old man coyote . the adventures of paddy the beaver . the adventures of poor mrs. quack . the adventures of bobby coon . the adventures of jimmy skunk . the adventures of bob white . the adventures of ol' mistah buzzard mother west wind series . old mother west wind . mother west wind's children . mother west wind's animal friends . mother west wind's neighbors . mother west wind "why" stories . mother west wind "how" stories . mother west wind "when" stories . mother west wind "where" stories green meadow series . happy jack . mrs. peter rabbit . bowser the hound . old granny fox the burgess bird book for children the burgess animal book for children contents chapter i. why striped chipmunk is proud of his stripes ii. why peter rabbit cannot fold his hands iii. why unc' billy possum plays dead iv. why reddy fox wears red v. why jimmy skunk never hurries vi. why sammy jay has a fine coat vii. why jerry muskrat builds his house in the water viii. why old man coyote has many voices ix. why miner the mole lives under ground x. why mr. snake cannot wink xi. why bobby coon has rings on his tail xii. why there is a black head in the buzzard family xiii. why buster bear appears to have no tail xiv. why flitter the bat flies at night xv. why spotty the turtle carries his house with him xvi. why paddy the beaver has a broad tail list of illustrations "he went right on about his business" "as they were all very hungry, they would like to know when the feast would be ready" "you don't mean to say so, peter," interrupted grandfather frog he would make no reply, save to run out his tongue at them "then old king bear wished that he hadn't a tail" "it must be fine to fly," thought peter. "i wish i could fly" "hi, spotty!" he shouted, "where do you live?" the first thing peter looked to see was what kind of a tail paddy has i why striped chipmunk is proud of his stripes the merry little breezes of old mother west wind are great friends of striped chipmunk. they hurry to call on him the very first thing every morning after old mother west wind has brought them down from the purple hills. they always beg him to stop and play with them, but often he refuses. but he does it in such a merry way and with such a twinkle in his eyes that the merry little breezes never get cross because he won't play. no, sir, they never get cross. if anything, they think just a little bit more of striped chipmunk because he won't play. you see, they know that the reason he won't play is because he has work to do, and striped chipmunk believes and says: "when there is work for me to do the sooner started, sooner through." so every morning they ask him to play, and every morning they laugh when he says he has too much to do. then they rumple up his hair and pull his whiskers and give him last tag and race down to the smiling pool to see grandfather frog and beg him for a story. now grandfather frog is very old and very wise, and he knows all about the days when the world was young. when he is feeling just right, he dearly loves to tell about those long-ago days. one morning the merry little breezes found grandfather frog sitting as usual on his big green lily-pad, and they knew by the way he folded his hands across his white and yellow waistcoat that it was full of foolish green flies. "oh, grandfather frog, please do tell us why it is that striped chipmunk has such beautiful stripes on his coat," begged one of the merry little breezes. "chug-a-rum! they are stripes of honor," replied grandfather frog, in his deep, gruff voice. "honor! oh, how lovely! do tell us about it! please do!" begged the merry little breezes. "chug-a-rum!" began grandfather frog, his big, goggly eyes twinkling. "once upon a time, when the world was young, old mr. chipmunk, the grandfather a thousand times removed of striped chipmunk, lived very much as striped chipmunk does now. he was always very busy, very busy, indeed, and it was always about his own affairs. 'by attending strictly to my own business, i have no time to meddle with the affairs of my neighbors, and so i keep out of trouble,' said old mr. chipmunk," "just what striped chipmunk says now," broke in one of the merry little breezes. "that shows that he is just as wise as was his grandfather a thousand times removed, about whom i am telling you," replied grandfather frog. "old mr. chipmunk wore just a little, plain brown coat. it didn't worry him a bit, not a bit, that his coat was just plain brown. it kept him just as warm as if it were a beautiful red, like that of mr. fox, or handsome black and white, like that of mr. skunk. he was perfectly satisfied with his little plain brown coat and took the best of care of it. "one day as he was hurrying home to dinner, he climbed up on an old stump to look around and make sure that the way was clear. over in a little path in the meadow grass was walking old mr. meadow mouse. he was strolling along as if there was nothing in the world to fear. way back behind him in the same little path, walking very fast but very quietly, was big mr. bob cat. his eyes were yellow, and a hungry look was in them. he didn't see mr. meadow mouse, but he would in a few minutes. mr. chipmunk saw that he would, and that there was no place for mr. meadow mouse to hide. "'humph! i never meddle in other people's affairs, and this is none of my business,' said little mr. chipmunk. "but old mr. meadow mouse was a friend. he thought a great deal of mr. meadow mouse, did little mr. chipmunk. he couldn't bear to think of what would happen to mr. meadow mouse if big mr. bob cat should catch him. then, almost without realizing what he was doing, little mr. chipmunk began to shout at big mr. bob cat and to call him names. of course big mr. bob cat looked up right away and saw little mr. chipmunk sitting on the old stump. his eyes grew yellower and yellower, he drew his lips back from his long, sharp teeth in a very angry way, and his little bob tail twitched and twitched. then, with great leaps, he came straight for the old stump on which little mr. chipmunk was sitting. "little mr. chipmunk didn't wait for him to get there. oh, my, no! he took one good look at those fierce, hungry, yellow eyes and long, cruel teeth, and then he whisked into a hole in the old stump. you see, there wasn't time to go anywhere else. big mr. bob cat found the hole in the stump right away. he snarled when he saw it. you see it was too small, very much too small, for him to get into himself. but he could get one hand and arm in, and he did, feeling all around inside for little mr. chipmunk. little mr. chipmunk was frightened almost to death. yes, sir, he was frightened almost to death. he made himself just as flat as he could on the bottom of the hollow and held his breath. "'you'd better come out of there, mr. chipmunk, or i'll pull you out!' snarled mr. bob cat. "little mr. chipmunk just snuggled down flatter than ever and didn't say a word. mr. bob cat felt round and round inside the hollow stump and raked his long claws on the sides until little mr. chipmunk's hair fairly stood up. yes, sir, it stood right up on end, he was so scared. when it did that, it tickled the claws of mr. bob cat. mr. bob cat grinned. it was an ugly grin to see. then he reached in a little farther and made a grab for little mr. chipmunk. his wide-spread, sharp claws caught in little mr. chipmunk's coat near the neck and tore little strips the whole length of it. "of course little mr. chipmunk squealed with pain, for those claws hurt dreadfully, but he was glad that his coat tore. if it hadn't, mr. bob cat would surely have pulled him out. after a long time, mr. bob cat gave up and went off, growling and snarling. when he thought it was safe, little mr. chipmunk crawled out of the old stump and hurried home. he ached and smarted terribly, and his little plain brown coat was torn in long strips. "'this is what i get for meddling in the affairs of other folks!' said little mr. chipmunk bitterly. 'if i'd just minded my own business, it wouldn't have happened.' "just then he happened to look over to the house of mr. meadow mouse. there was mr. meadow mouse playing with his children. he didn't know a thing about what his neighbor, little mr. chipmunk, had done for him, for you remember he hadn't seen mr. bob cat at all. little mr. chipmunk grinned as well as he could for the pain. "'i'm glad i did it,' he muttered. 'yes, sir, i'm glad i did it, and i'm glad that neighbor meadow mouse doesn't know about it. i'm glad that nobody knows about it. 'a kindly deed's most kindly done in secret wrought, and seen of none. and so i'm glad that no one knows.' "now just imagine how surprised little mr. chipmunk was, when in the fall it came time to put on a new coat, to have old mother nature hand him out a beautiful striped coat instead of the little plain brown coat he had expected. old mother nature's eyes twinkled as she said: "'there's a stripe for every tear made in your old coat by the claws of mr. bob cat the day you saved mr. meadow mouse. they are honor stripes, and hereafter you and your children and your children's children shall always wear stripes.' "and that is how it happens that striped chipmunk comes by his striped coat, and why he is so proud of it, and takes such good care of it," concluded grandfather frog. ii why peter rabbit cannot fold his hands happy jack squirrel sat with his hands folded across his white waistcoat. he is very fond of sitting with his hands folded that way. a little way from him sat peter rabbit. peter was sitting up very straight, but his hands dropped right down in front. happy jack noticed it. "why don't you fold your hands the way i do, peter rabbit?" shouted happy jack. "i--i--don't want to," stammered peter. "you mean you can't!" jeered happy jack. peter pretended not to hear, and a few minutes later he hopped away towards the dear old briar-patch, lipperty-lipperty-lip. happy jack watched him go, and there was a puzzled look in happy jack's eyes. "i really believe he can't fold his hands," said happy jack to himself, but speaking aloud. "he can't, and none of his family can," said a gruff voice. happy jack turned to find old mr. toad sitting in the lone little path. "why not?" asked happy jack. "ask grandfather frog; he knows," replied old mr. toad, and started on about his business. and this is how it happens that grandfather frog told this story to the little meadow and forest people gathered around him on the bank of the smiling pool. "chug-a-rum!" said grandfather frog. "old mr. rabbit, the grandfather a thousand times removed of peter rabbit, was always getting into trouble. yes, sir, old mr. rabbit was always getting into trouble. seemed like he wouldn't be happy if he couldn't get into trouble. it was all because he was so dreadfully curious about other people's business, just as peter rabbit is now. it seemed that he was just born to be curious and so, of course, to get into trouble. "one day word came to the green forest and to the green meadows that old mother nature was coming to see how all the little meadow and forest people were getting along, to settle all the little troubles and fusses between them, and to find out who were and who were not obeying the orders she had given them when she had visited them last. my, my, my, such a hurrying and scurrying and worrying as there was! you see, everybody wanted to look his best when old mother nature arrived, yes, sir, everybody wanted to look his best. "there was the greatest changing of clothes you ever did see. old king bear put on his blackest coat. mr. coon and mr. mink and mr. otter sat up half the night brushing their suits and making them look as fine and handsome as they could. even old mr. toad put on a new suit under his old one, and planned to pull the old one off and throw it away as soon as old mother nature should arrive. then everybody began to fix up their homes and make them as neat and nice as they knew how--everybody but mr. rabbit. "now mr. rabbit was lazy. he didn't like to work any more than peter rabbit does now. no, sir, old mr. rabbit was afraid of work. the very sight of work scared old mr. rabbit. you see, he was so busy minding other people's business that he didn't have time to attend to his own. so his brown and gray coat always was rumpled and tumbled and dirty. his house was a tumble-down affair in which no one but mr. rabbit would ever have thought of living, and his garden--oh, dear me, such a garden you never did see! it was all weeds and brambles. they filled up the yard, and old mr. rabbit actually couldn't have gotten into his own house if he hadn't cut a path through the brambles. "now when old mr. rabbit heard that old mother nature was coming, his heart sank way, way down, for he knew just how angry she would be when she saw his house, his garden and his shabby suit. "'oh, dear! oh, dear! what shall i do?' wailed mr. rabbit, wringing his hands. "'get busy and clean up,' advised mr. woodchuck, hurrying about his own work. "now mr. woodchuck was a worker and very, very neat. he meant to have his home looking just as fine as he could make it. he brought up some clean yellow sand from deep down in the ground and sprinkled it smoothly over his doorstep. "'i'll help you, if i get through my own work in time,' shouted mr. woodchuck over his shoulder. "that gave mr. rabbit an idea. he would ask all his neighbors to help him, and perhaps then he could get his house and garden in order by the time old mother nature arrived. so mr. rabbit called on mr. skunk and mr. coon and mr. mink and mr. squirrel and mr. chipmunk, and all the rest of his neighbors, telling them of his trouble and asking them to help. now, in spite of the trouble mr. rabbit was forever making for other people by his dreadful curiosity and meddling with other people's affairs, all his neighbors had a warm place in their hearts for mr. rabbit, and they all promised that they would help him as soon as they had their own work finished. "instead of hurrying home and getting to work himself, mr. rabbit stopped a while after each call and sat with his arms folded, watching the one he was calling on work. mr. rabbit was very fond of sitting with folded arms. it was very comfortable. but this was no time to be doing it, and mr. skunk told him so. "'if you want the rest of us to help you, you'd better get things started yourself,' said old mr. skunk, carefully combing out his big, plumy tail. "'that's right, mr. skunk! that's right!' said mr. rabbit, starting along briskly, just as if he was going to hurry right home and begin work that very instant. "but half an hour later, when mr. skunk happened to pass the home of mr. chipmunk, there sat mr. rabbit with his arms folded, watching mr. chipmunk hurrying about as only mr. chipmunk can. "finally mr. rabbit had made the round of all his friends and neighbors, and he once more reached his tumble-down house. 'oh, dear,' sighed mr. rabbit, as he looked at the tangle of brambles which almost hid the little old house, 'i never, never can clear away all this! it will be a lot easier to work when all my friends are here to help,' so he sighed once more and folded his arms, instead of beginning work as he should have done. and then, because the sun was bright and warm, and he was very, very comfortable, old mr. rabbit began to nod, and presently he was fast asleep. "now old mother nature likes to take people by surprise, and it happened that she chose this very day to make her promised visit. she was greatly pleased with all she saw as she went along, until she came to the home of mr. rabbit. "'mercy me!' exclaimed old mother nature, throwing up her hands as she saw the tumble-down house almost hidden by the brambles and weeds. 'can it be possible that any one really lives here?' then, peering through the tangle of brambles, she spied old mr. rabbit sitting on his broken-down doorstep with his arms folded and fast asleep. "at first she was very indignant, oh, very indignant, indeed! she decided that mr. rabbit should be punished very severely. but as she watched him sitting there, dreaming in the warm sunshine, her anger began to melt away. the fact is, old mother nature was like all the rest of mr. rabbit's neighbors--she just couldn't help loving happy-go-lucky mr. rabbit in spite of all his faults. with a long stick she reached in and tickled the end of his nose. "mr. rabbit sneezed, and this made him wake up. he yawned and blinked, and then his eyes suddenly flew wide open with fright. he had discovered old mother nature frowning at him. she pointed a long forefinger at him and said: 'in every single blessed day there's time for work and time for play. who folds his arms with work undone doth cheat himself and spoil his fun.' "'hereafter, mr. rabbit, you and your children and your children's children will never again be able to sit with folded arms until you or they have learned to work.' "and that is why peter rabbit cannot fold his arms and still lives in a tumble-down house among the brambles," concluded grandfather frog. iii why unc' billy possum plays dead one thing puzzled peter rabbit and johnny chuck and striped chipmunk a great deal after they had come to know unc' billy possum and his funny ways. they had talked it over and wondered and wondered about it, and tried to understand it, and even had asked unc' billy about it. unc' billy had just grinned and said that they would have to ask his mammy. of course they couldn't do that, and unc' billy knew they couldn't, for unc' billy's mammy had died long before he even thought of coming up from ol' virginny to the green forest and the green meadows where they lived. he said it just to tease them, and when he said it, he chuckled until they chuckled too, just as if it really were the best kind of a joke. now you know it always is the thing that you try and try to find out and can't find out that you most want to find out. it was just so with peter rabbit and johnny chuck and striped chipmunk. the more they talked about it, the more they wanted to know. why was it that unc' billy possum played dead instead of trying to run away when he was surprised by his enemies? they always tried to run away. so did everybody else of their acquaintance excepting unc' billy possum. "there must be a reason" said peter gravely, as he pulled thoughtfully at one of his long ears. "of course there is a reason," asserted johnny chuck, chewing the end of a blade of grass. "there's a reason for everything," added striped chipmunk, combing out the hair of his funny little tail. "then of course grandfather frog knows it," said peter. "of course! why didn't we think of him before?" exclaimed the others. "i'll beat you to the smiling pool!" shouted peter. of course he did, for his legs are long and made for running, but striped chipmunk was not far behind. johnny chuck took his time, for he knew that he could not keep up with the others. besides he was so fat that to run made him puff and blow. grandfather frog sat just as usual on his big green lily-pad, and he grinned when he saw who his visitors were, for he guessed right away what they had come for. "chug-a-rum! what is it you want to know now?" he demanded, before peter could fairly get his breath. "if you please, grandfather frog, we want to know why it is that unc' billy possum plays dead," replied peter as politely as he knew how. grandfather frog chuckled. "just to fool people, stupid!" said he. "of course we know that," replied striped chipmunk, "but what we want to know is how he ever found out that he could fool people that way, and how he knows that he will fool them." "i suspect that his mammy taught him," said grandfather frog, with another chuckle way down deep in his throat. "but who taught his mammy?" persisted striped chipmunk. grandfather frog snapped at a foolish green fly, and when it was safely tucked away inside his white and yellow waistcoat, he turned once more to his three little visitors, and there was a twinkle in his big, goggly eyes. "i see," said he, "that you _will_ have a story, and i suppose that the sooner i tell it to you, the sooner you will leave me in peace. unc' billy possum's grandfather a thousand times removed was--" "was this way back in the days when the world was young?" interrupted peter. grandfather frog scowled at peter. "if i have any more interruptions, there will be no story to-day" said he severely. peter looked ashamed and promised that he would hold his tongue right between his teeth until grandfather frog was through. grandfather frog cleared his throat and began again. "unc' billy possum's grandfather a thousand times removed was very much as unc' billy is now, only he was a little more spry and knew better than to stuff himself so full that he couldn't run. he was always very sly, and he played a great many tricks on his neighbors, and sometimes he got them into trouble. but when he did, he always managed to keep out of their way until they had forgotten all about their anger. "one morning the very imp of mischief seemed to get into old mr. possum's head. yes, sir, it certainly did seem that way. and when you see mischief trotting along the lone little path, if you look sharp enough, you'll see trouble following at his heels like a shadow. i never knew it to fail. it's just as sure as a stomach-ache is to follow overeating." just here grandfather frog paused and looked very hard at peter rabbit. but peter pretended not to notice, and after slowly winking one of his big, goggly eyes at johnny chuck, grandfather frog continued: "anyway, as i said before, the imp of mischief seemed to be in old mr. possum's head that morning, for he began to play tricks on his neighbors as soon as they were out of bed. he hid old king bear's breakfast, while the latter had his head turned, and then pretended that he had just come along. he was very polite and offered to help old king bear hunt for his lost breakfast. then, whenever old king bear came near the place where it was hidden, old mr. possum would hide it somewhere else. old king bear was hungry, and he worked himself up into a terrible rage, for he was in a hurry for his breakfast. old mr. possum was very sympathetic and seemed to be doing his very best to find the lost meal. at last old king bear turned his head suddenly and caught sight of old mr. possum hiding that breakfast in a new place. my, my, but his temper did boil over! it certainly did. and if he could have laid hands on old mr. possum that minute, it surely would have been the end of him. "but old mr. possum was mighty spry, and he went off through the green forest laughing fit to kill himself. pretty soon he met mr. panther. he was very polite to mr. panther. he told him that he had just come from a call on old king bear, and hinted that old king bear was then enjoying a feast and that there might be enough for mr. panther, if he hurried up there at once. "now, mr. panther was hungry, for he had found nothing for his breakfast that morning. so he thanked old mr. possum and hurried away to find old king bear and share in the good things old mr. possum had told about. "old mr. possum himself hurried on, chuckling as he thought of the way mr. panther was likely to be received, with old king bear in such a temper. pretty soon along came mr. lynx. old mr. possum told him the same story he had told mr. panther, and mr. lynx went bounding off in a terrible hurry, for fear that he would not be in time to share in that good breakfast. it was such a good joke that old mr. possum tried it on mr. wolf and mr. fisher and mr. fox. in fact, he hunted up every one he could think of and sent them to call on old king bear, and without really telling them so, he made each one think that he would get a share in that breakfast." "now, there wasn't any more breakfast than old king bear wanted himself, and by the time mr. panther arrived, there wasn't so much as a crumb left. then, one after another, the others came dropping in, each licking his chops, and all very polite to old king bear. at first he didn't know what to make of it, but pretty soon mr. fox delicately hinted that they had come in response to the invitation sent by mr. possum, and that as they were all very hungry, they would like to know when the feast would be ready. right away old king bear knew that old mr. possum had been up to some of his tricks, and he told his visitors that they were the victims of a practical joke. [illustration: "as they were all very hungry, they would like to know when the feast would be ready."] "my, my, my, how angry everybody grew! with old king bear at their head, they started out to hunt for old mr. possum. when he saw them coming, he realized that what he had thought was a joke had become no longer a laughing matter for him. he was too frightened to run, so he scrambled up a tree. he quite forgot that mr. panther and mr. lynx could climb just as fast as he. up the tree after him they scrambled, and he crept as far out as he could get on one of the branches. mr. panther didn't dare go out there, so he just shook the branch. he shook and shook and shook and shook, and the first thing old mr. possum knew, he was flying through the air down to where the others were all ready to pounce on him. "old mr. possum was frightened almost to death. he shut his eyes, and then he landed with a thump that knocked all the wind from his body. when he got his breath again, he still kept his eyes closed, for he couldn't bear the thought of looking at the cruel teeth and claws of old king bear and the others. presently, while he was wondering why they didn't jump on him and tear him to pieces, old king bear spoke: "'i guess mr. possum won't play any more jokes, mr. panther,' said he. 'you just knocked the life out of him when you shook him off that branch.' "mr. panther came over and sniffed at mr. possum and turned him over with one paw. all the time mr. possum lay just as if he were dead, because he was too frightened to move. 'i didn't mean to kill him,' said mr. panther. 'we certainly will miss him. what will we do with him?' "'leave him here as a warning to others,' growled old king bear. "each in turn came up and sniffed of mr. possum, and then they all went about their business. he waited long enough to make sure that they were out of sight, and then took the shortest way home. when he got there and thought it all over, he thought that the best joke of all was the way he had made everybody think that he was dead. and then a bright idea struck him: he would try the same trick whenever he was caught. so the next time he got in trouble, instead of running away, he tried playing dead. it was such a success that he taught his children how to do it, and they taught their children, and so on down to unc' billy, whom you know. unc' billy says it is a lot easier than running away, and safer, too. besides, it is always such a joke. now, don't bother me any more, for i want to take a nap," concluded grandfather frog. "thank you!" cried peter rabbit and johnny chuck and striped chipmunk, and started off to hunt up unc' billy possum. iv why reddy fox wears red peter rabbit sat in the middle of the dear old briar-patch making faces and laughing at reddy fox. of course that wasn't a nice thing to do, not a bit nice. but peter had just had a narrow escape, a very narrow escape, for reddy fox had sprung out from behind a bush as peter came down the lone little path, and had so nearly caught peter that he had actually pulled some fur out of peter's coat. now peter was safe in the dear old briar-patch. he was a little out of breath, because he had had to use his long legs as fast as he knew how, but he was safe. you see, reddy fox wouldn't run the risk of tearing his handsome red coat on the brambles. besides, they scratched terribly. "never mind, peter rabbit, i'll get you yet!" snarled reddy, as he gave up and started back for the green forest. "reddy fox is very sly! reddy fox is very spry! but sly and spry, 'tis vain to try to be as sly and spry as i." when peter rabbit shouted this, reddy looked back and showed all his teeth, but peter only laughed, and reddy trotted on. peter watched him out of sight. "my! i wish i had such a handsome coat," he said, with a long sigh, for you know peter's coat is very plain, very plain, indeed. "you wouldn't, if you had to wear it for the same reason that reddy fox has to wear his. a good heart and honest ways are better than fine clothes, peter rabbit." peter looked up. there was saucy, pert, little jenny wren fussing around in one of the old bramble bushes. "hello, jenny!" said peter. "why does reddy wear a red coat?" "do you mean to say that you don't know?" jenny wren looked very hard at peter with her sharp eyes. "i thought everybody knew that! you certainly are slow, peter rabbit. i haven't time to tell you about it now. go ask grandfather frog; he knows all about it." jenny wren bustled off before peter could find his tongue. now, you all know how full of curiosity peter rabbit is. jenny wren's busy tongue had set that curiosity fairly boiling over. he just couldn't sit still for wondering and wondering why reddy fox wears a red coat. he had never thought anything about it before, but now he couldn't get it out of his head. he just _had_ to know. so, making sure that reddy fox had disappeared in the green forest, peter started for the smiling pool, lipperty-lipperty-lip, as fast as he could go. there he found grandfather frog setting on his big green lily-pad, just as usual. "if you please, grandfather frog, why does reddy fox wear a red coat?" panted peter, quite out of breath. "chug-a-rum!" grunted grandfather frog crossly. "don't you know that it is very impolite to disturb people when they are having a nap?" "i--i'm very sorry. indeed i am, grandfather frog," said peter very humbly. "will you tell me if i come again some time when you are not so sleepy?" now, like everybody else, grandfather frog is rather fond of peter rabbit, and now peter looked so truly sorry, and at the same time there was such a look of disappointment in peter's eyes, that grandfather frog forgot all about his crossness. "chug-a-rum!" said he. "you and your questions are a nuisance, peter rabbit, and i may as well get rid of you now as to have you keep coming down here and pestering me to death. besides, any one who has to keep such a sharp watch for reddy fox as you do ought to know why he wears a red coat. if you'll promise to sit perfectly still and ask no foolish questions, i'll tell you the story." of course peter promised, and settled himself comfortably to listen. and this is the story that grandfather frog told: "a long time ago, when the world was young, old mr. fox, the grandfather a thousand times removed of reddy fox, was one of the smartest of all the forest and meadow people, just as reddy is now. he was so smart that he knew enough not to appear smart, and the fact is his neighbors thought him rather dull. he wore just a common, everyday suit of dull brown, like most of the others, and there wasn't anything about him to attract attention. he was always very polite, very polite indeed, to every one. yes, sir, mr. fox was very polite. he always seemed to be minding his own business, and he never went around asking foolish questions or poking his nose into other people's affairs." grandfather frog stopped a minute and looked very hard at peter after he said this, and peter looked uncomfortable. "now, although mr. fox didn't appear to take any interest in other people's affairs and never asked questions, he had two of the sharpest ears among all the little meadow and forest people, and while he was going about seeming to be just minding his own business, he was listening and listening to all that was said. everything he heard he remembered, so that it wasn't long before he knew more about what was going on than all his neighbors together. but he kept his mouth tight closed, did mr. fox, and was very humble and polite to everybody. every night he came home early and went to bed by sundown, and everybody said what good habits mr. fox had. "but when everybody else was asleep, mr. fox used to steal out and be gone half the night. yes, sir, sometimes he'd be gone until almost morning. but he always took care to get home before any of his neighbors were awake, and then he'd wait until everybody was up before he showed himself. when he came out and started to hunt for his breakfast, some one was sure to tell him of mischief done during the darkness of the night. sometimes it was a storehouse broken into, and the best things taken. sometimes it was of terrible frights that some of the littlest people had received by being wakened in the night and seeing a fierce face with long, sharp teeth grinning at them. sometimes it was of worse things that were told in whispers. mr. fox used to listen as if very much shocked, and say that something ought to be done about it, and wonder who it could be who would do such dreadful things. "by and by things got so bad that they reached the ears of old mother nature, and she came to find out what it all meant. now, the very night before she arrived, mrs. quack, who lived on the river bank, had a terrible fright. somebody sprang upon her as she was sleeping, and in the struggle she lost all her tail feathers. she hurried to tell old mother nature all about it, and big tears rolled down her cheeks as she told how she had lost all her beautiful tail feathers. mother nature called all the people of the forest and the meadows together. she made them all pass before her, and she looked sharply at each one as they went by. mr. fox looked meeker than ever, and he was very humble and polite. "now when mr. fox had paid his respects and turned his back, old mother nature saw something red on the tail of his coat. it was nothing but a little smear of red clay, but that was enough for old mother nature. you see, she knew that mrs. quack's home was right at the foot of a red claybank. she didn't say a word until everybody had paid their respects and passed before her. then she told them how grieved she was to hear of all the trouble there had been, but that she couldn't watch over each one all the time; they must learn to watch out for themselves. "and so that you may know who to watch out for, from now on never trust the one who wears a bright red coat," concluded old mother nature. "all of a sudden mr. fox became aware that everybody was looking at him, and in every face was hate. he glanced at his coat. it was bright red! then mr. fox knew that he had been found out, and he sneaked away with his tail between his legs. the first chance he got, he went to old mother nature and begged her to give him back his old coat. she promised that she would when his heart changed, and he changed his ways. but his heart never did change, and his children and his children's children were just like him. they have always been the smartest and the sliest and the most feared and disliked of all the little people on the meadows or in the forest. and now you know why reddy fox wears a red coat," concluded grandfather frog. peter rabbit drew a long breath. "thank you, thank you, grandfather frog!" said he. "i--i think hereafter i'll be quite content with my own suit, even if it isn't handsome. jenny wren was right. a good heart and honest ways are better than fine clothes." v why jimmy skunk never hurries the merry little breezes of old mother west wind had just been released from the big bag in which she carries them every night to their home behind the purple hills and every morning brings them back to the green meadows to romp and play all day. they romped and raced and danced away, some one way, some another, to see whom they could find to play with. presently some of them spied jimmy skunk slowly ambling down the crooked little path, stopping every few steps to pull over a loose stone or stick. they knew what he was doing that for. they knew that he was looking for fat beetles for his breakfast. they danced over to him and formed a ring around him while they sang: "who is it never, never hurries? who is it never, never worries? who is it does just what he pleases, just like us merry little breezes? jimmy skunk! jimmy skunk!" now not so far away but that he could hear them very plainly sat peter rabbit, just finishing his breakfast in a sweet-clover patch. he sat up very straight, so as to hear better. of course some of the merry little breezes saw him right away. they left jimmy to come over and dance in a circle around peter, for peter is a great favorite with them. and as they danced they sang: "who is it hops and skips and jumps? who is it sometimes loudly thumps? who is it dearly loves to play, but when there's danger runs away? peter rabbit! peter rabbit!" peter grinned good-naturedly. he is quite used to being laughed at for always running away, and he doesn't mind it in the least. "when danger's near, who runs away will live to run another day," retorted peter promptly. then he began the maddest kind of a frolic with the merry little breezes until they and he were quite tired out and ready for a good rest. "i wish," said peter, as he stretched himself out in the middle of the patch of sweet clover, "that you would tell me why it is that jimmy skunk never hurries." "and we wish that you would tell us the same thing," cried one of the merry little breezes. "but i can't," protested peter. "everybody else seems to hurry, at times anyway, but jimmy never does. he says it is a waste of energy, whatever that means." "i tell you what--let's go over to the smiling pool and ask grandfather frog about it now. he'll be sure to know," spoke up one of the merry little breezes. "all right," replied peter, hopping to his feet. "but you'll have to ask him. i've asked him for so many stories that i don't dare ask for another right away, for fear that he will say that i am a nuisance." so it was agreed that the merry little breezes should ask grandfather frog why it is that jimmy skunk never hurries, and that peter should keep out of sight until grandfather frog had begun the story, for they were sure that there would be a story. away they all hurried to the smiling pool. the merry little breezes raced so hard that they were quite out of breath when they burst through the bulrushes and surrounded grandfather frog, as he sat on his big green lily-pad. "oh, grandfather frog, why is it that jimmy skunk never hurries?" they panted. "chug-a-rum!" replied grandfather frog in his deepest, gruffest voice. "chug-a-rum! probably because he has learned better." "oh!" said one of the merry little breezes, in a rather faint, disappointed sort of voice. just then he spied a fat, foolish, green fly and blew it right over to grandfather frog, who snapped it up in a flash. right away all the merry little breezes began to hunt for foolish green flies and blow them over to grandfather frog, until he didn't have room for another one inside his white and yellow waistcoat. indeed the legs of the last one he tried to swallow stuck out of one corner of his big mouth. "chug-a-rum!" said grandfather frog, trying very hard to get those legs out of sight. "chug-a-rum! i always like to do something for those who do something for me, and i suppose now that i ought to tell you why it is that jimmy skunk never hurries. i would, if peter rabbit were here. if i tell you the story, peter will be sure to hear of it, and then he will give me no peace until i tell it to him, and i don't like to tell stories twice." "but he is here!" cried one of the little breezes. "he's right over behind that little clump of tall grass." "humph! i thought he wasn't very far away," grunted grandfather frog, with a twinkle in his great, goggly eyes. peter crept out of his hiding-place, looking rather shamefaced and very foolish. then the merry little breezes settled themselves on the lily-pads in a big circle around grandfather frog, and peter sat down as close to the edge of the bank of the smiling pool as he dared to get. after what seemed to them a very long time, grandfather frog swallowed the legs of the last foolish green fly, opened his big mouth, and began: "of course you all know that long, long ago, when the world was young, things were very different from what they are now, very different indeed. the great-great-ever-so-great grandfather of jimmy skunk was slimmer and trimmer than jimmy is. he was more like his cousins, mr. weasel and mr. mink. he was just as quick moving as they were. yes, sir, mr. skunk was very lively on his feet. he had to be to keep out of the way of his big neighbors, for in those days he didn't have any means of protecting himself, as jimmy has now. he was dressed all in black. you know it wasn't until old mother nature found out that he was taking advantage of that black suit to get into mischief on dark nights that she gave him white stripes, so that the darker the night, the harder it would be for him to keep from being seen. "now mr. skunk was very smart and shrewd, oh, very! when the hard times came, which made so many changes in the lives of the people who lived in the green forest and on the green meadows, mr. skunk was very quick to see that unless he could think of some way to protect himself, it was only a matter of time when he would furnish a dinner for one of his fierce big neighbors, and of course mr. skunk had no desire to do that. it was then that he asked old mother nature to give him a bag of perfume so strong that it would make everybody ill but himself. mother nature thought it all over, and then she did, but she made him promise that he would never use it unless he was in great danger. "mr. skunk had to try his new defence only once or twice before his enemies took the greatest care to let him alone. he found that he no longer had to run for a safe hiding-place when he met mr. wolf or mr. lynx or mr. panther. they just snarled at him and passed without offering to touch him. so mr. skunk grew very independent and went where he pleased when he pleased. and, because he no longer had to run from his enemies, he got out of the habit of running. then he made a discovery. he watched those of his neighbors who were forever hurrying about looking for food, hurrying because all the time there was great fear upon them that an enemy might be near, hurrying because each was fearful that his neighbor would get more than he. it wasn't long before mr. skunk saw that in their hurry they overlooked a great deal. in fact, by just following after them slowly, he found all he wanted to eat. "so mr. skunk began to grow fat. his neighbors, who were having hard work to make a living, grew envious, and said unkind things about him, and hinted that he must be stealing, or he never could have so much to eat. but mr. skunk didn't mind. he went right on about his business. he never worried, because, you know, he feared nobody. and he never hurried, because he found that it paid best to go slowly. in that way he never missed any of the good things that his hurrying, worrying neighbors did. so he grew fatter and fatter, while others grew thinner. after a while he almost forgot how to run. being fat and never hurrying or worrying made him good-natured. he kept right on minding his own affairs and never meddling in the affairs of others, so that by and by his neighbors began to respect him. "of course he taught his children to do as he did, and they taught their children. and so, ever since that long-ago day, when the world was young, that little bag of perfume has been handed down in the skunk family, and none of them has ever been afraid. now you know why jimmy skunk, whom you all know, is so independent and never hurries." "thank you! thank you, grandfather frog!" cried the merry little breezes. "when you want some more foolish green flies, just let us know, and we'll get them for you." "chug-a-rum! what are you looking so wistful for, peter rabbit?" demanded grandfather frog. "i--i was just wishing that i had a--" began peter. then suddenly he made a face. "no, i don't either!" he declared. "i guess i'd better be getting home to the dear old briar-patch now. mrs. peter probably thinks something has happened to me." and away he went, lipperty-lipperty-lip. vi why sammy jay has a fine coat sammy jay has a very fine coat, a very beautiful coat. everybody knows that. in fact, sammy's coat has long been the envy of a great many of his neighbors in the green forest. some of them, you know, have very modest coats. they are not beautiful at all. and yet the owners of some of these plain coats are among the most honest and hard-working of all the little people who live in the green forest. they find it hard, very hard indeed, to understand why such a scamp and mischiefmaker as sammy jay should be given such a wonderful blue coat with white trimmings. peter rabbit often had thought about it. he has a number of feathered friends whom he likes ever so much better than he does sammy jay. in fact, he and sammy are forever falling out, because sammy delights to tease peter. he sometimes makes up for it by warning peter when granny or reddy fox happens to be about, and peter is honest enough to recognize this and put it to sammy's credit. but in spite of this, it never seemed to him quite right that sammy jay should be so handsomely dressed. "of course," said peter to grandfather frog, "old mother nature knows a great deal more than i do--" "really! you don't mean to say so! chug-a-rum! you don't mean to say so, peter!" interrupted grandfather frog, pretending to be very much surprised at what peter said. [illustration: "you don't mean to say so, peter," interrupted grandfather frog.] peter grinned and wrinkled his nose at grandfather frog. "yes," said he, "old mother nature knows a great deal more than i do, but it seems to me as if she had made a mistake in giving sammy jay such a handsome coat. there must be a reason, i suppose, but for the life of me i cannot understand it. i should think that she would give such a thief as sammy jay the very homeliest suit she could find. you may depend i would, if i were in her place." grandfather frog chuckled until he shook all over. "it's lucky for some of us that you are not in her place!" said he. "chug-a-rum! it certainly is lucky!" "if i were, i would give you a handsome coat, too, grandfather frog," replied peter. grandfather frog suddenly swelled out with indignation. "chug-a-rum! chug-a-rum! what's the matter with the coat i have got, peter rabbit? tell me that! who's got a handsomer one?" grandfather frog glared with his great, goggly eyes at peter. "i didn't mean to say that you haven't got a handsome coat. your coat _is_ handsome, very handsome indeed, grandfather frog," peter hastened to say. "i always did like green. i just love it! and i should think you would be ever so proud of your white and yellow waistcoat. i would if it were mine. what i meant to say is, that if i were in old mother nature's place, i would give some plain folks handsome suits. certainly, i wouldn't give such a rascal as sammy jay one of the handsomest coats in all the green forest. knowing sammy as well as i do, it is hard work to believe that he came by it honestly." grandfather frog chuckled way down deep in his throat. "sammy came by it honestly enough, peter. yes, sir, he came by it honestly enough, because it was handed down to him by his father, who got it from his father, who got it from his father, and so on, way back to the days when the world was young, but--" grandfather frog paused, and that dreamy, far-away look which peter had seen so often came into his great, goggly eyes. "but what, grandfather frog?" asked peter eagerly, when he could keep still no longer. grandfather frog settled himself comfortably on his big green lily-pad and looked very hard at peter. "i'm going to tell you a story, peter rabbit," said he, "so that never again will you be led to doubt that old mother nature knows exactly what she is about. in the first place, sammy jay is not wholly to blame for all his bad habits. some of them were handed down to him with his fine coat, just the same as your troublesome curiosity was handed down to you with the white patch on the seat of your trousers." peter nodded. he had felt a great many times that he just couldn't help this habit of poking that wobbly little nose of his in where it had no business to be, any more than he could change that funny little bunch of white cotton, which he called a tail, for a really, truly tail. "of course, you have heard all about what a very fine gentleman sammy jay's great-great-ever-so-great grandfather was thought to be until it was discovered that he was all the time stealing from his neighbors and putting the blame on others, and how old mother nature punished him by taking away the beautiful voice of which he was so proud, and giving him instead the harsh voice which sammy has now, and making him tell just what he is by screaming 'thief, thief, thief!' every time he opens his mouth to speak. "at first old mother nature had intended to take away the fine coat of which mr. jay was so proud, but when he discovered that he had lost his fine voice, he was so ashamed that he hurried away to hide himself from the eyes of his neighbors, so that old mother nature didn't have time to change his coat just then. 'i'll wait a bit,' said she to herself, 'and see how he behaves. perhaps he is truly sorry for what he has done, and i will not have to punish him more.' "but if mr. jay was truly sorry, he gave no signs of it. you see, he had cheated his neighbors, and had stolen from them for so long, that he found this the easiest way to get a living. his bad habits had become fixed, as bad habits have a way of doing. besides, right down in his heart, he wasn't sorry for what he had done, only angry at having been found out. now that he had been found out, of course every one was on the watch for him, and it wasn't so easy to steal as it had been before. so now, instead of going about openly, with his head held high, he grew very crafty, and sneaked quietly about through the green forest, trying to keep out of sight, that he might the easier steal from his neighbors and make trouble for them. "when old mother nature saw this, she changed her mind about taking away his handsome suit. 'if i do that,' thought she, 'it will make it all the easier for him to keep out of sight, and all the harder for his neighbors to know when he is about.' "so instead of giving him the plain, homely suit that she had thought of giving him, she made his coat of blue brighter than before and trimmed it with the whitest of white trimmings, so that mr. jay had one of the very handsomest coats in all the green forest. at first he was very proud of it, but it wasn't long before he found that it was very hard work to keep out of sight when he wanted to. that bright blue coat was forever giving him away when he was out on mischief. everybody was all the time on the watch for it, and so where in the past mr. jay had been able, without any trouble, to steal all he wanted to eat, now he sometimes actually had to work for his food, and get it honestly or else go hungry. "you would suppose that he would have mended him ways, wouldn't you?" peter nodded. "but he didn't. he grew more sly and crafty than ever. but in spite of this, he didn't begin to make as much trouble as before. he couldn't, you know, because of his bright coat. when old mother nature found that mr. jay had passed along his bad habits to his children, she passed along his handsome blue coat, too, and so it has been from that long-ago day right down to this. sammy jay's fine coat isn't a reward for goodness, as is winsome bluebird's, but is to help the other little people of the green forest and the green meadows to protect themselves, and keep track of sammy when he is sneaking and snooping around looking for mischief. now what do you think, peter rabbit?" peter scratched one long ear and then the other long ear thoughtfully, and he looked a wee bit ashamed as he replied: "i guess old mother nature makes no mistakes and always knows just what she is doing." "chug-a-rum!" said grandfather frog in his deepest voice. "you may be sure she does. and another thing, peter rabbit: never judge any one by his clothes. it is a great mistake, a very great mistake. plain clothes sometimes cover the kindest hearts, and fine clothes often are a warning to beware of mischief." "i--i don't know but you are right," admitted peter. "i know i am," said grandfather frog. vii why jerry muskrat builds his house in the water peter rabbit and johnny chuck had gone down to the smiling pool for a call on their old friend, jerry muskrat. but jerry was nowhere to be seen. they waited and waited, but no jerry muskrat. "probably he is taking a nap in that big house of his," said johnny chuck, "and if he is we'll have to sit here until he wakes up, or else go back home and visit him some other time." "that's so," replied peter. "i don't see what he has his house in the water for, anyway. if he had built it on land, like sensible people, we might be able to waken him. funny place to build a house, isn't it?" johnny chuck scratched his head thoughtfully. "it does seem a funny place," he admitted. "it certainly does seem a funny place. but then, jerry muskrat is a funny fellow. you know how much of the time he stays in the water. that seems funny to me. i suppose there is a reason for it, and probably there is a reason for building his house where it is. i've found that there is a reason for most things. probably jerry's great-great-grandfather built his house that way, and so jerry does the same thing." peter rabbit suddenly brightened up. "i do believe you are right, johnny chuck, and if you are, there must be a story about it, and if there is a story, grandfather frog will be sure to know it. there he is, over on his big green lily-pad, and he looks as if he might be feeling very good-natured this morning. let's go ask him why jerry muskrat builds his house in the water." grandfather frog saw them coming, and he guessed right away that they were coming for a story. he grinned to himself and pretended to go to sleep. "good morning, grandfather frog," said johnny chuck. grandfather frog didn't answer. johnny tried again, and still no reply. "he's asleep," said johnny, looking dreadfully disappointed, "and i guess we'd better not disturb him, for he might wake up cross, and of course we wouldn't get a story if he did." peter looked at grandfather frog sharply. he wasn't so sure that that was a real nap. it seemed to him that there was just the least little hint of a smile in the corners of grandfather frog's big mouth. "you sit here a minute," he whispered in johnny chuck's ear. so johnny chuck sat down where he was, which was right where grandfather frog could see him by lifting one eyelid just the teeniest bit, and peter hopped along the bank until he was right behind grandfather frog. now just at that place on the bank was growing a toadstool. peter looked over at johnny chuck and winked. then he turned around, and with one of his long hind-feet, he kicked the toadstool with all his might. now toadstools, as you all know, are not very well fastened at the roots, and this one was no different from the rest. when peter kicked it it flew out into the air and landed with a great splash in the smiling pool, close beside the big green lily-pad on which grandfather frog was sitting. of course he didn't see it coming, and of course it gave him a great start. "chug-a-rum!" exclaimed grandfather frog and dived head first into the water. a minute later peter's sharp eyes saw him peeping out from under a lily-pad to see what had frightened him so. "ha, ha, ha!" shouted peter, dancing about on the bank. "ha, ha, ha! grandfather frog, afraid of a toadstool! ha, ha, ha!" at first grandfather frog was angry, very angry indeed. but he is too old and too wise to lose his temper for long over a joke, especially when he has been fairly caught trying to play a joke himself. so presently he climbed back on to his big green lily-pad, blinking his great, goggly eyes and looking just a wee bit foolish. "chug-a-rum! i might have known that that was some of your work, peter rabbit," said he, "but i thought it surely was a stone thrown by farmer brown's boy. what do you mean by frightening an old fellow like me this way?" "just trying to get even with you for trying to fool us into thinking that you were asleep when you were wide awake," replied peter. "oh, grandfather frog, do tell us why it is that jerry muskrat builds his house in the water. please do!" "i have a mind not to, just to get even with you," said grandfather frog, settling himself comfortably, "but i believe i will, to show you that there are some folks who can take a joke without losing their temper." "goody!" cried peter and johnny chuck together, sitting down side by side on the very edge of the bank. grandfather frog folded his hands across his white and yellow waistcoat and half closed his eyes, as if looking way, way back into the past. "chug-a-rum!" he began. "a long, long time ago, when the world was young, there was very little dry land, and most of the animals lived in the water. yes, sir, most of the animals lived in the water, as sensible animals do to-day." peter nudged johnny chuck. "he means himself and his family," he whispered with a chuckle. "after a time," continued grandfather frog, "there began to be more land and still more. then some of the animals began to spend most of their time on the land. as there got to be more and more land, more and more of the animals left the water, until finally most of them were spending nearly all of the time on land. now old mother nature had been keeping a sharp watch, as she always does, and when she found that they were foolish enough to like the land best, she did all that she could to make things comfortable for them. she taught them how to run and jump and climb and dig, according to which things they liked best to do, so that it wasn't very long before a lot of them forgot that they ever had lived in the water, and they began to look down on those who still lived in the water, and to put on airs and hold their heads very high. "now, of course, old mother nature didn't like this, and to punish them she said that they should no longer be able to live in the water, even if they wanted to. at first they only laughed, but after a while they found that quite often there were times when it would be very nice to be at home in the water as they once had been. but it was of no use. some could swim as long as they could keep their heads above water, but as soon as they put their heads under water they were likely to drown. you know that is the way with you to-day, peter rabbit." peter nodded. he knew that he could swim if he had to, but only for a very little way, and he hated the thought of it. "now there were a few animals, of whom old mr. muskrat, the grandfather a thousand times removed of jerry muskrat, was one, who learned to walk and run on dry land, but who still loved the water," continued grandfather frog. "one day old mother nature found mr. muskrat sitting on a rock, looking very mournful. "'what's the matter, mr. muskrat?' she asked. "mr. muskrat looked very much ashamed as he finally owned up that he was envious of his cousins and some of the other animals, because they had such fine houses on the land. "'then why don't you build you a fine house on the land?' asked old mother nature. "mr. muskrat hesitated. 'i--i--love the water too well to want to stay on land all the time,' said he, 'and--and--well, i was put in the water in the first place, and i ought to be contented with what i have got and make the best of it.' "old mother nature was so pleased with mr. muskrat's reply that right away she made up her mind that he should have a finer house than any of the others, so she took him over to a quiet little pool, where the water was not too deep and she showed him how to build a wonderful house of mud and rushes and twigs, with a nice warm bedroom lined with grass above the water, and an entrance down under the water, so that no one except those who still lived most of the time in the water could possibly get into it. none of his friends on land had such a big, fine house, and mr. muskrat was very proud of it. but with all his pride he never forgot that it was a reward for trying to be content with his surroundings and making the best of them. "so from that day to this, the muskrats have built their houses in the water, and have been among the most industrious, contented, and happy of all the animals. and that is why jerry muskrat has built that fine house in the smiling pool and has so few enemies," concluded grandfather frog. peter rabbit drew a long breath, which was almost a sigh. "i almost wish my grandfather a thousand times removed had been content to stay in the water, too," he said. "chug-a-rum!" retorted grandfather frog. "if he had, you wouldn't have the dear old briar-patch. be content with what you've got," "i think i will," said peter. viii why old man coyote has many voices of course old man coyote has only one voice, but that one is such a wonderful voice that he can make it sound like a great many voices, all yelping and howling and shouting and laughing at the same time. so those who hear him always say that he has many voices, and that certainly is the way it seems. the first time peter rabbit heard old man coyote, he was sure, absolutely sure, that there was a whole crowd of strangers on the green meadows, and you may be sure that he kept very close to his dear old briar-patch. if you had been there and tried to tell peter that all that noise was made by just one voice, he wouldn't have believed you. no, sir, he wouldn't have believed you. and you couldn't have blamed him. it was the merry little breezes of old mother west wind who first told peter who the stranger was and warned him to watch out, because old man coyote is just as fond of rabbit as granny or reddy fox, and is even more crafty and sly than they. peter thanked the merry little breezes for the warning, and then he asked them how many of his family old man coyote had brought with him. of course the merry little breezes told peter that old man coyote was all alone, and they became very indignant when peter laughed at them. he just couldn't help it. "why," said he, "every night i hear a whole crowd yelping and howling together." "but you don't!" insisted the merry little breezes. "it is old man coyote alone who makes all that noise." "don't you suppose i know what i hear?" demanded peter. "no!" retorted the merry little breezes. "you may have big ears and be able to hear a great deal, sometimes a great deal more than you have any business to hear, but you are old enough by this time to have learned that you cannot believe all you hear." and with that the merry little breezes indignantly raced away to spread the news all over the green meadows. now peter was quite as indignant because they thought he couldn't or shouldn't believe his own ears, as they were because he wouldn't believe what they told him, and all the rest of that day he couldn't put the matter out of his mind. he was still thinking of it as the black shadows came creeping down from the purple hills across the green meadows. suddenly peter saw a dark form skulking among the black shadows. at first he thought it was reddy fox, only somehow it looked bigger. peter, safe in the dear old briar-patch, watched. presently the dark form came out from among the black shadows where peter could see it clearly, sat down, pointed a sharp nose up at the first twinkling little stars, opened a big mouth, and out of it poured such a yelping and howling as made peter shiver with fright. and now peter had to believe his eyes rather than his ears. his ears told him that there were many voices, but his eyes told him that all that dreadful sound was coming out of one mouth. it was hard, very hard, to believe, but it was so. "the merry little breezes were right," muttered peter to himself, as old man coyote trotted away in the direction of the green forest, and he felt a wee bit ashamed to think that he had refused to believe them. after that, peter could think of nothing but old man coyote's wonderful voice that sounded like many voices, and at the very first opportunity he hurried over to the smiling pool to ask grandfather frog what it meant. "chug-a-rum!" said grandfather frog. "it means simply that old man coyote comes of a very smart family, and that he knows how to make the most of the gift of old mother nature to his grandfather a thousand times removed." this sounded so much like a story that peter straightway teased grandfather frog to tell him all about it. at last, to get rid of him and enjoy a little quiet and peace, grandfather frog did so. "chug-a-rum!" he began, as he always does. "the great-great-ever-so-great grandfather of old man coyote, who lived long, long ago when the world was young, was very much as old man coyote is to-day. he was just as smart and just as clever. indeed, he was smart enough and clever enough not to let his neighbors know that he was smart and clever at all. those were very peaceful times at first, and everybody was on the best of terms with everybody else, as you know. there was plenty to eat without the trouble to steal, and everybody was honest simply because it was easier to be honest than it was to be dishonest. so old king bear ruled in the green forest, and everybody was happy and contented. "but there came a time when food was scarce, and it was no longer easy to get plenty to eat. it was then that the stronger began to steal from the weaker, and by and by even to prey upon those smaller than themselves. the times grew harder and harder, and because hunger is a hard and cruel master, it made the larger and stronger people hard and cruel, too. some of them it made very sly and cunning, like old mr. fox. mr. coyote was another whom it made sly and cunning. he was smart in the first place, even smarter than mr. fox, and he very early made up his mind that if he would live, it must be by his wits, for he wasn't big enough or strong enough to fight with his neighbors such as his big cousin, mr. timber wolf, or mr. lynx, or mr. panther or old king bear, who was king no longer. and yet he liked the same things to eat. "so he used to study and plan how he could outwit them without danger to himself. 'a whole skin is better than a full stomach, but both a whole skin and a full stomach are better still,' said he to himself; as he thought and schemed. for a while he was content to catch what he could without danger to himself, and to eat what his bigger and stronger neighbors left when they happened to get more than they wanted for themselves. little by little he got the habit of slyly following them when they were hunting, always keeping out of sight. in this way, he managed to get many meals of scraps. but these scraps never wholly satisfied him, and his mouth used to water as he watched the others feast on the very best when they had had a successful hunt. he knew it wouldn't be of the least use to go out and boldly ask for some, for in those hard times everybody was very, very selfish. "the times grew harder and harder, until it seemed as if old mother nature had wholly forgotten her little people of the green meadows and the green forest. mr. coyote still managed to pick up a living, but he was hungry most of the time, and the less he had to put in his stomach, the sharper his wits grew. at last one day, as he stole soft-footed through the green forest, he discovered mr. lynx having a great feast. to keep still and watch him was almost more than mr. coyote could stand, for he was so hungry that it seemed as if the sides of his stomach almost met, it was so empty. "'if i could make myself into three, we could take that dinner away from mr. lynx!" thought he, and right on top of that thought came a great idea. why not make mr. lynx think he had a lot of friends with him? it would do no harm to try. so mr. coyote put his nose up in the air and howled. mr. lynx looked up and grinned. he had no fear of mr. coyote. then mr. coyote hurried around to the other side of mr. lynx, all the time keeping out of sight, and howled again, and this time he tried to make his voice sound different. mr. lynx stopped eating and looked up a little surprised. 'i wonder if mr. coyote has got a brother with him,' thought he. a minute later mr. coyote howled again from the place where he had howled in the first place. 'he certainly has,' thought mr. lynx, 'but i'm a match for two of them,' and once more he went on eating. "then mr. coyote began to run in a circle around mr. lynx, always keeping out of sight in the thick brush, and every few steps he yelped or howled, and each yelp or howl he tried to make sound different. now mr. coyote could run very fast, and he ran now as hard as ever he could in a big circle, yelping and howling and making his voice sound as different as possible each time. mr. lynx grew anxious and lost his appetite. 'mr. coyote must have a whole crowd of brothers,' thought he. 'i guess this is no place for me!' with that he started to sneak away. "mr. coyote followed him, still trying to make his voice sound like the voices of many. mr. lynx gave a hurried look over his shoulder and began to run. mr. coyote kept after him, yelping and howling, until he was sure that mr. lynx was so frightened that he wouldn't dare come back. then mr. coyote returned to the dinner mr. lynx had left, and ate and ate until he couldn't hold another mouthful. his throat was very raw and sore because he had strained it trying to make his voice change so often, but he didn't mind this, because, you know, it felt so good to have all he could eat at one time once more. "now it just happened that old mother nature had come along just in time to see and hear mr. coyote, and it tickled her so to think that mr. coyote had been so smart that what do you think she did? why, while he slept that night, she healed his sore throat, and she gave him a new voice; and this voice was very wonderful, for it sounded for all the world like many voices, all yelping and howling at the same time. after that, all mr. coyote had to do when he wanted to frighten some one bigger and stronger than himself was to open his mouth and send forth his new voice, which sounded like many voices. "so he had plenty to eat from that time on. and all his children and his children's children had that same wonderful voice, just as old man coyote has now. chug-a-rum! now scamper home, peter rabbit, and see that you don't let old man coyote's sharp wits get you into trouble." "thank you, grandfather frog!" cried peter and scampered as fast as he could go for the dear, safe old briar-patch. ix why miner the mole lives under ground striped chipmunk sat staring at a little ridge where the grass was raised up. he had often seen little ridges like that without thinking much about them. he knew that they were made by miner the mole. he had known that ever since he was big enough to begin to ask questions. but now as he looked at this one, it suddenly struck him that he had not seen miner the mole more than once or twice in all his life. "what a queer way of living!" thought striped chipmunk. "it's all very well to have a snug house under the ground, where one can sleep the long cold winter away and be perfectly safe, but what any one wants to live under the ground all the time for, in the beautiful springtime and summertime and autumntime, i can't understand. just think of all that miner misses--the sunshine, the flowers, the songs of the birds, and the merry little breezes to play with! i wonder--" "what do you wonder?" the voice was so close to striped chipmunk that it made him jump. he whirled about. there was johnny chuck, who had tiptoed up as softly as he knew how, to give striped chipmunk a scare. johnny grinned. "what do you wonder?" he repeated. striped chipmunk made a face at johnny. "i wonder something that i bet you don't know," he replied. "that's easy," replied johnny. "there are more things i don't know than i do know, but i'm always ready to learn. what is it this time?" "why does miner the mole live under ground all the time?" striped chipmunk pointed to the ridge made by miner. johnny chuck scratched his head thoughtfully. "i don't know," he confessed finally. "i never thought of it before. of course there must be a reason. he never comes out to play with the rest of us--just spends all his time by himself down in the dark, digging and digging. i wonder--" "well, what do _you_ wonder?" "the same thing you wonder," laughed johnny chuck. "if you haven't got anything else to do, let's go down to the smiling pool and ask grandfather frog; he'll be sure to know." striped chipmunk hadn't anything else to do, so off they started. on the way they met jimmy skunk and danny meadow mouse. neither of them knew why miner the mole lives under ground, and because they hadn't anything better to do, they also started for the smiling pool. grandfather frog was sitting on his big green lily-pad in the warm sunshine, and for once he didn't have to be teased for a story. "chug-a-rum!" said he in his deep voice. "it's very strange to me how little some folks know about their nearest neighbors." he looked up and winked at jolly, round, bright mr. sun. striped chipmunk, johnny chuck, jimmy skunk, and danny meadow mouse looked as though they felt very foolish, as indeed they did. you see, all their lives miner the mole had been one of their nearest neighbors, and yet they didn't know the first thing about him. "it happened a long time ago," continued grandfather frog. "when the world was young?" interrupted danny meadow mouse. "of course," replied grandfather frog, pretending to be very much put out at such a foolish question. danny hung his head and resolved that he would bite his tongue before he asked another question. "in those days miner's great-great-grandfather a thousand times removed didn't live under ground," continued grandfather frog. "nobody did. he wasn't so very different from a lot of other animals. food was plenty, and everybody was on the best of terms with everybody else. mr. mole lived just as the rest did. he went and came as he pleased, and enjoyed the sunshine and took part in all the good times of his neighbors. everybody liked him, and whenever he made a call, he was sure of a welcome. but one thing mr. mole never did; he never meddled in other people's affairs. no, sir, mr. mole never poked his nose in where he had no business. "for a long time everything went smoothly with all the people of the green forest and the green meadows. then came hard times. they grew harder and harder. food was scarce and kept growing more scarce. everybody was hungry, and you know how it is with hungry people--they grow ugly and quarrelsome. matters grew worse and worse, and then it was that fear was born. the big people, like old king bear and mr. wolf and mr. panther and mr. lynx, began to look with hungry eyes on the little people, and the little people began to grow afraid and hide from the big people, and all the time they were continually quarreling among themselves and stealing from each other to get enough to eat. "now, as i said before, mr. mole never had meddled with other people's business, and he didn't now. he went off by himself to think things over. 'it isn't safe to run around any more,' said he. 'i met mr. wolf this morning, and he looked at me with such a hungry look in his eyes that it gave me the cold shivers. i believe he would have eaten me, if i hadn't crawled into an old hollow stump. now i can't run fast, because my legs are too short. i can't climb trees like mr. squirrel, and i can't swim like mr. muskrat. the only thing i can do is to dig.' "you see, mr. mole always had been very fond of digging, and he had done so much of it that his front legs and claws had grown very stout. "'now if i dig a hole and keep out of sight, i won't have to worry about mr. wolf or anybody else,' continued mr. mole to himself. so he went to work at once and dug a hole on the green meadows, and, because he wanted to be comfortable, he made a big hole. when it was finished, he was tired, so he curled up at the bottom for a nap. he was awakened by hearing voices outside. he knew those voices right away. they were the voices of mr. fox and mr. badger. "'these are terrible times,' said mr. fox. 'i'm so hungry that i'm wasting away to a shadow. i wonder who has dug this hole.' "'mr. mole,' replied mr. badger. 'i saw him at work here this morning. have you noticed how very plump he looks?' "'yes,' replied mr. fox. 'he made my mouth water the very last time i saw him. seems to me i can smell him now. if he had made this hole just a little bit bigger i would go down and pull him out, but i am too tired to do any digging now.' "'i tell you what,' replied mr. badger. 'we'll hunt together a little longer, and then if we can't find anything to eat, we'll come back, and i'll help you dig, i hate to hurt mr. mole, because he always minds his own business, but these are hard times, and each one must look out for himself.' "with that they went away, leaving mr. mole shaking with fright at the bottom of his hole. 'it's of no use,' thought mr. mole. 'if i go outside, they will soon find me, and if i stay here, they will dig me out. oh, dear, oh, dear! what ever can i do?' "he lay there feeling very helpless and miserable, when all of a sudden a thought came to him. if he had made his hole small, just big enough for him to crawl into, mr. badger and mr. fox would have had to do a great deal of digging to make it big enough for either of them to get in! he would make a little tunnel off one side and hide in that. so he went to work and made a little tunnel off one side just big enough for him to squeeze into. he worked very hard and very fast, and by the time mr. badger and mr. fox returned, mr. mole was at the end of a long tunnel, so far from the hole he had first dug that he knew it would take them a long time to dig him out, even if they noticed his tunnel. "but they didn't. they dug down to the bottom of his hole and then, because they didn't find him there, they straightway fell to quarreling, each blaming the other for suggesting such a lot of hard work for nothing. finally they went away, still calling each other names, and from that day to this, foxes and badgers have never been friends. "mr. mole was very thankful for his narrow escape, and it set him to thinking. if he had a lot of these underground tunnels, no one would be able to catch him. it was a splendid idea! he went to work on it at once. and then he made a discovery--such a splendid discovery! there was plenty of food to eat right down under ground--worms and grubs--all he needed. after that, mr. mole spent all his time in his tunnels and seldom put his nose outside. he was safe, and he was comfortable, and he could always find something to eat by digging for it. "little by little his old neighbors forgot all about him. because he had little use for them, his eyes grew smaller and smaller, and when he did come up into the light, they hurt him so that he was glad to go back into the dark again. he was perfectly happy and satisfied there, and what is there in life better than to be happy and satisfied?" "nothing," replied striped chipmunk, at whom grandfather frog happened to be looking when he asked the question. "right!" replied grandfather frog. "and now you know why miner the mole lives under ground--because he is perfectly happy and satisfied there." just then up came peter rabbit, all out of breath. "has grandfather frog been telling a story?" he panted. "yes," replied striped chipmunk, winking at grandfather frog, "and now we are going back home perfectly happy and satisfied." and to this day peter rabbit wonders what the story was that he missed. x why mr. snake cannot wink peter rabbit and johnny chuck were playing tag on the green meadows. of course peter can run so much faster than johnny chuck that he would never have been "it" if he had tried his best to keep out of the way. but he didn't. no, sir, peter rabbit didn't do anything of the kind. he pretended that one of his long hind-legs was lame so that he had to run on three legs, while johnny chuck could use all four. it was great fun. they raced and dodged and twisted and turned. sometimes peter was so excited that he would forget and use all four legs. then johnny chuck would shout "no fair!" peter would say that he didn't mean to, and to make up for it would be "it" and try to catch johnny. now it happened that curled up on a little grassy tussock, taking an early morning sun-bath, lay little mr. greensnake. of course peter rabbit and johnny chuck were not afraid of him. if it had been mr. rattlesnake or mr. gophersnake, it would have been different. but from little mr. greensnake there was nothing to fear, and sometimes, just for fun, peter would jump right over him. when he did that, peter always winked good-naturedly. but mr. greensnake never winked back. instead he would raise his head, run his tongue out at peter, and hiss in what he tried to make a very fierce and angry manner. then peter would laugh and wink at him again. but never once did mr. greensnake wink back. [illustration: he would make no reply, save to run out his tongue at them.] peter was thinking of this as he and johnny chuck stretched out in a sunny spot to get their breath and rest. he had never thought of it before, but now that he had noticed it, he couldn't remember that he ever had seen little mr. greensnake wink, nor any of mr. greensnake's relatives. he mentioned the matter to johnny chuck. "that's so," replied johnny thoughtfully. "i never have seen any of them wink, either. do you suppose they can wink?" "let's go ask mr. greensnake," said peter. up they hopped and raced over to the grassy tussock where mr. greensnake lay, but to all their questions he would make no reply save to run out his tongue at them. finally they gave up asking him. "i tell you what, let's go over to the smiling pool and ask grandfather frog. he'll be sure to know, and perhaps, if he is feeling good, he'll tell us a story," said peter. so off they scampered to the smiling pool. there they found grandfather frog sitting on his big green lily-pad just as usual, and peter knew by the look in his great, goggly eyes that grandfather frog had a good breakfast of foolish green flies tucked away inside his white and yellow waistcoat. his eyes twinkled as peter and johnny very politely wished him good morning. "good morning," said he gruffly. but peter had seen that twinkle in his eyes and knew that grandfather frog was feeling good-natured in spite of his gruff greeting. "if you please, grandfather frog, why doesn't mr. greensnake wink at us when we wink at him?" he asked. "chug-a-rum! because he can't," replied grandfather frog. "can't!" cried peter rabbit and johnny chuck together. "that's what i said--can't," replied grandfather frog. "and no more can mr. blacksnake, or mr. rattlesnake, or mr. gophersnake, or any other member of the snake family." "why not?" cried peter and johnny, all in the same breath. "chug-a-rum!" said grandfather frog, folding his hands across his white and yellow waistcoat, "if you will sit still until i finish, i'll tell you; but if you move or ask any foolish questions, i'll stop right where i am, and you'll never hear the end of the story, for no one else knows it." of course peter and johnny promised to sit perfectly still and not say a word. after they had made themselves comfortable, grandfather frog cleared his throat as if to begin, but for a long time he didn't say a word. once peter opened his mouth to ask why, but remembered in time and closed it again without making a sound. at last grandfather frog cleared his throat once more, and with a far-away look in his great, goggly eyes began: "once upon a time, long, long ago, when the world was young, lived old mr. snake, the grandfather a thousand times removed of little mr. greensnake and all the other snakes whom you know. of course he wasn't old then. he was young and spry and smart, was mr. snake. now there is such a thing as being too smart. that was the trouble with mr. snake. yes, sir, that was the trouble with mr. snake. he was so smart that he soon found out that he was the smartest of all the meadow and forest people, and that was a bad thing. it certainly was a very bad thing." grandfather frog shook his head gravely. "you see," he continued, "as soon as he found that out, he began to take advantage of his neighbors and cheat them, but he would do it so smoothly that they never once suspected that they were being cheated. mr. snake would go about all day cheating everybody he met. at night he would go home and chuckle over his smartness. it wasn't long before he began to look down on his neighbors for being so honest that they didn't suspect other people of being dishonest, and for being so easily cheated. "now one bad habit almost always leads to another. from cheating, mr. snake just naturally slipped to stealing. yes, sir, he became a thief. of course that made trouble right away, but still no one suspected mr. snake. he was always very polite to every one and always offering to do favors for his neighbors. in fact, mr. snake was very well liked and much respected. when any one had been robbed, he was always the first to offer sympathy and join in the hunt for the thief. he was so spry and slim, and could slip through the tall grass so fast, that he could go almost where he pleased without being seen, and this made him very bold. if he did happen to be found near the scene of trouble, he always had a story ready to account for his presence, and it sounded so true, and he told it in such an honest manner, that no one thought of doubting it. "so mr. snake found that lying helped him to cheat and steal, and all the time he kept thinking how smart he was. but even mr. snake had a little bit of conscience, and once in a while it would trouble him. so what do you think he did? why, cheating had become such a habit with him that he actually tried to cheat himself--to cheat his conscience! when he was telling a lie, he would wink one eye. 'that,' said he to himself, 'means that it isn't true, and if these folks are not smart enough to see me wink and know what it means, it is their own fault if they believe what i am telling them.' but always he took care to wink the eye that was turned away from the one he was talking to. "dear me, dear me, such terrible times as there were on the green meadows and in the green forest! they grew worse and worse, and when at last old mother nature came to see how all the little people were getting along, she heard so many complaints that she hardly knew where to begin to straighten matters out. she had all the little people come before her in turn and tell their troubles. when it came mr. snake's turn, he had no complaint to make. he seemed to be the only one who had no troubles. she asked him a great many questions, and for each one he had a ready reply. of course a great many of these replies were lies, and every time he told one of these, he winked without knowing it. you see, it had become a habit. "now, with all his smartness, mr. snake had forgotten one thing, one very important thing. it was this: you can't fool old mother nature, and it is of no use to try. he hadn't been talking three minutes before she knew who was at the bottom of all the trouble. she let him finish, then called all the others about her and told them who had made all the trouble. mr. snake was very bold. he held his head very high in the air and pretended not to care. when old mother nature turned her head, he even ran out his tongue at her, just as all the snake family do at you and me to-day. when she had finished telling them how cheating and stealing and lying isn't smart at all, but very, very dreadful, she turned to mr. snake and said: "'from this time on, no one will believe anything you say, and you shall have no friends. you will never wink again, for you and your children and your children's children forever will have no eyelids, that all the world may know that those who make a wrong use of the things given them shall have them taken away.' "and now you know why little mr. greensnake cannot wink at you; he hasn't any eyelids to wink with" finished grandfather frog. peter rabbit drew a long breath. "thank you, oh, thank you ever so much, grandfather frog," he said. "will you tell us next time why bobby coon wears rings on his tail?" "perhaps," replied grandfather frog. xi why bobby coon has rings on his tail peter rabbit would give grandfather frog no peace. every day peter visited the smiling pool to tease grandfather frog for a story--for one particular story. he wanted to know why it is that bobby coon wears rings on his tail. you see, peter had admired bobby coon's tail for a long time. peter has such a funny little tail himself, just a little white bunch of cotton, that such a handsome tail as bobby coon's sometimes stirs just a wee bit of envy in peter's heart. but it wasn't envy so much as curiosity that prompted peter to tease for that story. bobby coon's tail is very handsome, you know. it has beautiful rings of black and gray, and peter didn't know of any other tail at all like it. somehow, he felt right down deep in his heart that there must be a reason for those rings, just as there is a reason for his own long ears and long legs. the more he thought about it, the more he felt that he simply must know, and the only way he could find out was from grandfather frog, who is very old and very wise. so he teased and he teased until finally grandfather frog promised him that on the next afternoon he would tell peter why bobby coon has rings on his tail. peter hurried away to tell all the little meadow and forest people, and the next afternoon they were all on hand on the bank of the smiling pool to hear the story about bobby coon's tail. "chug-a-rum!" began grandfather frog, smoothing down his white and yellow waistcoat. "chug-a-rum! some folks seem to think that what they do doesn't matter to anybody but themselves. that was the way with old mr. rabbit, who lived a long time ago when the world was young. he thought he could make all the trouble he pleased by his dreadful curiosity, and if he was found out, no one would suffer but himself. but it wasn't so. here is peter rabbit, his grandchild a thousand times removed, with long legs and long ears, and the bad habit of curiosity, all because old mr. rabbit had a bad habit and didn't try to overcome it. "it was the same way with old mr. coon. he was dishonest and stole from old king bear. old mother nature punished him by putting mustard in his food, and mr. coon thought he was so smart that he could get ahead of old mother nature by washing all his food before he ate it. old mother nature didn't say anything, but watched him and smiled to herself. you see, she knew that mr. coon was beginning a good habit, a very good habit indeed--the habit of neatness. so, though she knew perfectly well that he was doing it just to get ahead of her, she was glad, for she was fond of mr. coon in spite of the bad ways he had grown into, and she knew that good habits are like bad habits--once started they grow and grow, and are very likely to lead to more good habits. "it was so with mr. coon. he found that his food tasted better for being so clean, and he grew very fussy about what he ate. no matter where he found it or how tempting it looked, he wouldn't eat it until he had carried it to the nearest water and washed it. he still remembered the mustard and tried to fool himself into thinking that he was simply spiting old mother nature, but right down in his heart he knew that even if he should be told that never again would there be mustard in his food, he would wash it just the same. "one day, as he sat beside the laughing brook eating his supper, he noticed that while his food had been washed clean, his hands were dirty. they spoiled his supper. yes, sir, they spoiled his supper. "'what good does it do to wash my food, if i eat it out of dirty hands?' said mr. coon to himself, and he hurried to a quiet little pool to give them a good scrubbing. then he washed his face and brushed his coat. 'now i feel better, and i know my supper will taste better,' said he. "from that time he began to be particular, very particular, about keeping himself clean, until finally there was no one on the green meadows or in the green forest quite so neat as mr. coon. "now at this time mr. coon had a very plain tail. it was all of one color, a grayish white, not at all pretty. mr. coon used to think a great deal about that tail and wish and wish that it was handsome. sometimes he used to envy mr. fox his beautiful red tail with its black and white tip. one day, as he sat on an old log with his chin in his hands, thinking about his tail, who should come along but old mother nature. "'good morning, mr. coon,' said she in her pleasantest voice. "mr. coon got up and made a very low bow. 'good morning, mother nature,' he replied in his politest manner, which was very polite indeed. "'what were you thinking about so hard?' asked old mother nature. "mr. coon looked a little bit ashamed. then he sighed. 'i was wishing that my tail was handsomer,' said he. 'but it is a very good tail as it is,' he added hastily. "old mother nature's eyes twinkled. she sat down beside mr. coon and asked him all about his affairs, just as if she didn't know all about them already. she told him how pleased she was to find him so neat and clean, and mr. coon just tingled all over with pleasure. at last she got up to go, and her eyes twinkled more than ever, as she said: "'by the way, mr. coon, i am so pleased with your neatness that i am leaving you a reward. i hope you will like it.' "mr. coon didn't see any reward, but he thanked her just the same, and old mother nature went on her way. mr. coon watched her out of sight. then he sat down on the old log again and scratched his head thoughtfully as he looked this way and that. "'i wonder what she meant by reward. i don't see any anywhere,' he said to himself. "by and by he just happened to glance at his tail. 'oh!' cried mr. coon, and then for a long time he couldn't say another word, but just looked and looked with shining eyes and such a queer feeling of happiness in his heart. you see, old mother nature had left a beautiful, broad, black ring around his tail. mr. coon couldn't do anything the rest of that day but look at and admire that ring, until his neck ached from twisting it around so long. "after that he was neater than ever, you may be sure, and the next time old mother nature came around, she left another handsome black ring on his tail, because he hadn't grown careless, but had kept up his good habits. "now about this time, hard times came to all the little people of the green forest and the green meadows. every one began to grumble. mr. bear grumbled. mr. fox grumbled. mr. rabbit grumbled. mr. jay grumbled. mr. squirrel grumbled. even mr. chuck grumbled. and one and all they began to blame old mother nature. then they began to quarrel among themselves and to steal from each other. some even left their homes and went out into the great world to try to find a better place to live, only to find that the great world was a harder place to live in than the green forest and the green meadows. "but mr. coon didn't grumble, and he didn't go away. no, sir, mr. coon just stuck to his home and did the best he could to find enough to eat. he kept himself as neat as ever and was always cheerful. whenever he met one of his grumbling neighbors, he would say: "'better times coming! better times coming! old mother nature is doing the best she can. better times coming!' "the others would laugh at him for his faith in old mother nature, and say ugly things about her, and urge mr. coon to go with them out into the great world. but he kept right on minding his own business and keeping neat and cheerful, until at last old mother nature, all worried and troubled, came to see what she could do to straighten matters out. it didn't take her long to find out how all the little meadow and forest people, except mr. coon, had grumbled and been discontented and said ugly things about her, for you can't fool old mother nature, and it's of no use to try. some she punished one way, and some she punished another way, for of course she hadn't been to blame for the hard times, but had been working night and day to put an end to them. "mr. coon was the last to be called before her, and instead of being frowning and cross, as she had been to the others, she was all smiles. she said a lot of nice things to him, and when at last she sent him away, what do you think she had given him?" "more rings," cried peter rabbit. "yes," replied grandfather frog, "mr. coon's tail was ringed way to the tip. there was one for cheerfulness, and one for faith, and one for persistence in making the best of a bad matter and staying at home. and ever since that long-ago day when the world was young, the coons have been very proud of their beautiful tails and have kept up the good habits of old mr. coon. now you know, peter rabbit, why bobby coon wears rings on his tail," concluded grandfather frog. peter gave a long sigh. "i think it's perfectly beautiful," he said. "i wish i had rings on my tail." and then he wondered why everybody laughed. xii why there is a black head in the buzzard family ol' mistah buzzard had just told the story of why he has a bald head and is proud of it. you know he hasn't a feather on it, and it is very, very red. it was a very interesting story, and it had been listened to with the closest attention by a lot of the little meadow and forest people. unc' billy possum, who is ol' mistah buzzard's particular friend, both having come from "way down souf," happened along just in time to hear the end of it. "may ah ask yo' a question, brer buzzard?" said he. "cert'nly, brer possum. cert'nly," replied ol' mistah buzzard. "is buzzard really your fam'ly name?" asked unc' billy. "no, brer possum, it isn't," replied ol' mistah buzzard. everybody looked surprised. you see, no one ever had heard him called anything but buzzard. but no one said anything, and after a minute or two ol' mistah buzzard explained. "mah fam'ly name is vulture," said he. "yes, sah, mah fam'ly name is vulture, but we-uns done been called buzzards so long, that ah don' know as ah would know ah was being spoken to, if ah was called mistah vulture." "an' do ah understand that all of your fam'ly have red haids?" inquired unc' billy. ol' mistah buzzard looked down at unc' billy, and he saw a twinkle in unc' billy's shrewd little eyes. ol' mistah buzzard grinned. "ah knows jes' what yo' done got in your mind, brer possum," said he. "it's that trifling, no 'count cousin of mine. he's a buzzard, or a vulture, if yo' like that better, jes' like ah am, but he belongs to another branch of the fam'ly. he has a bald haid, jes' like ah have, but his haid is black instead of red. that's because his grandpap was trifling an' po' trash, jes' like he is." peter rabbit pricked up his ears. this sounded like another story. he was curious about that black-headed cousin of ol' mistah buzzard, very curious indeed. he wondered if ol' mistah buzzard would have to be teased for a story, like grandfather frog. anyway, he would find out. there would be no harm in trying. "if you please, how does your cousin happen to have a black head?" asked peter as politely as he knew how. "because his grandpap asked too many questions," replied ol' mistah buzzard, slyly winking at the others. everybody laughed, for everybody knows that no one asks more questions than peter rabbit. peter laughed with the rest, although he looked a wee bit foolish. but he didn't mean to give up just because he was laughed at. oh, my, no! "please, mr. buzzard, please tell us the story," he begged. now ol' mistah buzzard is naturally good-natured and accommodating, and when peter begged so hard, he just couldn't find it in his heart to refuse. besides, he rather enjoys telling stories. so he shook his feathers out, half spread his wings to let the air blow under them, looked down at all the little meadow and forest people gathered about the foot of the tall, dead tree where he delights to roost, grinned at them in the funniest way, and then began this story: "way back in the days when grandpap buzzard had his lil falling out with ol' king eagle and done fly so high he sco'tch the feathers offen his haid, he had a cousin, did grandpap buzzard, and this cousin was jes' naturally lazy and no 'count. like most no 'count people, he used to make a regular nuisance of hisself, poking his nose into ev'ybody's business and never 'tending to his own. wasn't anything going on that this trifling member of the buzzard fam'ly didn't find out about and meddle in. he could ask mo' questions than peter rabbit can, an' anybody that can do that has got to ask a lot." everybody looked at peter and laughed. peter made a funny face and laughed too. "seemed like he jes' went 'round from mo'ning to night asking questions," continued ol' mistah buzzard, "got so that eve'ybody dreaded to see that no 'count buzzard coming, because he bound to pester with questions about things what don't concern him no ways. "now yo' know that way down in ol' virginny where ah done come from, mah fam'ly done got the habit of sitting on the tops of chimneys in the wintertime to warm their toes." "why, i thought it was warm down south!" interrupted peter rabbit. "so it is, brer rabbit! so it is!" ol' mistah buzzard hastened to say. "but yo' see, ol' jack frost try to come down there sometimes, an' he cool the air off a right smart lot before he turn tail an' run back where he belong. so we-uns sit on the chimney-tops whenever ol' jack frost gets to straying down where he have no business. yo' see, if we-uns keep our toes warm, we-uns are warm all over. "one day this no 'count, trifling cousin of grandpap buzzard get cold in his feet. he look 'round right smart fo' a chimney fo' to warm his toes, an' pretty soon he see one where he never been before. it was on a lil ol' house, a lil ol' tumble-down house. mistah buzzard fly right over an' sit on that chimney-top fo' to warm his toes. of course he right smart curious about that lil ol' tumble-down house and who live there. he hear somebody inside talking to theirself, but he can't hear what they say, jes' a mumbling sound that come up the chimney to him. "he listen an' listen. then he shift 'round to the other side of the chimney an' listen. no matter where he sit, he can't hear what being said down inside that lil ol' tumble-down house. then what do yo' think mistah buzzard do? why, he jes' stretch his fool haid as far down that chimney as he can an' listen an' listen. yes, sah, that is jes' what that no 'count buzzard do. but all he hear is jes' a mumbling and a mumbling, an' that make him more curious than ever. it seem to him that he must go clean outen his haid 'less he hear what going on down inside that lil ol' house. "now when he stretch his haid an' neck down the chimney that way, he get 'em all black with soot. but he don't mind that. no, sah, he don' mind that a bit. fact is, he don' notice it. he so curious he don' notice anything, an' pretty soon he plumb fo'get where he is an' that he is listening where he have no business. he plumb fo'get all about this, an' he holler down that chimney. yes, sah, he holler right down that chimney! "'will yo'-alls please speak a lil louder,' he holler down the chimney, jes' like that. "now the lil ol' woman what lived by herself in that lil ol' tumble-down house hadn't seen that no 'count buzzard light on the chimney fo' to warm his toes, an' when she hear that voice coming right outen the fireplace, she was some flustrated and scared, was that lil ol' woman. yes, sah, she sho'ly was plumb scared. she so scared she tip over a whole kettleful of soup right in the fire. of course that make a terrible mess an' a powerful lot of smoke an' hot ashes fly up the chimney. they like to choke that no 'count buzzard to death. they burn the feathers offen his haid an' neck, an' the soot make him black, all but his feet an' laigs an' the inside of his wings, which he keep closed. "mistah buzzard he give a mighty squawk an' fly away. when he get home, he try an' try to brush that soot off, but it done get into the skin an' it stay there. an' from that day his haid an' neck stay black, an' he never speak lessen he spoken to, an' then he only grunt. his chillen jes' like him, an' his chillen's chillen the same way. an' that is the reason that mah cousin who lives down souf done have a black haid," concluded ol' mistah buzzard. a little sigh of satisfaction went around the circle of listeners. as usual, peter rabbit was the first to speak. "that was a splendid story, mr. buzzard," said he, "and i'm ever and ever so much obliged to you. it was just as good as one of grandfather frog's." ol' mistah buzzard grinned and slowly winked one eye at unc' billy possum as he replied: "thank yo', brer rabbit. that's quite the nicest thing yo' could say." "but it's true!" shouted all together, and then everybody gave three cheers for ol' mistah buzzard before starting off to attend to their own private affairs. xiii why buster bear appears to have no tail peter rabbit had something new to bother his bump of curiosity. and it did bother it a lot. he had just seen buster bear for the first time, and what do you think had impressed him most? well, it wasn't buster's great size, or wonderful strength, or big claws, or deep, grumbly-rumbly voice. no, sir, it wasn't one of these. it was the fact that buster bear seemed to have no tail! peter couldn't get over that. he almost pitied buster bear. you see, peter has a great admiration for fine tails. he has always been rather ashamed of the funny little one he has himself. still, it is a real tail, and he has often comforted himself with that thought. so the first thing peter did when he saw buster bear was to look to see what kind of a tail he had. just imagine how surprised he was when he couldn't make sure that buster had any tail at all. there was something that might, just might, be meant for a tail, and peter wasn't even sure of that. if it was, it was so ridiculously small that peter felt that he had no reason to be ashamed of his own tail. he was still thinking about this when he started for home. half way there, he paused, saw that the way to the smiling pool was clear, and suddenly made up his mind to ask grandfather frog about buster bear's tail. off he started, lipperty-lipperty-lip. "oh, grandfather frog," he panted, as soon as he reached the edge of the smiling pool, "has buster bear got a tail?" grandfather frog regarded peter in silence for a minute or two. then very slowly he asked: "what are your eyes for, peter rabbit? couldn't you see whether or not he has a tail?" "no, grandfather frog. i really couldn't tell whether he has a tail or not," replied peter quite truthfully. "at first i thought he hadn't, and then i thought he might have. if he has, it doesn't seem to me that it is enough to call a really truly tail." "well, it is a really truly tail, even if you don't think so," retorted grandfather frog, "and he has it for a reminder." "a reminder!" exclaimed peter, looking very much puzzled. "a reminder of what?" grandfather frog cleared his throat two or three times. "sit down, peter, and learn a lesson from the tale of the tail of old king bear," said he very seriously. "you remember that once upon a time, long ago, when the world was young, old king bear ruled in the green forest, and everybody brought tribute to him." peter nodded and grandfather frog went on. "now old king bear was the great-great-ever-so-great grandfather of buster bear, and he looked very much as buster does, except that he didn't have any tail at all, not the least sign of a tail. at first, before he was made king of the green forest, he didn't mind this at all. in fact, he was rather pleased that he didn't have a tail. you see, he couldn't think of any earthly use he would have for a tail, and so he was glad that he hadn't got one to bother with. "this was just old mother nature's view of the matter. she had done her very best to give everybody everything that they really needed, and not to give them things which they didn't need. she couldn't see that mr. bear had the least need of a tail, and so she hadn't given him one. mr. bear was perfectly happy without one, and was so busy getting enough to eat that he didn't have time for silly thoughts or vain wishes. "then he was made king over all the people of the green forest, and his word was law. it was a very great honor, and for a while he felt it so and did his best to rule wisely. he went about just as before, hunting for his living, and had no more time than before for foolish thoughts or vain wishes. but after a little, the little people over whom he ruled began to bring him tribute, so that he no longer had to hunt for enough to eat. indeed, he had so much brought to him, that he couldn't begin to eat all of it, and he grew very dainty and fussy about what he did eat. having nothing to do but eat and sleep, he grew very fat and lazy, as is the case with most people who have nothing to do. he grew so fat that when he walked, he puffed and wheezed. he grew so lazy that he wanted to be waited on all the time. "it happened about this time that he overheard mr. fox talking to mr. wolf when they both thought him asleep. 'a pretty kind of a king, he is!' sneered mr. fox. 'the idea of a king without a tail!' "'that's so,' assented mr. wolf. 'why, even that little upstart, mr. rabbit, has got a make-believe tail.'" grandfather frog's eyes twinkled as he said this, and peter looked very much embarrassed. but he didn't say anything, so grandfather frog went on. "old king bear pretended to wake up just then, and right away mr. fox and mr. wolf were as polite and smiling as you please and began to flatter him. they told him how proud they were of their king, and how handsome he was, and a lot of other nice things, all of which he had heard often before and had believed. he pretended to believe them now, but after they were through paying their respects and had gone away, he kept turning over and over in his mind what he had overheard them say when they thought he was asleep. "after that he couldn't think of anything but the fact that he hadn't any tail. he took particular notice of all who came to pay him tribute, and he saw that every one of them had a tail. some had long tails; some had short tails; some had handsome tails and some had homely tails; but everybody had a tail of some kind. the more he tried not to think of these tails, the more he did think of them. the more he thought of them, the more discontented he grew because he had none. he didn't stop to think that probably all of them had use for their tails. no, sir, he didn't think of that. everybody else had a tail, and he hadn't. he felt that it was a disgrace that he, the king, should have no tail. he brooded over it so much that he lost his appetite and grew cross and peevish. "then along came old mother nature to see how things were going in the green forest. of course she saw right away that something was wrong with old king bear. when she asked him what the matter was, he was ashamed to tell her at first. but after a little he told her that he wanted a tail; that he could never again be happy unless he had a tail. she told him that he hadn't the least use in the world for a tail, and that he wouldn't be any happier if he had one. nothing that she could say made any difference--he wanted a tail. finally she gave him one. "for a few days old king bear was perfectly happy. he spent all his spare time admiring his new tail. he called the attention of all his subjects to it, and they all told him that it was a very wonderful tail and was very becoming to him. but it wasn't long before he found that his new tail was very much in the way. it bothered him when he walked. it was in the way when he sat down. it was a nuisance when he climbed a tree. he didn't have a single use for it, and yet he had to carry it with him wherever he went. worse still, he overheard little mr. squirrel and mr. possum making fun of it. and then he discovered that the very ones who admired his tail so to his face were laughing at him and poking fun at him behind his back. "and then old king bear wished that he _hadn't_ a tail more than ever he wished that he _did_ have a tail. again he lost his appetite and grew cross and peevish, so that no one dared come near him. so matters went from bad to worse, until once more old mother nature visited the green forest to see how things were. very humbly old king bear went down on his knees and begged her to take away his tail. at first old mother nature refused, but he begged so hard and promised so faithfully never again to be discontented, that finally she relented and took away his tail, all but just a wee little bit. that she left as a reminder lest he should forget the lesson he had learned and should again grow envious. [illustration: "then old king bear wished that he hadn't a tail."] "and every bear since that long-ago day has carried about with him a reminder--you can hardly call it a real tail--of the silly, foolish discontent of old king bear," concluded grandfather frog. peter rabbit scratched one long ear thoughtfully as he replied: "thank you, grandfather frog. i think that hereafter i will be quite content with what i've got and never want things it is not meant that i should have." xiv why flitter the bat flies at night [illustration: "it must be fine to fly," thought peter. "i wish i could fly."] flitter the bat made peter rabbit's head dizzy. peter couldn't help watching him. he just had to. it seemed so wonderful that flitter could really fly, that whenever he saw him, peter had to stop and watch. and then, as he saw flitter twist and turn, fly high, fly low, and go round and round, peter's head would begin to swim and grow dizzy, and he wondered and wondered how it was that flitter himself didn't grow dizzy. "it must be fine to fly," thought peter. "i wish i could fly. if i could, i wouldn't spend all my time flying around the way flitter does. i'd go on long journeys and see the great world. i'd fly way, way up in the blue, blue sky, the way ol' mistah buzzard does, where i could look down and see all that is going on in the green forest and on the green meadows. and i'd fly in the daytime, because there is more going on then. i wonder, now, why it is that flitter never comes out until after jolly, round, red mr. sun has gone to bed behind the purple hills. i never see him in the daytime, and i don't even know where he keeps himself. i never thought of it before, but i wonder why it is that he flies only at night. i believe i'll ask grandfather frog the very next time i see him." now you know that once peter rabbit's curiosity is aroused, it just has to be satisfied. no sooner did he begin to wonder about flitter the bat than he could think of nothing else. so he watched until the way was clear, and then he started for the smiling pool as fast as he could go, lipperty-lipperty-lip. he hoped he would find grandfather frog sitting as usual on his big green lily-pad, and that he would be good-natured. if he wasn't feeling good-natured, it would be of no use to ask him for a story. when peter reached the smiling pool he was disappointed, terribly disappointed. the big green lily-pad was there, but there was no one sitting on it. somehow the smiling pool didn't seem quite like itself without grandfather frog sitting there watching for foolish green flies. peter's face showed just how disappointed he felt. he was just going to turn away when a great, deep voice said: "chug-a-rum! where are your manners, peter rabbit, that you forget to speak to your elders?" peter stared eagerly into the smiling pool, and presently he saw two great, goggly eyes and the top of a green head, way out almost in the middle of the smiling pool. it was grandfather frog himself, having his morning swim. "oh, grandfather frog, i didn't see you at all!" cried peter, "if i had, of course i would have spoken. the fact is, i--i--" "you want a story," finished grandfather frog for him. "you can't fool me, peter rabbit. you came over here just to ask me for a story. i know you, peter! i know you! well, what is it this time?" "if you please," replied peter politely and happily, for he saw that grandfather frog was feeling good-natured, "why is it that flitter the bat flies only at night?" grandfather frog climbed out on his big green lily-pad and made himself comfortable. peter sat still and tried not to show how impatient he felt. grandfather frog took his time. it tickled him to see how hard impatient peter was trying to be patient, and his big, goggly eyes twinkled. "chug-a-rum!" said he at last, with a suddenness that made peter jump. "that's very good, peter, very good indeed! now i'll tell you the story." of course he meant that peter's effort to keep still was very good, but peter didn't know this, and he couldn't imagine what grandfather frog meant. however, what he cared most about was the story, so he settled himself to listen, his long ears standing straight up, and his eyes stretched wide open as he watched grandfather frog. the latter cleared his throat two or three times, each time as if he intended to begin right then. it was one of grandfather frog's little jokes. he did it just to tease peter. at last he really did begin, and the very first thing he did was to ask peter a question. "what is the reason that you stay in the dear old briar-patch when reddy fox is around?" "so that he won't catch me, of course," replied peter. "very good," said grandfather frog. "now, why do you go over to the sweet-clover patch every day?" "why, because there is plenty to eat there," replied peter, looking very, very much puzzled. "well, now you've answered your own question," grunted grandfather frog. "flitter flies at night because he is safest then, and because he can find plenty to eat." "oh," said peter, and his voice sounded dreadfully disappointed. he had found out what he had wanted to know, but he hadn't had a story. he fidgeted about and looked very hard at grandfather frog, but the latter seemed to think that he had told peter what he wanted to know, and that was all there was to it. finally peter sighed, and it was such a heavy sigh! then very slowly he turned his back on the smiling pool and started to hop away. "chug-a-rum!" said grandfather frog in his deepest, story-telling voice. "a long time ago when the world was young, the great-great-ever-so-great grandfather of flitter the bat first learned to fly." "i know!" cried peter eagerly. "you told me about that, and it was a splendid story." "but when he learned to fly, he found that old mother nature never gives all her blessings to any single one of her little people," continued grandfather frog, without paying the least attention to peter's interruption. "old mr. bat had wings; something no other animal had, but he found that he could no longer run and jump. he could just flop about on the ground, and was almost helpless. of course that meant that he could very easily be caught, and so the ground was no longer a safe place for him. but he soon found that he was not safe in the air in daytime. old mr. hawk could fly even faster than he, and mr. hawk was always watching for him. at first, mr. bat didn't know what to do. he didn't like to go to old mother nature and complain that his new wings were not all that he had thought they would be. that would look as if he were ungrateful for her kindness in giving him the wings. "'i've got to think of some way out of my troubles myself,' thought old mr. bat. 'when i'm sure that i can't, it will be time enough to go to old mother nature.' "now of course it is very hard to think when you are twisting and dodging and turning in the air." "of course!" said peter rabbit, just as if he knew all about it. "so mr. bat went looking for a place where he could be quiet all by himself and think without danger of being gobbled up for some one's dinner," continued grandfather frog. "he flew and he flew and had almost given up hope of finding any such place when he saw a cave. it looked very black inside, but it was big enough for mr. bat to fly into, and in he went. he knew that mr. hawk would never come in there, and when he found a little shelf up near the roof, he knew that he was safe from any four-footed enemies who might follow him there. it was just the place to rest and think. so he rested, and while he rested, he thought and thought. "by and by he noticed that it was growing dark outside. 'my goodness! if i am going to get anything to eat to-day, i shall have to hurry,' thought he. when he got outside, he found that mr. sun had gone to bed. so had all the birds, except mr. owl and mr. nighthawk. now mr. nighthawk doesn't belong to the hawk family at all, so there was nothing to fear from him. then mr. bat had a very pleasant surprise. he found the air full of insects, ever so many more than in the daytime. by being very smart and quick he caught a few before it was too dark for him to see. they didn't fill his stomach, but they kept him from starving. as he flew back to the cave, a great idea came to him, the idea for which he had been thinking so hard. he would sleep days in the cave, where he was perfectly safe, and come out to hunt bugs and insects just as soon as mr. hawk had gone to bed! then he would be safe and would not have to complain to old mother nature. "at first old mr. bat, who wasn't old then, you know, had hard work to catch enough insects before it grew too dark, but he found that every night he could see a little longer and a little better than the night before, until by and by he could see as well in the dusk as he used to see in the daytime. then he realized that old mother nature had once more been very good to him, and that she had helped him just as she always helps those who help themselves. she had given him night-seeing eyes, and he no more had to go hungry. "mr. bat was very grateful, and from that day to this, bats have been content to live in caves and fly in the evening. you ask flitter if it isn't so." peter grinned. "he never stays in one place long enough for me to ask him anything," said he. "i'm ever so much obliged for the story, grandfather frog. it pays to make the best of what we have, doesn't it?" "it certainly does. chug-a-rum! it certainly does!" replied grandfather frog. xv why spotty the turtle carries his house with him spotty the turtle sat on an old log on the bank of the smiling pool, taking a sun-bath. he had sat that way for the longest time without once moving. peter rabbit had seen him when he went by on his way to the laughing brook and the green forest to look for some one to pass the time of day with. spotty was still there when peter returned a long time after, and he didn't look as if he had moved. a sudden thought struck peter. he couldn't remember that he ever had seen spotty's house. he had seen the houses of most of his other friends, but think as hard as ever he could, he didn't remember having seen spotty's. "hi, spotty!" he shouted. "where do you live?" spotty slowly turned his head and looked up at peter. there was a twinkle in his eyes, though peter didn't see it. "right here in the smiling pool. where else should i live?" he replied. "i mean, where is your house?" returned peter. "of course i know you live in the smiling pool, but where is your house? is it in the bank or down under water?" "it is just wherever i happen to be. just now it is right here," said spotty. "i always take it with me wherever i go; i find it much the handiest way." [illustration: "hi, spotty!" he shouted. "where do you live?"] with that spotty disappeared. that is to say, his head and legs and tail disappeared. peter stared very hard. then he began to laugh, for it came to him that what spotty had said was true. his house was with him, and now he had simply retired inside. he didn't need any other house than just that hard, spotted shell, inside of which he was now so cosily tucked away. "that's a great idea! ho, ho, ho! that's a great idea!" shouted peter. "of course it is," replied spotty, putting nothing but his head out, "you will always find me at home whenever you call, peter, and that is more than you can say of most other people." all the way to his own home in the dear old briar-patch, peter thought about spotty and how queer it was that he should carry his house around with him. "i wonder how it happens that he does it," thought he. "no wonder he is so slow. of course, it is very handy to have his house always with him. as he says, he is always at home. still, when he is in a hurry to get away from an enemy, it must be very awkward to have to carry his house on his back. i--i--why, how stupid of me! he doesn't have to run away at all! all he has got to do is to go inside his house and stay there until the danger is past! i never thought of that before. why, that is the handiest thing i ever heard of." now peter knew that there must be a good story about spotty and his house, and you know peter dearly loves a good story. so at the very first opportunity the next day, he hurried over to the smiling pool to ask grandfather frog about it. as usual, grandfather frog was sitting on his big green lily-pad. no sooner did peter pop his head above the edge of the bank of the smiling pool than grandfather frog exclaimed: "chug-a-rum! you've kept me waiting a long time, peter rabbit. i don't like to be kept waiting. if you wanted to know about spotty the turtle, why didn't you come earlier?" all the time there was a twinkle in the big, goggly eyes of grandfather frog. peter was so surprised that he couldn't find his tongue. he hadn't said a word to any one about spotty, so how could grandfather frog know what he had come for? for a long time he had had a great deal of respect for grandfather frog, who, as you know, is very old and very wise, but now peter felt almost afraid of him. you see, it seemed to peter as if grandfather frog had read his very thoughts. "i--i didn't know you were waiting. truly i didn't," stammered peter. "if i had, i would have been here long ago. if you please, how did you know that i was coming and what i was coming for?" "never mind how i knew. i know a great deal that i don't tell, which is more than some folks can say," replied grandfather frog. peter wondered if he meant him, for you know peter is a great gossip. but he didn't say anything, because he didn't know just what to say, and in a minute grandfather frog began the story peter so much wanted. "of course you know, without me telling you, that there is a reason for spotty's carrying his house around with him, because there is a reason for everything in this world. and of course you know that that reason is because of something that happened a long time ago, way back in the days when the world was young. almost everything to-day is the result of things that happened in those long-ago days. the great-great-ever-so-great grandfather of spotty the turtle lived then, and unlike spotty, whom you know, he had no house. he was very quiet and bashful, was mr. turtle, and he never meddled with any one's business, because he believed that the best way of keeping out of trouble was to attend strictly to his own affairs. "he was a good deal like spotty, just as fond of the water and just as slow moving, but he didn't have the house which spotty has now. if he had had, he would have been saved a great deal of trouble and worry. for a long time everybody lived at peace with everybody else. then came the trying time, of which you already know, when those who lived on the green meadows and in the green forest had the very hardest kind of work to find enough to eat, and were hungry most of the time. now mr. turtle, living in the smiling pool, had plenty to eat. he had nothing to worry about on that score. everybody who lives in the smiling pool knows that it is the best place in the world, anyway." grandfather frog winked at jerry muskrat, who was listening, and jerry nodded his head. "but presently mr. turtle discovered that the big people were eating the little people whenever they could catch them, and that he wasn't safe a minute when on shore, and not always safe in the water," continued grandfather frog. "he had two or three very narrow escapes, and these set him to thinking. he was too slow and awkward to run or to fight. the only thing he could do was to keep out of sight as much as possible. so he learned to swim with only his head out of water, and sometimes with only the end of his nose out of water. when he went on land, he would cover himself with mud, and then when he heard anybody coming, he would lie perfectly still, with his legs and his tail and his head drawn in just as close as possible, so that he looked for all the world like just a little lump of brown earth. "one day he had crawled under a piece of bark to rest and at the same time keep out of sight of any who might happen along. when he got ready to go on his way, he found that the piece of bark had caught on his back, and that he was carrying it with him. at first he was annoyed and started to shake it off. before he succeeded, he heard someone coming, so he promptly drew in his head and legs and tail. it was mr. fisher, and he was very hungry and fierce. he looked at the piece of bark under which mr. turtle was hiding, but all he saw was the bark, because, you know, mr. turtle had drawn himself wholly under. "'i believe,' said mr. fisher, talking out loud to himself, 'that i'll have a look around the smiling pool and see if i can catch that slow-moving turtle who lives there. i believe he'll make me a good dinner.' "of course mr. turtle heard just what he said, and he blessed the piece of bark which had hidden him from mr. fisher's sight. for a long time he lay very still. when he did go on, he took the greatest care not to shake off that piece of bark, for he didn't know but that any minute he might want to hide under it again. at last he reached the smiling pool and slipped into the water, leaving the piece of bark on the bank. thereafter, when he wanted to go on land, he would first make sure that no one was watching. then he would crawl under the piece of bark and get it on his back. wherever he went he carried the piece of bark so as to have it handy to hide under. "now all this time old mother nature had been watching mr. turtle, and it pleased her to see that he was smart enough to think of such a clever way of fooling his enemies. so she began to study how she could help mr. turtle. one day she came up behind him just as he sat down to rest. the piece of bark was uncomfortable and scratched his back, 'i wish,' said he, talking to himself, for he didn't know that any one else was near, 'i wish that i had a house of my own that i could carry on my back all the time and be perfectly safe when i was inside of it.' "'you shall have,' said old mother nature, and reaching out, she touched his back and turned the skin into hard shell. then she touched the skin of his stomach and turned that into hard shell. 'now draw in your head and your legs and your tail,' said she. "mr. turtle did as he was told to do, and there he was in the very best and safest kind of a house, perfectly hidden from all his enemies! "'oh, mother nature, how can i ever thank you?' he cried. "'by doing as you always have done, attending wholly to your own affairs,' replied old mother nature. "so ever since that long-ago day when the world was young, all turtles have carried their houses with them and never have meddled in things that don't concern them," concluded grandfather frog. "oh, thank you, grandfather frog," exclaimed peter, drawing a long breath. "that was a perfectly splendid thing for old mother nature to do." then he started for his own home in the dear old briar-patch, and all the way there he wondered and wondered how grandfather frog knew that he wanted that story, and to this day he hasn't found out. you see, he didn't notice that grandfather frog was listening when he asked spotty about his house. of course, grandfather frog knows peter and his curiosity so well that he had guessed right away that peter would come to him for the story, just as peter did. xvi why paddy the beaver has a broad tail usually the thing that interests us most is something that we haven't got ourselves. it is that way with peter rabbit. peter is not naturally envious. oh, my, no! peter is pretty well satisfied with what he has, which is quite as it should be. there is only one thing with which peter is really dissatisfied, and it is only once in a while, when he hasn't much of anything else to think about, that he is dissatisfied with this. can you guess what it is? well, it is his tail. yes, sir, that is the one thing that ever really troubles peter. you see, peter's tail is, nothing but a funny little bunch of cotton, which doesn't look like a tail at all. the only time he ever sees it is when he is back to the smiling pool and looks over his shoulder at his reflection in the water, and then, of course, he really doesn't see his tail itself. so sometimes when peter sees the fine tails of his neighbors, a little bit of envy creeps into his heart for just a little while. why, even little danny meadow mouse has a real tail, short as it is. and as for happy jack squirrel and reddy fox and bobby coon and jimmy skunk, everybody knows what beautiful tails they have. once peter thought about it so much that grandfather frog noticed how sober he was and asked peter what the trouble was. when peter told him that it seemed to him that old mother nature had not been fair in giving him such a foolish little tail when she had given others such beautiful ones, grandfather frog just opened his big mouth and laughed until he had to hold his sides. "why, peter," said he, "you look so sober, that i thought you really had something to worry about. what would you do with a big tail, if you had one? it would always be in your way. just think how many times reddy fox or old granny fox have almost caught you. they certainly would have before this, if you had had a long tail sticking out behind for them to get hold of. i had a long tail when i was young, and i was mighty glad to get rid of it." after he heard that, peter felt better. but he didn't lose interest in tails, and he spent a great deal of time in wondering why some of his neighbors had big, bushy tails and some had long, slim tails and why he himself had almost no tail at all. so when paddy the beaver came to live in the green forest, and made a pond there by building a wonderful dam across the laughing brook, the first thing peter looked to see was what kind of a tail paddy has, and the first time he got a good look at it, his eyes popped almost out of his head. he just stared and stared. he hardly noticed the wonderful dam or the equally wonderful canals which paddy had made. all he could think of was that great, broad, flat, thick tail, which is so unlike any tail he had ever seen or heard of. the very next morning he hurried over to the smiling pool to tell grandfather frog about it. grandfather frog's big, goggly eyes twinkled. "chug-a-rum!" said he. "paddy the beaver has one of the most useful tails i know of. would you like to know how he comes by such a queer tail?" [illustration: the first thing peter looked to see was what kind of a tail paddy has.] "oh, if you please! if you please, grandfather frog! i didn't suppose there was such a queer tail in all the world, and i don't see what possible use it can be. do tell me about it!" cried peter. "chug-a-rum! if you had used your eyes when you visited paddy, you might have guessed for yourself how he came by it," replied grandfather frog gruffly. "some people never do learn to use their eyes." peter looked a bit sheepish, but he said nothing and waited patiently. presently grandfather frog cleared his throat two or three times and began to talk. "once upon a time, long, long ago, when the world was young--" "it seems to me that everything wonderful happened long ago when the world was young," interrupted peter. grandfather frog looked at peter severely, and peter hastened to beg his pardon. after a long time grandfather frog began again. "once on a time, long, long ago, lived mr. beaver, the great-great-ever-so-great grandfather of paddy up there in the green forest. old mr. beaver was one of the hardest working of all of old mother nature's big family and one of the smartest, just as paddy is to-day. he always seemed happiest when he was busiest, and because he liked to be happy all the time, he tried to keep busy all the time. "he was very thrifty, was mr. beaver; not at all like some people i know. he believed in preparing to-day for what might happen to-morrow, and so when he had all the food he needed for the present, he stored away food for the time when it might not be so easy to get. and he believed in helping himself, did mr. beaver, and not in leaving everything to old mother nature, as did most of his neighbors. that is how he first came to think of making a dam and a pond. like his small cousin, mr. muskrat, he was very fond of the water, and felt most at home and safest there. but he found that sometimes the food which he liked best, which was the bark of certain kinds of trees, grew some distance from the water, and it was the hardest kind of hard work to roll and drag the logs down to the water, where he could eat the bark from them in safety. "he thought about this a great deal, but instead of going to old mother nature and complaining, as most of his neighbors would have done in his place, he studied and studied to find some way to make the work easier. one day he noticed that a lot of sticks had caught in the stream where he made his home, and that because the water could not work its way between them as fast as where nothing hindered it, it made a little pool just above the sticks. that made him think harder than ever. he brought some of the logs and sticks from which he had gnawed the bark and fastened them with the others, and right away the pool grew bigger. the more sticks he added, the bigger the pool grew. mr. beaver had discovered what a dam is for and how to build it. "'why,' thought he, 'if i make a pond at the place nearest to my food trees, i can carry the water to the trees instead of the trees to the water; and that will be easier and ever so much safer as well.' "so mr. beaver built a dam at just the right place, while all the other little people laughed at him and made fun of him for working so hard. just as he had thought it would do, the dam made a pond, and the pond grew bigger and bigger, until it reached the very place where his food trees grew. mr. beaver built him a big, comfortable house out in the pond, and then he went to work as hard as ever he could to cut down trees and then cut them up into the right sized pieces to store away in his big food pile for the winter. "now cutting down trees is hard work. yes, siree, cutting down trees is the hardest kind of hard work. mr. beaver had to sit up on his hind legs to do it, and his legs grew very, very tired. in those days he had a tail very much like the tail of jerry muskrat. it was very useful when he was swimming, but it was of no use at all at any other time. sometimes he tried to brace himself with it--when he was sitting up to cut trees, and found it of no help. but he didn't complain; he just kept right on working, and only stopped to rest when his legs ached so that he had to. "he was working just as usual one day when old mother nature came along to see how he was getting on. she saw the new dam and the new pond, and she asked mr. beaver who had made them. he told her that he had and explained why. old mother nature was greatly pleased, but she didn't say so. she just passed the time of day with him and then sat down to watch him cut a tree. she saw him try to brace himself with his useless tail, and she saw him stop to rest his tired legs. "'that looks to me like pretty hard work,' said old mother nature. "'so it is,' replied mr. beaver, stretching first one leg and then another. 'but things worth having are worth working for,' and with that he began cutting again. "'you ought to have something to sit on,' said old mother nature, her eyes twinkling. "mr. beaver grinned. 'it would be very nice,' he confessed, 'but i never waste time wishing for things i haven't got and can't get,' and went right on cutting. "the next morning when he awoke, he had the greatest surprise of his life. he had a new tail! it was broad and thick and flat. it wasn't like any tail he had ever seen or heard of. at first he didn't know how to manage it, but when he tried to swim, he found that it was even better than his old tail for swimming. he hurried over to begin his day's work, and there he made another discovery; his new tail was just the most splendid brace! it was almost like a stool to sit on, and he could work all day long without tiring his legs. then was mr. beaver very happy, and to show how happy he was, he worked harder than ever. later, he found that his new tail was just what he needed to pat down the mud with which he covered the roof of his house. "'why,' he cried, 'i believe it is the most useful tail in all the world!' "and then he wished with all his might that old mother nature would return so that he might thank her for it. and that," concluded grandfather frog, "is how mr. beaver came by his broad tail. you see, old mother nature always helps those who help themselves. and ever since that long-ago day, all beavers have had broad tails, and have been the greatest workers in the world." note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) mother west wind's children by thornton w. burgess author of "old mother west wind" illustrated by george kerr [frontispiece: "yap-yap-yap," barked reddy fox, as loud as he could.] grosset & dunlap publishers new york by arrangement with little, brown and company copyright, , by thornton w. burgess. all rights reserved to all the little friends of johnny chuck and reddy fox, and to all who love the green meadows and the smiling pool, the laughing brook and the merry little breezes, this little book is dedicated. contents chapter i. danny meadow mouse learns why his tail is short ii. why reddy fox has no friends iii. why peter rabbit's ears are long iv. reddy fox disobeys v. striped chipmunk's pockets vi. reddy fox, the boaster vii. johnny chuck's secret viii. johnny chuck's great fight ix. mr. toad's old suit x. grandfather frog gets even xi. the disappointed bush xii. why bobby coon washes his food xiii. the merry little breezes have a busy day xiv. why hooty the owl does not play on the green meadows xv. danny meadow mouse learns to laugh list of illustrations "yap-yap-yap," barked reddy fox, as loud as he could . . . . . . . . . . . . _frontispiece_ mr. rabbit had a great deal of curiosity, a very great deal, indeed then everybody shouted "haw! haw! haw!" he was so surprised he forgot to close it mother west wind's children i danny meadow mouse learns why his tail is short danny meadow mouse sat in his doorway and looked down the lone little path across the green meadows. way, way over near the smiling pool he could see old mother west wind's children, the merry little breezes, at play. sammy jay was sitting on a fence post. he pretended to be taking a sun bath, but really he was planning mischief. you never see sammy jay that he isn't in mischief or planning it. reddy fox had trotted past an hour before in a great hurry. up on the hill danny meadow mouse could just see jimmy skunk pulling over every old stick and stone he could find, no matter whose house it might be, and excusing himself because he was hungry and was looking for beetles. jolly, round, red mr. sun was playing at hide and seek behind some fleecy white clouds. all the birds were singing and singing, and the world was happy--all but danny meadow mouse. no, danny meadow mouse was not happy. indeed, he was very far from happy, and all because his tail was short. by and by up came old mr. toad. it was a warm day and mr. toad was very hot and very, very thirsty. he stopped to rest beside the house of danny meadow mouse. "good morning, danny meadow mouse," said old mr. toad, "it's a fine morning." "morning," said danny meadow mouse, grumpily. "i hope your health is good this morning," continued old mr. toad, just as if he hadn't noticed how short and cross danny meadow mouse had answered. now old mr. toad is very ugly to look upon, but the ugliness is all in his looks. he has the sunniest of hearts and always he is looking for a chance to help someone. "danny meadow mouse," said old mr. toad, "you make me think of your grandfather a thousand times removed. you do indeed. you look just as he did when he lost the half of his tail and realized that he never, never could get it back again." danny meadow mouse sat up suddenly. "what are you talking about, old mr. toad? what are you talking about?" he asked. "did my grandfather a thousand times removed lose the half of his tail, and was it shorter then than mine is now? was it, old mr. toad? and how did he come to lose the half of it?" old mr. toad laughed a funny silent laugh. "it's a long story," said old mr. toad, "and i'm afraid i can't tell it. go down to the smiling pool and ask great-grandfather frog, who is my first cousin, how it happened your grandfather a thousand times removed lost the half of his tail. but before you go catch three fat, foolish, green flies and take them with you as a present to grandfather frog." danny meadow mouse could hardly wait for old mr. toad to stop speaking. in fact, he was in such a hurry that he almost forgot his manners. not quite, however, for he shouted "thank you, mr. toad, thank you!" over his shoulder as he rushed off down the lone little path. you see his short tail had always been a matter of mortification to danny meadow mouse. all his cousins in the mouse family and the rat family have long, smooth, tapering tails, and they have always been a source of envy to danny meadow mouse. he had felt his queer short tail to be a sort of disgrace. so when he would meet one of his cousins dancing down the lone little path, with his long, slim, tapering tail behind him, danny meadow mouse would slip out of sight under the long grass, he was so ashamed of his own little tail. it looked so mean and small! he had wondered and wondered if the meadow mice had always had short tails. he used to ask everyone who came his way if they had ever seen a meadow mouse with a long tail, but he had never found any one who had. "perhaps," thought danny meadow mouse as he hurried down the lone little path, "perhaps grandfather frog, who is very wise, will know why my tail is short." so he hurried this way and he hurried that way over the green meadows in search of fat, foolish, green flies. and when he had caught three, he caught one more for good measure. then he started for the smiling pool as fast as his short legs would take him. when finally he reached the edge of the smiling pool he was quite out of breath. there sat great-grandfather frog on his big, green lily pad. he was blinking his great goggle eyes at jolly, round, red mr. sun. "oh, grandfather frog," said danny meadow mouse in a very small voice, for you know he was quite out of breath with running, "oh, grandfather frog, i've brought you four fat, foolish, green flies." grandfather frog put a hand behind an ear and listened. "did i hear someone say 'foolish, green flies?'" asked grandfather frog. "yes, grandfather frog, here they are," said danny meadow mouse, still in a very small voice. then he gave grandfather frog the four fat, foolish, green flies. "what is it that you want me to do for you, danny meadow mouse?" asked grandfather frog as he smacked his lips, for he knew that danny meadow mouse must want something to bring him four fat, foolish, green flies. "if you please," said danny meadow mouse, very politely, "if you please, grandfather frog, old mr. toad told me that you could tell me how grandfather meadow mouse a thousand times removed lost half of his tail. will you, grandfather frog--will you?" "chug-a-rum," said grandfather frog. "my cousin, mr. toad, talks too much." but he settled himself comfortably on the big lily pad, and this is what he told danny meadow mouse: "once upon a time, when the world was young, mr. meadow mouse, your grandfather a thousand times removed, was a very fine gentleman. he took a great deal of pride in his appearance, did mr. meadow mouse, and they used to say on the green meadows that he spent an hour, a full hour, every day combing his whiskers and brushing his coat. "anyway, he was very fine to look upon, was mr. meadow mouse, and not the least attractive thing about him was his beautiful, long, slim tail, of which he was very proud. "now about this time there was a great deal of trouble on the green meadows and in the green forest, for some one was stealing--yes, stealing! mr. rabbit complained first. to be sure, mr. rabbit was lazy and his cabbage patch had grown little more than weeds while he had been minding other folks' affairs rather than his own, but, then, that was no reason why he should lose half of the little which he did raise. and that is just what he said had happened. "no one really believed what mr. rabbit said, for he had such a bad name for telling things which were not so that when he did tell the truth no one could be quite sure of it. "so no one paid much heed to what mr. rabbit said until happy jack squirrel one day went to his snug little hollow in the big chestnut tree where he stores his nuts and discovered half had been stolen. then striped chipmunk lost the greater part of his winter store of corn. a fat trout was stolen from billy mink. "it was a terrible time, for every one suspected every one else, and no one on the green meadows was happy. "one evening mr. meadow mouse went for a stroll along the crooked little path up the hill. it was dark, very dark indeed. but just as he passed striped chipmunk's granary, the place where he stores his supply of corn and acorns for the winter, mr. meadow mouse met his cousin, mr. wharf rat. now mr. wharf rat was very big and strong and mr. meadow mouse had for a long time looked up to and admired him. "'good evening, cousin meadow mouse,' said mr. wharf rat, swinging a bag down from his shoulder. 'will you do a favor for me?' "now mr. meadow mouse felt very much flattered, and as he was a very obliging fellow anyway, he promptly said he would. "'all right,' said mr. wharf rat. 'i'm going to get you to tote this bag down the crooked little path to the hollow chestnut tree. i've got an errand back on top of the hill.' "so mr. meadow mouse picked up the bag, which was very heavy, and swung it over his shoulder. then he started down the crooked little path. half way down he met striped chipmunk. "'good evening, mr. meadow mouse,' said striped chipmunk. 'what are you toting in the bag across your shoulder?' "now, of course, mr. meadow mouse didn't know what was in the bag and he didn't like to admit that he was working for another, for he was very proud, was mr. meadow mouse. "so he said: 'just a planting of potatoes i begged from jimmy skunk, just a planting of potatoes, striped chipmunk.' "now no one had ever suspected mr. meadow mouse of stealing--no indeed! striped chipmunk would have gone his way and thought no more about it, had it not happened that there was a hole in the bag and from it something dropped at his feet. striped chipmunk picked it up and it _wasn't_ a potato. it was a fat acorn. striped chipmunk said nothing but slipped it into his pocket. "'good night,' said mr. meadow mouse, once more shouldering the bag. "'good night,' said striped chipmunk. "no sooner had mr. meadow mouse disappeared in the darkness down the crooked little path than striped chipmunk hurried to his granary. some one had been there and stolen all his acorns! "then striped chipmunk ran to the house of his cousin, happy jack squirrel, and told him how the acorns had been stolen from his granary and how he had met mr. meadow mouse with a bag over his shoulder and how mr. meadow mouse had said that he was toting home a planting of potatoes he had begged from jimmy skunk. 'and this,' said striped chipmunk, holding out the fat acorn, 'is what fell out of the bag.' "then striped chipmunk and happy jack squirrel hurried over to jimmy skunk's house, and, just as they expected, they found that mr. meadow mouse had not begged a planting of potatoes of jimmy skunk. "so striped chipmunk and happy jack squirrel and jimmy skunk hurried over to mr. rabbit's and told him all about mr. meadow mouse and the bag of potatoes that dropped acorns. mr. rabbit looked very grave, very grave indeed. then striped chipmunk and happy jack squirrel and jimmy skunk and mr. rabbit started to tell mr. coon, who was cousin to old king bear. "on the way they met hooty the owl, and because he could fly softly and quickly, they sent hooty the owl to tell all the meadow people who were awake to come to the hollow chestnut tree. so hooty the owl flew away to tell all the little meadow people who were awake to meet at the hollow chestnut tree. "when they reached the hollow chestnut tree whom should they find there but mr. meadow mouse fast asleep beside the bag he had brought for mr. wharf rat, who had wisely stayed away. "very softly striped chipmunk stole up and opened the bag. out fell his store of fat acorns. then they waked mr. meadow mouse and marched him off to old mother nature, where they charged him with being a thief. "old mother nature listened to all they had to say. she saw the bag of acorns and she heard how mr. meadow mouse had said that he had a planting of potatoes. then she asked him if he had stolen the acorns. yes, sir, she asked him right out if he had stolen the acorns. "of course mr. meadow mouse said that he had not stolen the acorns. "'then where did you get the bag of acorns?' asked old mother nature. "when she asked this, mr. wharf rat, who was sitting in the crowd of meadow people, got up and softly tiptoed away when he thought no one was looking. but old mother nature saw him. you can't fool old mother nature. no, sir, you can't fool old mother nature, and it's of no use to try. "mr. meadow mouse didn't know what to say. he knew now that mr. wharf rat must be the thief, but mr. wharf rat was his cousin, and he had always looked up to him as a very fine gentleman. he couldn't tell the world that mr. wharf rat was a thief. so mr. meadow mouse said nothing. "three times old mother nature asked mr. meadow mouse where he got the bag of acorns, and each time mr. meadow mouse said nothing. "'mr. meadow mouse,' said old mother nature, and her voice was very stern, 'i know that you did not steal the acorns of striped chipmunk. i know that you did not even guess that there were stolen acorns in that bag. everyone else thinks that you are the thief who caused so much trouble on the green meadows and in the green forest. but i know who the real thief is and he is stealing away as fast as he can go down the lone little path this very minute.' "all of the little meadow people and forest folks turned to look down the lone little path, but it was so dark none could see, none but hooty the owl, whose eyes are made to see in the dark. "'i see him!' cried hooty the owl. 'it's mr. wharf rat!' "'yes,' said old mother nature, 'it's mr. wharf rat--he is the thief. and this shall be his punishment: always hereafter he will be driven out wherever he is found. he shall no longer live in the green meadows or the green forest. everyone will turn their backs upon him. he will live on what others throw away. he will live in filth and there will be no one to say a good word for him. he will become an outcast instead of a fine gentleman.' "'and you, mr. meadow mouse, in order that you may remember always to avoid bad company, and that while it is a splendid thing to be loyal to your friends and not to tell tales, it is also a very, very wrong thing to shield those who have done wrong when by so doing you simply help them to keep on doing wrong--you shall no longer have the splendid long tail of which you are so proud, but it shall be short and stubby.' "even while old mother nature was speaking, mr. meadow mouse felt his tail grow shorter and shorter, and when she had finished he had just a little mean stub of a tail. "of course he felt terribly. and while striped chipmunk hurried to tell him how sorry he felt, and while all the other little meadow people also hurried to tell him how sorry they felt, he could not be comforted. so he slipped away as quickly as he could, and because he was so ashamed he crept along underneath the long grass that no one should see his short tail. and ever since that long ago time when the world was young," concluded grandfather frog, "the meadow mice have had short tails and have always scurried along under cover of the long grass where no one will see them. and the wharf rats have never again lived in the green meadows or in the green forest, but have lived on filth and garbage around the homes of men, with every man's hand against them." "thank you, grandfather frog," said danny meadow mouse, very soberly. "now i understand why my tail is short and i shall not forget." "but it isn't your fault at all, danny meadow mouse," cried the merry little breezes, who had been listening, "and we love you just as much as if your tail was long!" then they played tag with him all the way up the lone little path to his house, till danny meadow mouse quite forgot that he had wished that his tail was long. ii why reddy fox has no friends the green meadows lay peaceful and still. mother moon, sailing high overhead, looked down upon them and smiled and smiled, flooding them with her silvery light. all day long the merry little breezes of old mother west wind had romped there among the asters and goldenrod. they had played tag through the cat rushes around the smiling pool. for very mischief they had rubbed the fur of the field mice babies the wrong way and had blown a fat green fly right out of grandfather frog's mouth just as his lips came together with a smack. now they were safely tucked in bed behind the purple hills, and so they missed the midnight feast at the foot of the lone pine. but reddy fox was there. you can always count on reddy fox to be about when mischief or good times are afoot, especially after mr. sun has pulled his nightcap on. jimmy skunk was there. if there is any mischief reddy fox does not think of jimmy skunk will be sure to discover it. billy mink was there. yes indeed, billy mink was there! billy mink is another mischief maker. when reddy fox and jimmy skunk are playing pranks or in trouble of any kind you are certain to find billy mink close by. that is, you are certain to find him if you look sharp enough. but billy mink is so slim, he moves so quickly, and his wits are so sharp, that he is not seen half so often as the others. with billy mink came his cousin, shadow the weasel, who is sly and cruel. no one likes shadow the weasel. little joe otter and jerry muskrat came. they were late, for the legs of little joe otter are so short that he is a slow traveler on land, while jerry muskrat feels much more at home in the water than on the dry ground. of course peter rabbit was there. without him no party on the green meadows would be complete, and peter likes to be abroad at night even better than by day. with peter came his cousin, jumper the hare, who had come down from the pine forest for a visit. boomer the nighthawk and hooty the owl completed the party, though hooty had not been invited and no one knew that he was there. each was to contribute something to the feast--the thing that he liked best. such an array as mother moon looked down upon! reddy fox had brought a plump, tender chicken, stolen from farmer brown's dooryard. very quietly, like a thin, brown shadow, billy mink had slipped up to the duck pond and--alas! now mother quack had one less in her pretty little flock than when as jolly, round, red mr. sun went to bed behind the purple hills, she had counted her babies as they tucked their heads under their wings. little joe otter had been fishing and he brought a great fat brother of the lamented tommy trout, who didn't mind. jerry muskrat brought up from the mud of the river bottom some fine fresh water clams, of which he is very fond. jimmy skunk stole three big eggs from the nest of old gray goose. peter rabbit and jumper the hare rolled up a great, tender, fresh cabbage. boomer the nighthawk said that he was very sorry, but he was on a diet of insects, which he must swallow one at a time, so to save trouble he had swallowed them as he caught them. now hooty the owl is a glutton and is lazy. "reddy fox and jimmy skunk and billy mink are sure to bring somethink [transcriber's note: something?] i like, so what is the use of spending my time hunting for what someone else will get for me?" said he to himself. so hooty the owl went very early to the lone pine and hid among the thick branches where no one could see him. shadow the weasel is sly and a thief and lives by his wits. so because he had rather steal than be honest, he too went to the midnight spread with nothing but his appetite. now reddy fox is also a glutton and very, very crafty. when he saw the plump duck brought by billy mink, his mouth watered, for reddy fox is very, very fond of young spring ducks. so straightway he began to plan how he could get possession of billy mink's duck. and when billy mink saw the fat trout little joe otter had brought, his eyes danced and his heart swelled with envy, for billy mink is very, very fond of fish. at once he began to plan how he could secure that particular fat trout little joe otter guarded so carefully. jimmy skunk was quite contented with the eggs he had stolen from old gray goose--that is, he was until he saw the plump chicken reddy fox had brought from farmer brown's dooryard. then suddenly his stomach became very empty, very empty indeed for chicken, and jimmy skunk began to think of a way to add the chicken of reddy fox to his own stolen eggs. because reddy fox is the largest he was given the place of honor at the head of the table under the lone pine. on his right sat little joe otter and on his left jerry muskrat. shadow the weasel was next to little joe otter, while right across from him was jimmy skunk. peter rabbit was next, sitting opposite his cousin, jumper the hare. at the extreme end, facing reddy fox, sat billy mink, with the plump duck right under his sharp little nose. boomer the nighthawk excused himself on the plea that he needed exercise to aid digestion, and as he had brought nothing to the feast, his excuse was politely accepted. reddy fox is very, very cunning, and his crafty brain had been busily working out a plan to get all these good things for himself. "little brothers of the green meadows," began reddy fox, "we have met here to-night for a feast of brotherly love." reddy fox paused a moment to look hungrily at billy mink's duck. billy mink cast a longing eye at little joe otter's trout, while jimmy skunk stole an envious glance at reddy fox's chicken. "but there is one missing to make our joy complete," continued reddy fox. "who has seen bobby coon?" no one had seen bobby coon. somehow happy-go-lucky bobby coon had been overlooked when the invitations were sent out. "i move," continued reddy fox, "that because billy mink runs swiftly, and because he knows where bobby coon usually is to be found, he be appointed a committee of one to find bobby coon and bring him to the feast." now nothing could have been less to the liking of billy mink, but there was nothing for him to do but to yield as gracefully as he could and go in search of bobby coon. no sooner had billy mink disappeared down the lone little path than reddy fox recalled a nest of grouse eggs he had seen that day under a big hemlock, and he proposed that inasmuch as jimmy skunk already wore stripes for having stolen a nest of eggs from mrs. grouse, he was just the one to go steal these eggs and bring them to the feast. of course there was nothing for jimmy skunk to do but to yield as gracefully as he could and go in search of the nest of eggs under the big hemlock. no sooner had jimmy skunk started off than reddy fox remembered a big shining sucker farmer brown's boy had caught that afternoon and tossed among the rushes beside the smiling pool. little joe otter listened and his mouth watered and watered until he could sit still no longer. "if you please," said little joe otter, "i'll run down to the smiling pool and get that sucker to add to the feast." no sooner was little joe otter out of sight than reddy fox was reminded of a field of carrots on the other side of the green meadows. now peter rabbit and jumper the hare are very fond of tender young carrots and they volunteered to bring a supply for the feast. so away they hurried with big jumps down the lone little path and out across the green meadows. no sooner were peter rabbit and jumper the hare fairly started than reddy fox began to tell of some luscious sweet apples he had noticed under a wild apple tree a little way back on the hill. now jerry muskrat is quite as fond of luscious sweet apples as of fresh-water clams, so quietly slipping away, he set out in quest of the wild apple tree a little way back on the hill. no sooner was jerry muskrat lost in the black shadows than reddy fox turned to speak to shadow the weasel. but shadow the weasel believes that a feast in the stomach is worth two banquets untasted, so while the others had been talking, he had quietly sucked dry the three big eggs stolen by jimmy skunk from old gray goose, and then because he is so slim and so quick and so sly, he slipped away without anyone seeing him. so when reddy fox turned to speak to shadow the weasel, he found himself alone. at least he thought himself alone, and he smiled a wicked, selfish smile as he walked over to billy mink's duck. he was thinking how smart he had been to get rid of all the others, and of how he would enjoy the feast all by himself. as reddy fox stooped to pick up billy mink's duck, a great shadow dropped softly, oh so softly, out of the lone pine down onto the plump chicken. then without the teeniest, weeniest bit of noise, it floated back into the lone pine and with it went the plump chicken. reddy fox, still with his wicked, selfish smile, trotted back with billy mink's duck, but he dropped it in sheer surprise when he discovered that his plump chicken had disappeared. now reddy fox is very suspicious, as people who are not honest themselves are very apt to be. so he left billy mink's duck where he had dropped it and trotted very, very softly up the lone little path to try to catch the thief who had stolen his plump chicken. no sooner was his back turned than down out of the lone pine floated the great shadow, and when a minute later reddy fox returned, billy mink's duck had also disappeared. reddy fox could hardly believe his eyes. he didn't smile now. he was too angry and too frightened. yes, reddy fox was frightened. he walked in a big circle round and round the place where the plump chicken and the duck had been, and the more he walked, the more suspicious he became. he wrinkled and wrinkled his little black nose in an effort to smell the intruder, but not a whiff could he get. all was as still and peaceful as could be. little joe otter's trout lay shining in the moonlight. the big head of cabbage lay just where peter rabbit and jumper the hare had left it. reddy fox rubbed his eyes to make sure that he was not dreaming and that the plump chicken and the duck were not there too. just then bowser the hound, over at farmer brown's, bayed at the moon. reddy fox always is nervous and by this time he was so fidgety that he couldn't stand still. when bowser the hound bayed at the moon reddy fox jumped a foot off the ground and whirled about in the direction of farmer brown's house. then he remembered that bowser the hound is always chained up at night, so that he had nothing to fear from him. after listening and looking a moment reddy fox decided that all was safe. "well," said he to himself, "i'll have that fat trout anyway," and turned to get it. but the fat trout he had seen a minute before shining in the moonlight had also disappeared. reddy fox looked and looked until his eyes nearly popped out of his head. then he did what all cowards do--ran home as fast as his legs could carry him. now of course billy mink didn't find bobby coon, and when he came back up the lone little path he was very tired, very hungry and very cross. and of course jimmy skunk failed to find the nest of mrs. grouse, and little joe otter could find no trace of the shining big sucker among the rushes beside the smiling pool. they also were very tired, very hungry and very cross. when the three returned to the lone pine and found nothing there but the big head of cabbage, which none of them liked, the empty egg shells of old gray goose and jerry muskrat's clams, they straightway fell to accusing each other of having stolen the duck and the fat trout and the eggs and began to quarrel dreadfully. pretty soon up came peter rabbit and jumper the hare, who had failed to find the tender young carrots. and up came jerry muskrat, who had found no luscious sweet apples. "where is reddy fox?" asked peter rabbit. sure enough, where was reddy fox? billy mink and little joe otter and jimmy skunk stopped quarreling and looked at each other. "reddy fox is the thief!" they cried all together. peter rabbit and jumper the hare and jerry muskrat agreed that reddy fox must be the thief, and had sent them all away on false errands that he might have the feast all to himself. so because there was nothing else to do, billy mink and little joe otter, tired and hungry and angry, started for their homes beside the laughing brook. and jimmy skunk, also tired and hungry and angry, started off up the crooked little path to look for some beetles. but peter rabbit and jumper the hare sat down to enjoy the big head of cabbage, while close beside them sat jerry muskrat smacking his lips over his clams, they tasted so good. mother moon looked down and smiled and smiled, for she knew that each had a clear conscience, for they had done no harm to anyone. and up in the thick top of the great pine hooty the owl nodded sleepily, for his stomach was very full of chicken and duck and trout, although he had not been invited to the party. and this is why reddy fox has no true friends on the green meadows. iii why peter rabbit's ears are long the merry little breezes of old mother west wind were tired. ever since she had turned them out of her big bag onto the green meadows early that morning they had romped and played tag and chased butterflies while old mother west wind herself went to hunt for a raincloud which had wandered away before it had watered the thirsty little plants who were bravely trying to keep the green meadows lovely and truly green. jolly, round, red mr. sun wore his broadest smile and the more he smiled the warmer it grew. mr. sun is never thirsty himself, never the least little bit, or perhaps he would have helped old mother west wind find the wandering raincloud. the merry little breezes threw themselves down on the edge of the smiling pool, where the rushes grow tall, and there they took turns rocking the cradle which held mrs. redwing's four babies. pretty soon one of the merry little breezes, peeping through the rushes, spied peter rabbit sitting up very straight on the edge of the green meadows. his long ears were pointed straight up, his big eyes were very wide open and he seemed to be looking and listening with a great deal of curiosity. "i wonder why it is that peter rabbit has such long ears," said the merry little breeze. "chug-a-rum!" replied a great, deep voice right behind him. all the merry little breezes jumped up and ran through the rushes to the very edge of the smiling pool. there on a great green lily pad sat great-grandfather frog, his hands folded across his white and yellow waistcoat and his green coat shining spick and span. "chug-a-rum," said grandfather frog. "oh, grandfather frog," cried the merry little breezes all together, "do tell us why it is that peter rabbit has such long ears." grandfather frog cleared his throat. he looked to the east and cleared his throat again. then he looked to the west, and cleared his throat. he looked north and he looked south, and each time he cleared his throat, but said nothing. finally he folded his hands once more over his white and yellow waistcoat, and looking straight up at jolly, round, red mr. sun he remarked in his very deepest voice and to no one in particular: "if i had four fat, foolish, green flies, it is just possible that i might remember how it happens that peter rabbit has such long ears." then up jumped all the merry little breezes and away they raced. some of them went east, some of them went west, some of them went north, some of them went south, all looking for fat, foolish, green flies for grandfather frog. by and by they came skipping back, one by one, to the edge of the smiling pool, each with a fat, foolish, green fly, and each stopping to give mrs. redwing's cradle a gentle push. when grandfather frog had swallowed all the fat, foolish, green flies brought by the merry little breezes, he settled himself comfortably on his big lily pad once more and began: "once upon a time, very long ago, when the world was young, mr. rabbit--not our peter rabbit, but his grandfather a thousand times removed--had short ears like all the other meadow people, and also his four legs were all of the same length, just exactly the same length. "now mr. rabbit had a great deal of curiosity, a very great deal, indeed. he was forever pushing his prying little nose into other people's affairs, which, you know, is a most unpleasant habit. in fact, mr. rabbit had become a nuisance." [illustration: mr. rabbit had a great deal of curiosity, a very great deal, indeed.] "whenever billy mink stopped to pass the time of day with jerry muskrat they were sure to find mr. rabbit standing close by, listening to all they said. if johnny chuck's mother ran over to have a few minutes' chat with jimmy skunk's mother, the first thing they knew mr. rabbit would be squatting down in the grass right behind them. "the older he grew the worse mr. rabbit became. he would spend his evenings going from house to house, tiptoeing softly up to the windows to listen to what the folks inside were saying. and the more he heard the more mr. rabbit's curiosity grew. "now, like most people who meddle in other folks' affairs, mr. rabbit had no time to tend to his own business. his cabbage patch grew up to weeds. his house leaked, his fences fell to pieces, and altogether his was the worst looking place on the green meadows. "worse still, mr. rabbit was a trouble maker. he just couldn't keep his tongue still. and like most gossips, he never could tell the exact truth. "dear me! dear me!" said grandfather frog, shaking his head solemnly. "things had come to a dreadful pass on the green meadows. reddy fox and bobby coon never met without fighting. jimmy skunk and johnny chuck turned their backs on each other. jerry muskrat, little joe otter, and billy mink called each other bad names. all because mr. rabbit had told so many stories that were not true. "now when old mother nature visited the green meadows she soon saw what a dreadful state all the meadow people were in, and she began to inquire how it all came about. "'it's all because of mr. rabbit,' said reddy fox. "'no one is to blame but mr. rabbit,' said striped chipmunk. "everywhere old mother nature inquired it was the same--mr. rabbit, mr. rabbit, mr. rabbit. "so then old mother nature sent for blustering great mr. north wind, who is very strong. and she sent for mr. rabbit. "mr. rabbit trembled in his shoes when he got old mother nature's message. he would have liked to run away and hide. but he did not dare do that, for he knew that there was nowhere he could hide that mother nature would not find him sooner or later. and besides, his curiosity would give him no peace. he just _had_ to know what old mother nature wanted. "so peter rabbit put on his best suit, which was very shabby, and set out for the lone pine to see what old mother nature wanted. when he got there, he found all the little people of the green meadows and all the little folks of the green forest there before him. there were reddy fox, johnny chuck, striped chipmunk, happy jack squirrel, mr. black snake, old mr. crow, sammy jay, billy mink, little joe otter, jerry muskrat, spotty the turtle, old king bear, his cousin, mr. coon, and all the other little people. "when he saw all who had gathered under the lone pine, and how they all looked crossly at him, mr. rabbit was so frightened that his heart went pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, and he wanted more than ever to run away. but he didn't dare to. no, sir, he didn't dare to. and then he was so curious to know what it all meant that he wouldn't have run if he had dared. "old mother nature made mr. rabbit sit up on an old log where all could see him. then in turn she asked each present who was the cause of all the trouble on the green meadows. and each in turn answered 'mr. rabbit.' "'mr. rabbit,' said old mother nature, 'you are lazy, for your cabbage patch has all gone to weeds. you are shiftless, for your house leaks. you are a sneak, for you creep up where you are not wanted and listen to things which do not concern you. you are a thief, for you steal the secrets of others. you are a prevaricator, for you tell things which are not so. mr. rabbit, you are all these--a lazy, shiftless sneak, thief and prevaricator.' "it was dreadful. mother nature paused, and mr. rabbit felt oh so ashamed. he did not look up, but he felt, he just _felt_, all the eyes of all the little meadow people and forest folk burning right into him. so he hung his head and two great tears fell splash, right at his feet. you see mr. rabbit wasn't altogether bad. it was just this dreadful curiosity. "old mother nature knew this and down in her heart she loved mr. rabbit and was oh so sorry for him. "'mr. rabbit,' continued old mother nature, 'because your curiosity is so great, your ears shall be made long, that every one who sees you may know that it is not safe to talk when you are near. because you are a sneak and steal up to people unseen, your-hind legs shall be made long, so that whenever you sit up straight you will be tall and every one can see you, and whenever you run, you will go with great jumps, and every one will know who it is running away. and because you are shiftless and your house leaks, you will hereafter live in a hole in the ground.' "then old mother nature took mr. rabbit by his two ears and big, strong mr. north wind took peter rabbit by his hind legs, and they both pulled. and when they put him down peter rabbit's ears and his hind legs were long, many times longer than they used to be. when he tried to run away to hide his shame, he found that the only way he could go was with great jumps, and you may be sure he jumped as fast as he could. "and ever since that long ago time, when the world was young, rabbits have had long ears and long hind legs, all because of the curiosity of their grandfather a thousand times removed. and now you know why peter rabbit's ears are long, and why he is always sitting up and listening," concluded great-grandfather frog. "thank you, thank you, grandfather frog!" shouted all the merry little breezes, and raced away to help old mother west wind drive up the wandering raincloud, which she had found at last. iv reddy fox disobeys on the brow of the hill by the lone pine sat reddy fox. every few moments he pointed his little black nose up at the round, yellow moon and barked. way over across the broad white meadows, which in summer time are green, you know, in the dooryard of farmer brown's house, bowser the hound sat and barked at the moon, too. "yap-yap-yap," barked reddy fox, as loud as he could. "bow-wow-wow," said bowser the hound in his deepest voice. then both would listen and watch the million little stars twinkle and twinkle in the frosty sky. now just why reddy fox should bark at the moon he did not know. he just had to. every night for a week he had sat at the foot of the lone pine and barked and barked until his throat was sore. every night old mother fox had warned him that noisy children would come to no good end, and every night reddy had promised that he would bark no more. but every night when the first silver flood of witching light crept over the hill and cast strange shadows from the naked branches of the trees, reddy forgot all about his promise. deep down under his little red coat was a strange feeling which he could not explain. he simply _must_ bark, so up to the lone pine he would go and yap and yap and yap, until all the little meadow people who were not asleep knew just where reddy fox was. bowser the hound knew, too, and he made up his mind that reddy fox was making fun of him. now bowser did not like to be made fun of any more than little boys and girls do, and he made up his mind that if ever he could break his chain, or that if ever farmer brown forgot to chain him up, he would teach reddy fox a lesson that reddy would never forget. "yap-yap-yap," barked reddy fox, and then listened to hear bowser's deep voice reply. but this time there was no reply. reddy listened, and listened, and then tried it again. way off on a distant hill he could hear hooty the owl. close by him jack frost was busy snapping sticks. down on the white meadows he could see jimmy skunk prowling about. once he heard a rooster crow sleepily in farmer brown's hen-house, but he thought of bowser the hound, and though his mouth watered, he did not dare risk a closer acquaintance with the big dog. so he sat still and barked, and pretty soon he forgot all else but the moon and the sound of his own voice. now bowser the hound had managed to slip his collar. "aha," thought bowser, "now i'll teach reddy fox to make fun of me," and like a shadow he slipped through the fence and across the white meadows towards the lone pine. reddy fox had just barked for the hundreth time when he heard a twig crack just back of him. it had a different sound from the noisy crack of jack frost, and reddy stopped a yap right in the middle and whirled about to see what it might be. there was bowser the hound almost upon him, his eyes flashing fire, his great, red jaws wide open, and every hair on his back bristling with rage. reddy fox didn't wait to say "good evening," or to see more. oh, no! he turned a back somersault and away he sped over the hard, snowy crust as fast as his legs could carry him. bowser baying at the moon he liked to hear, but bowser baying at his heels was another matter, and reddy ran as he had never run before. down across the white meadows he sped, bowser frightening all the echoes with the roar of his big voice as he followed in full cry. how reddy did wish that he had minded mother fox! how safe and snug and warm was his home under the roots of the old hickory tree, and how he did wish that he was safely there! but it would never do to go there now, for that would tell bowser where he lived, and bowser would take farmer brown there, and that would be the end of reddy fox and of mother fox and of all the brother and sister foxes. so reddy twisted and turned, and ran this way and ran that way, and the longer he ran, the shorter his breath grew. it was coming in great pants now. his bushy tail, of which he was so proud, had become very heavy. how reddy fox did wish and wish that he had minded mother fox! he twisted and turned, and doubled this way and that way, and all the time bowser the hound got closer and closer. now way off on the hill behind the white meadows mother fox had been hunting for her supper. she had heard the "yap-yap-yap" of reddy fox as he barked at the moon, and she had heard bowser baying over in the barnyard of farmer brown. then she had heard the "yap" of reddy fox cut short in the middle and the roar of bowser's big voice as he started to chase reddy fox. she knew that reddy could run fast, but she also knew that bowser the hound had a wonderful nose, and that bowser would never give up. so mother fox pattered down the crooked little path onto the white meadows, where she could see the chase. when she got near enough, she barked twice to tell reddy that she would help him. now reddy fox was so tired that he was almost in despair when he heard mother fox bark. but he knew that mother fox was so wise, and she had so often fooled bowser the hound, that if he could hold out just a little longer she would help him. so for a few minutes he ran faster than ever and he gained a long way on bowser the hound. as he passed a shock of corn that had been left standing on the white meadows, mother fox stepped out from behind it. "go home, reddy fox," said she, sharply, "go home and stay there until i come." then she deliberately sat down in front of the shock of corn to wait until bowser the hound should come in sight. now bowser the hound kept his eyes and nose on the track of reddy fox, looking up only once in a while to see where he was going, so he did not see reddy fox slip behind the corn shock, and when he did look up, he saw only mother fox sitting there waiting for him. now bowser the hound thinks slowly. when he saw old mother fox sitting there, he did not stop to think that it was not reddy fox whom he had been following, or he would have known better than to waste his time following old mother fox. he would have just hunted around until he had found where reddy had gone to. but bowser the hound thinks slowly. when he saw old mother fox sitting there, he thought it was reddy fox and that now he had him. with a great roar of his big voice, he sprang forward. mother fox waited until he was almost upon her, then springing to one side, she trotted off a little way. at once bowser the hound started after her. she pretended to be very tired. every time he rushed forward she managed to just slip out of his grasp. little by little she led him across the white meadows back towards farmer brown's barnyard. pretty soon old mother fox began to run as fast as she could, and that is very fast indeed. she left bowser the hound a long, long way behind. when she came to a stone wall she jumped up on the stone wall and ran along it, just like a squirrel. every once in a while she would make a long jump and then trot along a little way again. she knew that stones do not carry the scent well, and that bowser the hound would have hard work to smell her on the stone wall. way down at the end of the pasture an old apple tree stretched a long limb out towards the stone wall. when she got opposite to this she jumped onto this long limb and ran up into the tree. there in the crotch, close to the trunk, she sat and watched. bowser the hound, making a tremendous noise, followed her trail up to the stone wall. then he was puzzled. he sniffed this way, and he sniffed that way, but he could not tell where mother fox had disappeared to. he looked up at old mother moon and bayed and bayed, but old mother moon did not help him a bit. then he jumped over the stone wall and looked, and looked, and smelled, and smelled, but no track of mother fox could he find. then he ran up along the stone wall a little way, and then down along the stone wall a little way, but still he could not find a track of mother fox. the longer he hunted, the angrier he grew. old mother fox, sitting in the apple tree, watched him and laughed and laughed to herself. then when she grew tired of watching him, she made a long jump out into the field and trotted off home to punish reddy fox for his disobedience. when she got there she found reddy fox very much ashamed, very tired and very sorrowful, and since that time reddy fox has never barked at the moon. v striped chipmunk's pockets it was one of striped chipmunk's busy days. every day is a busy day with striped chipmunk at this season of the year, for the sweet acorns are ripe and the hickory nuts rattle down whenever old mother west wind shakes the trees, while every night jack frost opens chestnut burrs just to see the squirrels scamper for the plump brown nuts the next morning. so striped chipmunk was very busy, very busy indeed! he whisked in and out of the old stone wall along one edge of the green meadows. back and forth, back and forth, sometimes to the old hickory tree, sometimes to the hollow chestnut tree, sometimes to the great oak on the edge of the green forest striped chipmunk scampered. old mother west wind, coming down from the purple hills very early in the morning, had found striped chipmunk up before her and hard at work. later, when jolly, round, red mr. sun had climbed up into the sky, the merry little breezes had spied striped chipmunk whisking along the old stone wall and had raced over to play with him, for the merry little breezes are very fond of striped chipmunk. they got there just in time to see him disappear under a great stone in the old wall. in a minute he was out again and off as fast as he could go to the old hickory tree. "oh, striped chipmunk, come play with us," shouted the merry little breezes, running after him. but striped chipmunk just flirted his funny little tail and winked with both his bright eyes at them. "busy! busy! busy!" said striped chipmunk, hurrying along as fast as his short legs could take him. the merry little breezes laughed, and one of them, dancing ahead, pulled the funny little tail of striped chipmunk. "it's a beautiful day; do come and play with us," cried the merry little breeze. but striped chipmunk flirted his tail over his back once more. "busy! busy! busy!" he shouted over his shoulder and ran faster than ever. in a few minutes he was back again, but such a queer-looking fellow as he was! his head was twice as big as it had been before and you would hardly have known that it was striped chipmunk but for the saucy way he twitched his funny little tail and the spry way he scampered along the old stone wall. "oh, striped chipmunk's got the mumps!" shouted the merry little breezes. but striped chipmunk said never a word. he couldn't. he ran faster than ever until he disappeared under the big stone. when he popped his head out again he was just his usual saucy little self. "say, striped chipmunk," cried the merry little breezes, rushing over to him, "tell us how you happen to have pockets in your cheeks." but striped chipmunk just snapped his bright eyes at them and said "busy! busy! busy!" as he scuttled over to the hollow chestnut tree. the merry little breezes saw that it was no use at all to try to tempt striped chipmunk to play with them or to answer questions. "i tell you what," cried one, "let's go ask great-grandfather frog how striped chipmunk happens to have pockets in his cheeks. he'll know." so away they started, after they had raced over to the big hollow chestnut tree and sent a shower of brown nuts rattling down to striped chipmunk from the burrs that jack frost had opened the night before. "good-bye, striped chipmunk," they shouted as they romped across the green meadows. and striped chipmunk stopped long enough to shout "good-bye" before he filled his pockets with the brown nuts. old grandfather frog sat on his big green lily pad blinking in the sun. it was very still, very, very still indeed. suddenly out of the brown bulrushes burst the merry little breezes and surrounded old grandfather frog. and every one of them had brought to him a fat, foolish, green fly. grandfather's big goggly eyes sparkled and he gave a funny little hop up into the air as he caught each foolish green fly. when the last one was safely inside his white and yellow waistcoat he settled himself comfortably on the big green lily pad and folded his hands over the foolish green flies. "chug-a-rum!" said grandfather frog. "what is it you want this morning?" "oh, grandfather frog," cried the merry little breezes, "tell us how it happens that striped chipmunk has pockets in his cheeks. do tell us, grandfather frog. please do!" "chug-a-rum," said grandfather frog. "how should i know?" "but you do know, grandfather frog, you know you do. please tell us!" cried the merry little breezes as they settled themselves among the rushes. and presently grandfather frog began: "once upon a time--a long, long while ago--" "when the world was young?" asked a mischievous little breeze. grandfather frog pretended to be very much put out by the interruption, and tried to look very severe. but the merry little breezes were all giggling, so that presently he had to smile too. "yes," said he, "it was when the world was young, before old king bear became king. mr. chipmunk, striped chipmunk's great-great-great-grandfather a thousand times removed, was the smallest of the squirrels, just as striped chipmunk is now. but he didn't mind that, not the least little bit. mr. gray squirrel was four times as big and had a handsome tail, mr. fox squirrel was four times as big and he also had a handsome tail, mr. red squirrel was twice as big and he thought his tail was very good to see. but mr. chipmunk didn't envy his big cousins their fine tails; not he! you see he had himself a beautiful striped coat of which he was very proud and which he thought much more to be desired than a big tail. "so mr. chipmunk went his way happy and contented and he was such a merry little fellow and so full of fun and cut such funny capers that everybody loved mr. chipmunk. "one day, when the nights were cool and all the trees had put on their brilliant colors, old mother nature sent word down across the green meadows that every squirrel should gather for her and store away until she came a thousand nuts. now the squirrels had grown fat and lazy through the long summer, all but mr. chipmunk, who frisked about so much that he had no chance to grow fat. "mr. gray squirrel grumbled. mr. fox squirrel grumbled. mr. red squirrel grumbled. but they didn't dare disobey old mother nature, so they all set out, each to gather a thousand nuts. and mr. chipmunk alone was pleasant and cheerful. "when they reached the nut trees, what do you suppose they discovered? why, that they had been so greedy that they had eaten most of the nuts and it was going to be hard work to find and store a thousand nuts for old mother nature. then they began to hurry, did mr. gray squirrel and mr. fox squirrel and mr. red squirrel, each trying to make sure of his thousand nuts. they quarreled and they fought over the nuts on the ground and even up in the trees. and because they were so big and so strong, they pushed mr. chipmunk this way and they pushed him that way and often just as he was going to pick up a fat nut one of them would knock him over and make off with the prize. "poor mr. chipmunk kept his temper and was as polite as ever, but how he did work! his cousins are great climbers and could get the nuts still left on the trees, but mr. chipmunk is a poor climber, so he had to be content with those on the ground. of course he could carry only one nut at a time and his legs were so short that he had to run as fast as ever he could to store each nut in his secret store-house and get back for another. and while the others quarreled and fought, he hurried back and forth, back and forth, from early morning until jolly, round, red mr. sun pulled his night cap on behind the purple hills, hunting for nuts and putting them away in his secret store-house. "but the nuts grew scarcer and scarcer on the ground and harder to find, for the other squirrels were picking them up too, and then they did not have so far to carry them. "sometimes one of his cousins up in the trees would drop a nut, but mr. chipmunk never would take it, not even when he was having hard work to find any, 'for,' said he to himself, 'if my cousin drops a nut, it is his nut just the same.' "finally mr. gray squirrel announced that he had got his thousand nuts. then mr. fox squirrel announced that he had got his thousand nuts. the next day mr. red squirrel stopped hunting because he had his thousand nuts. "but mr. chipmunk had hardly more than half as many. and that night he made a dreadful discovery--some one had found his secret store-house and had _stolen_ some of his precious nuts. "'it's of no use to cry over what can't be helped,' said mr. chipmunk, and the next morning he bravely started out again. he had worked so hard that he had grown thinner and thinner until now he was only a shadow of his old self. but he was as cheerful as ever and kept right on hunting and hunting for stray nuts. mr. gray squirrel and mr. fox squirrel and mr. red squirrel sat around and rested and made fun of him. way up in the tops of the tallest trees a few nuts still clung, but his cousins did not once offer to go up and shake them down for mr. chipmunk. "and then old mother nature came down across the green meadows. first mr. gray squirrel took her to his storehouse and she counted his thousand nuts. then mr. fox squirrel led her to his storehouse and she counted his thousand nuts. then mr. red squirrel showed her his store-house and she counted his thousand nuts. "last of all mr. chipmunk led her to his secret store-house and showed her the pile of nuts he had worked so hard to get. old mother nature didn't need to count them to see that there were not a thousand there. "'i've done the best i could,' said mr. chipmunk bravely, and he trembled all over, he was so tired. "old mother nature said never a word but went out on the green meadows and sent the merry little breezes to call together all the little meadow people and all the little forest folks. when they had all gathered before her she suddenly turned to mr. gray squirrel. "'go bring me a hundred nuts from your store-house,' said she. "then she turned to mr. fox squirrel. "'go bring me a hundred nuts from your store-house,' said she. "last of all she called mr. red squirrel out where all could see him. mr. red squirrel crept out very slowly. his teeth chattered and his tail, of which he was so proud, dragged on the ground, for you see mr. red squirrel had something on his mind. "then old mother nature told how she had ordered each squirrel to get and store for her a thousand nuts. she told just how selfish mr. gray squirrel and mr. fox squirrel had been. she told just how hard mr. chipmunk had worked and then she told how part of his precious store had been stolen. "'and there,' said old mother nature in a loud voice so that every one should hear, 'there is the thief!' "then she commanded mr. red squirrel to go to his store-house and bring her half of the biggest and best nuts he had there! "mr. red squirrel sneaked off with his head hanging, and began to bring the nuts. and as he tramped back and forth, back and forth, all the little meadow people and all the little forest folks pointed their fingers at him and cried 'thief! thief! thief!' "when all the nuts had been brought to her by mr. gray squirrel and mr. fox squirrel and mr. red squirrel, old mother nature gathered them all up and put them in the secret store-house of mr. chipmunk. then she set mr. chipmunk up on an old stump where all could see him and she said: "'mr. chipmunk, because you have been faithful, because you have been cheerful, because you have done your best, henceforth you shall have two pockets, one in each cheek, so that you can carry two nuts at once, that you may not have to work so hard the next time i tell you to store a thousand nuts.' "and all the little meadow people and all the little forest folks shouted 'hurrah for mr. chipmunk!' all but his cousins, mr. gray squirrel and mr. fox squirrel and mr. red squirrel, who hid themselves for shame. "and ever since that time long ago, when the world was young, the chipmunks have had pockets in their cheeks. "you can't fool old mother nature," concluded great-grandfather frog. "no, sir, you can't fool old mother nature and it's no use to try." "thank you, thank you," cried the merry little breezes, clapping their hands. then they all raced across the green meadows to shake down some more nuts for striped chipmunk. vi reddy fox, the boaster johnny chuck waddled down the lone little path across the green meadows. johnny chuck was very fat and rolly-poly. his yellow brown coat fitted him so snugly that it seemed as if it must burst. johnny chuck was feeling very happy--very happy indeed, for you see johnny chuck long ago found the best thing in the world, which is contentment. jolly, round, red mr. sun, looking down from the sky, smiled and smiled to see johnny chuck waddling down the lone little path, for he loved the merry-hearted little fellow, as do all the little meadow people--all but reddy fox, for reddy fox has not forgotten the surprise johnny chuck once gave him and how he called him a "'fraid cat." once in a while johnny chuck stopped to brush his coat carefully, for he is very particular about his appearance, is johnny chuck. by and by he came to the old butternut tree down by the smiling pool. he could see it a long time before he reached it, and up in the top of it he could see blacky the crow flapping his wings and cawing at the top of his voice. "there must be something going on," said johnny chuck to himself, and began to waddle faster. he looked so very queer when he tried to hurry that jolly round, red mr. sun smiled more than ever. when he was almost to the old butter-nut tree johnny chuck sat up very straight so that his head came just above the tall meadow grasses beside the lone little path. he could see the merry little breezes dancing and racing under the old butternut tree and having such a good time! and he could see the long ears of peter rabbit standing up straight above the tall meadow grasses. one of the merry little breezes spied johnny chuck. "hurry up, johnny chuck!" he shouted, and johnny chuck hurried. when he reached the old butternut tree he was all out of breath. he was puffing and blowing and he was so warm that he wished just for a minute, a single little minute, that he could swim like billy mink and jerry muskrat and little joe otter, so that he could jump into the smiling pool and cool off. "hello, johnny chuck!" shouted peter rabbit. "hello yourself, and see how you like it!" replied johnny chuck. "hello myself!" said peter rabbit. and then because it was so very foolish everybody laughed. it is a good thing to feel foolishly happy on a beautiful sunshiny day, especially down on the green meadows. jimmy skunk was there. he was feeling very, very good indeed, was jimmy skunk, for he had found some very fine beetles for his breakfast. little joe otter was there, and billy mink and jerry muskrat and happy jack squirrel, and of course reddy fox was there. oh my, yes, of course reddy fox was there! reddy fox never misses a chance to show off. he was wearing his very newest red coat and his whitest waistcoat. he had brushed his tail till it looked very handsome, and every few minutes he would turn and admire it. reddy fox thought himself a very fine gentleman. he admired himself and he wanted every one else to admire him. "let's do stunts," said peter rabbit. "i can jump farther than anybody here!" then peter rabbit jumped a tremendously long jump. then everybody jumped, everybody but reddy fox. even johnny chuck jumped, and because he was so rolly-poly he tumbled over and over and everybody laughed and johnny chuck laughed loudest of all. and because his hind legs are long and meant for jumping peter rabbit had jumped farther than any one else. "i can climb to the top of the old butternut tree quicker than anybody else," cried happy jack squirrel, and away he started with bobby coon and billy mink after him, for though billy mink is a famous swimmer and can run swiftly, he can also climb when he has to. but happy jack squirrel was at the top of the old butternut tree almost before the others had started. the merry little breezes clapped their hands and everybody shouted for happy jack squirrel, everybody but reddy fox. "i can swim faster than anybody here," shouted little joe otter. in a flash three little brown coats splashed into the smiling pool so suddenly that they almost upset great-grandfather frog watching from his big green lily pad. they belonged to little joe otter, billy mink and jerry muskrat. across the smiling pool and back again they raced and little joe otter was first out on the bank. "hurrah for little joe otter!" shouted blacky the crow. and everybody shouted "hurrah!" everybody but reddy fox. "what can you do, jimmy skunk?" asked peter rabbit, dancing up and down, he was so excited. jimmy skunk yawned lazily. "i can throw a wonderful perfume farther than anybody here," said jimmy skunk. "we know it! we know it!" shouted the merry little breezes as everybody tumbled heels over head away from jimmy skunk, even reddy fox. "but please don't!" and jimmy skunk didn't. then they all came back, reddy fox carefully brushing his handsome red coat which had become sadly mussed, he had fled in such a hurry. now for the first time in his life johnny chuck began to feel just a wee, wee bit discontented. what was there he could do better than any one else? he couldn't jump and he couldn't climb and he couldn't swim. he couldn't even run fast, because he was so fat and round and rolly-poly. he quite forgot that he was so sunny-hearted and good-natured that everybody loved him, everybody but reddy fox. just then reddy fox began to boast, for reddy fox is a great boaster. "pooh!" said reddy fox, "pooh! anybody could jump if their legs were made for jumping. and what's the good of climbing trees anyway? now i can run faster than anybody here--faster than anybody in the whole world!" said reddy fox, puffing himself out. "chug-a-rum," said grandfather frog. "you can't beat spotty the turtle." then everyone shouted and rolled over and over in the grass, they were so tickled, for every one remembered how spotty the turtle had once won a race from reddy fox. for a minute reddy fox looked very foolish. then he lost his temper, which is a very unwise thing to do, for it is hard to find again. he swelled himself out until every hair stood on end and he looked twice as big as he did before. he strutted up and down and glared at each in turn. "and i'm not afraid of any living thing on the green meadows!" boasted reddy fox. "chug-a-rum," said grandfather frog. "do i see bowser the hound?" every hair on reddy fox suddenly fell back into place. he whirled about nervously and anxiously looked over the green meadows. then everybody shouted again and rolled over and over in the grass and held on to their sides, for you see bowser the hound wasn't there at all. but everybody took good care to keep away from reddy fox, everybody but johnny chuck. he just sat still and chuckled and chuckled till his fat sides shook. "what are you laughing at?" demanded reddy fox. "i was just thinking," said johnny chuck, "that though you can run so fast, you can't even catch me." reddy fox just glared at him for a minute, he was so mad. then he sprang straight at johnny chuck. "i'll show you!" he snarled. now johnny chuck had been sitting close beside a hole that grandfather chuck had dug a long time before and which was empty. in a flash johnny chuck disappeared head first in the hole. now the hole was too small for reddy fox to enter, but he was so angry that he straightway began to dig it larger. my, how the sand did fly! it poured out behind reddy fox in a stream of shining yellow. johnny chuck ran down the long tunnel underground until he reached the end. then when he heard reddy fox digging and knew that he was really coming, johnny chuck began to dig, too, only instead of digging down he dug up towards the sunshine and the blue sky. my, how his short legs did fly and his stout little claws dug into the soft earth! his little forepaws flew so fast that if you had been there you could hardly have seen them at all. and with his strong hind legs he kicked the sand right back into the face of reddy fox. all the little meadow people gathered around the hole where johnny chuck and reddy fox had disappeared. they were very anxious, very anxious indeed. would reddy fox catch johnny chuck? and what would he do to him? was all their fun to end in something terrible to sunny-hearted, merry johnny chuck, whom everybody loved? all of a sudden, pop! right out of the solid earth among the daisies and buttercups, just like a jack-in-the-box, came johnny chuck! he looked very warm and a little tired, but he was still chuckling as he scampered across to another hole of grandfather chuck's. by and by something else crawled out of the hole johnny chuck had made. could it be reddy fox? where were his white waistcoat and beautiful red coat? and was that thing dragging behind him his splendid tail? he crept out of the hole and then just lay down and panted for breath. he was almost too tired to move. then he began to spit sand out of his mouth and blow it out of his nose and try to wipe it out of his eyes. the long hair of his fine coat was filled full of sand and no one would ever have guessed that this was reddy fox. "haw! haw! haw!" shouted blacky the crow. then everybody shouted "haw! haw! haw!" and began to roll in the grass and hold on to their sides once more; everybody but reddy fox. when he could get his breath he didn't look this way or that way, but just sneaked off to his home under the big hickory. [illustration: then everybody shouted "haw! haw! haw!"] and when old mother west wind came with her big bag to take the merry little breezes to their home behind the purple hills, johnny chuck waddled back up the lone little path chuckling to himself, for that little feeling of discontent was all gone. he had found that after all he could do something better than anybody else on the green meadows, for in his heart he knew that none could dig so fast as he. vii johnny chuck's secret johnny chuck pushed up the last bit of gravel from the hole he had dug between the roots of the old apple tree in a corner of the green meadows. he smoothed it down on the big, yellow mound he had made in front of his door. then he sat up very straight on top of the mound, brushed his coat, shook the sand from his trousers and carefully cleaned his hands. after he had rested a bit, he turned around and looked at his new home, for that is what it was, although he had not come there to live yet, and no one knew of it, no one but jolly, round, red mr. sun, who, peeping between the branches of the old apple tree, had caught johnny chuck at work. but _he_ wouldn't tell, not jolly mr. sun! looking down from the blue sky every day he sees all sorts of queer things and he learns all kinds of secrets, does mr. sun, but he never, never tells. no, sir! mr. sun never tells one of them, not even to old mother west wind when at night they go down together behind the purple hills. so jolly, round, red mr. sun just smiled and smiled when he discovered johnny chuck's secret, for that is just what the new home under the apple tree was--a secret. not even the merry little breezes, who find out almost everything, had discovered it. johnny chuck chuckled to himself as he planned a back door, a beautiful back door, hidden behind a tall clump of meadow grass where no one would think to look for a door. when he had satisfied himself as to just where he would put it, he once more sat up very straight on his nice, new mound and looked this way and looked that way to be sure that no one was near. then he started for his old home along a secret little path he had made for himself. pretty soon he came to the lone little path that went past his own home. he danced and he skipped along the lone little path, and, because he was so happy, he tried to turn a somersault. but johnny chuck was so round and fat and rolly-poly that he just tumbled over in a heap. "well, well, well! what's the matter with you?" said a voice close beside him before he could pick himself up. it was jimmy skunk, who was out looking for some beetles for his dinner. johnny chuck scrambled to his feet and looked foolish, very foolish indeed. "there's nothing the matter with me, jimmy skunk," said johnny. "there's nothing the matter with me. it's just because i've got a secret." "a secret!" cried jimmy skunk. "what is it?" "yes, a secret, a really, truly secret," said johnny chuck, and looked very important. "tell me, johnny chuck. come on, tell just _me_, and then we'll have the secret together," begged jimmy skunk. now johnny chuck was so tickled with his secret that it seemed as if he _must_ share it with some one. he just couldn't keep it to himself any longer. "you won't tell any one?" said johnny chuck. jimmy skunk promised that he wouldn't tell a soul. "cross your heart," commanded johnny chuck. jimmy skunk crossed his heart. then johnny chuck looked this way and looked that way to be sure that no one was listening. finally he whispered in jimmy skunk's ear: "i've got a new home under the old apple tree in a corner of the green meadows," said johnny chuck. of course jimmy skunk was very much surprised and very much interested, so johnny chuck told him all about it. "now, remember, it's a secret," said johnny chuck, as jimmy skunk started off down the lone little path across the green meadows, to look for some beetles. "i'll remember," said jimmy skunk. "and don't tell!" called johnny chuck. jimmy skunk promised that he wouldn't tell. then johnny chuck started off up the lone little path, whistling, and jimmy skunk trotted down the lone little path onto the green meadows. jimmy skunk was thinking so much about johnny chuck's new home that he quite forgot to look for beetles, and he almost ran into peter rabbit. "hello, jimmy skunk," said peter rabbit, "can't you see where you are going? it must be you have something on your mind; what is it?" "i was thinking of johnny chuck's new home," said jimmy skunk. "johnny chuck's new home!" exclaimed peter rabbit. "has johnny chuck got a new home? where is it?" "under the roots of the old apple tree in a corner of the green meadows," said jimmy skunk, and then he clapped both hands over his mouth. you see he hadn't really meant to tell. it just slipped out. "oh, but it's a secret!" cried jimmy skunk. "it's a secret, and you mustn't tell. i guess johnny chuck won't mind if you know, peter rabbit, but you mustn't tell any one else." peter rabbit promised he wouldn't. now peter rabbit is very inquisitive, very inquisitive indeed. so as soon as he had parted from jimmy skunk he made up his mind that he must see the new home of johnny chuck. so off he started as fast as he could go towards the old apple tree in a corner of the green meadows. half way there he met reddy fox. "hello, peter rabbit! where are you going in such a hurry?" asked reddy fox. "over to the old apple tree to see johnny chuck's new home," replied peter rabbit as he tried to dodge past reddy fox. then of a sudden he remembered and clapped both hands over his mouth. "oh, but it's a secret, reddy fox. it's a secret, and you mustn't tell!" cried peter rabbit. but reddy fox wouldn't promise that he wouldn't tell, for in spite of his handsome coat and fine manners, reddy fox is a scamp. and, besides, he has no love for johnny chuck, for he has not forgotten how johnny chuck once made him run and called him a "'fraid cat." so when reddy fox left peter rabbit he grinned a wicked grin and hurried off to find bobby coon. he met him on his way to the laughing brook. reddy fox told bobby coon all about johnny chuck's secret and then hurried away after peter rabbit, for reddy fox also is very inquisitive. bobby coon went on down to the laughing brook. there he met billy mink and told him about the new home johnny chuck had made under the old apple tree in a corner of the green meadows. pretty soon billy mink met little joe otter and told him. then little joe otter met jerry muskrat and told him. jerry muskrat saw blacky the crow and told him, and great-grandfather frog heard him. blacky the crow met his first cousin, sammy jay, and told him. sammy jay met happy jack squirrel and told him. happy jack met his cousin, striped chipmunk, and told him. striped chipmunk passed the house of old mr. toad and told him. the next morning, very early, before old mother west wind had come down from the purple hills, johnny chuck stole over to his new home to begin work on his new back door. he had hardly begun to dig when he heard some one cough right behind him. he whirled around and there sat peter rabbit looking as innocent and surprised as if he had really just discovered the new home for the first time. "what a splendid new home you have, johnny chuck!" said peter rabbit. "y--e--s," said johnny chuck, slowly. "it's a secret," he added suddenly. "you won't tell, will you, peter rabbit?" peter rabbit promised that he wouldn't tell. then johnny chuck felt better and went back to work as soon as peter rabbit left. he had hardly begun, however, when some one just above him said: "good morning, johnny chuck." johnny chuck looked up and there in the old apple tree sat blacky the crow and his cousin, sammy jay. just then there was a rustle in the grass and out popped billy mink and little joe otter and jerry muskrat and happy jack squirrel and striped chipmunk and bobby coon. when johnny chuck had recovered from his surprise and looked over to the doorway of his new home there sat reddy fox on johnny chuck's precious new mound. it seemed as if all the little meadow people were there, all but jimmy skunk, who wisely stayed away. "we've come to see your new home," said striped chipmunk, "and we think it's the nicest home we've seen for a long time." "it's so nicely hidden away, it's really quite secret," said reddy fox, grinning wickedly. just then up raced the merry little breezes and one of them had a message for johnny chuck from great-grandfather frog. it was this: "whisper a secret to a friend and you shout it in the ear of the whole world." after every one had admired the new home, they said good-bye and scattered over the green meadows. then johnny chuck began to dig again, but this time he wasn't making his new back door. no indeed! johnny chuck was digging at that new mound of yellow gravel of which he had been so proud. jolly, round, red mr. sun blinked to be sure that he saw aright, for johnny chuck was _filling up his new home_ between the roots of the old apple tree. when he got through, there wasn't any new home. then johnny chuck brushed his coat carefully, shook the sand out of his trousers, wiped his hands and started off for his old home. and this time he didn't take his special hidden path, for johnny chuck didn't care who saw him go. late that afternoon, johnny chuck sat on his old doorstep, with his chin in his hands, watching old mother west wind gathering her merry little breezes into the big bag in which she carries them to their home behind the purple hills. "'whisper a secret to a friend and you shout it in the ear of the whole world.' now what did grandfather frog mean by that?" thought johnny chuck. "now i didn't tell anybody but jimmy skunk and jimmy skunk didn't tell anyone but peter rabbit and--and--" then johnny chuck began to chuckle and finally to laugh. "'whisper a secret to a friend and you shout it in the ear of the whole world.' my gracious, what a loud voice i must have had and didn't know it!" said johnny chuck, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes. and the next day johnny chuck started to make a new home. where? oh, that's johnny chuck's secret. and no one but jolly, round, red mr. sun has found it out yet. viii johnny chuck's great fight johnny chuck sat on the doorstep of his new home, looking away across the green meadows. johnny chuck felt very well satisfied with himself and with all the world. he yawned lazily and stretched and stretched and then settled himself comfortably to watch the merry little breezes playing down by the smiling pool. by and by he saw peter rabbit go bobbing along down the lone little path. lipperty, lipperty, lip, went peter rabbit and every other jump he looked behind him. "now what is peter rabbit up to?" said johnny chuck to himself, "and what does he keep looking behind him for?" johnny chuck sat up a little straighter to watch peter rabbit hop down the lone little path. then of a sudden he caught sight of something that made him sit up straighter than ever and open his eyes very wide. something was following peter rabbit. yes, sir, something was bobbing along right at peter rabbit's heels. johnny chuck forgot the merry little breezes. he forgot how warm it was and how lazy he felt. he forgot everything else in his curiosity to learn what it could be following so closely at peter rabbit's heels. presently peter rabbit stopped and sat up very straight and then--johnny chuck nearly tumbled over in sheer surprise! he rubbed his eyes to make sure that he saw aright, for there were two peter rabbits! yes, sir, there were _two_ peter rabbits, only one was very small, very small indeed. "oh!" said johnny chuck, "that must be peter rabbit's baby brother!" then he began to chuckle till his fat sides shook. there sat peter rabbit with his funny long ears standing straight up, and there right behind him, dressed exactly like him, sat peter rabbit's baby brother with _his_ funny little long ears standing straight up. when peter rabbit wiggled _his_ right ear, his baby brother wiggled his right ear. when peter rabbit scratched his left ear, his baby brother scratched _his_ left ear. whatever peter rabbit did, his baby brother did too. presently peter rabbit started on down the lone little path--lipperty, lipperty, lip, and right at his heels went his baby brother--lipperty, lipperty, lip. johnny chuck watched them out of sight, and then he settled himself on his doorstep once more to enjoy a sun bath. every once in a while he chuckled to himself as he remembered how funny peter rabbit's baby brother had looked. presently johnny chuck fell asleep. jolly, round, red mr. sun had climbed quite high in the sky when johnny chuck awoke. he yawned and stretched and stretched and yawned, and then he sat up to look over the green meadows. then he became wide awake, very wide awake indeed! way down on the green meadows he caught a glimpse of something red jumping about in the long meadow grass. "that must be reddy fox," thought johnny chuck. "yes, it surely is reddy fox. now i wonder what mischief he is up to." then he saw all the merry little breezes racing towards reddy fox as fast as they could go. and there was sammy jay screaming at the top of his voice, and his cousin, blacky the crow. happy jack squirrel was dancing up and down excitedly on the branch of an old elm close by. johnny chuck waited to see no more, but started down the lone little path to find out what it all was about. half way down the lone little path he met peter rabbit running as hard as he could. his long ears were laid flat back, his big eyes seemed to pop right out of his head, and he was running as johnny chuck had never seen him run before. "what are you running so for, peter rabbit?" asked johnny chuck. "to get bowser the hound," shouted peter rabbit over his shoulder, as he tried to run faster. "now what can be the matter?" said johnny chuck to himself, "to send peter rabbit after bowser the hound?" he knew that, like all the other little meadow people, there was nothing of which peter rabbit was so afraid as farmer brown's great dog, bowser the hound. johnny chuck hurried down the lone little path as fast as his short legs could take his fat, rolly-poly self. presently he came out onto the green meadows, and there he saw a sight that set every nerve in his round little body a-tingle with rage. reddy fox had found peter rabbit's baby brother and was doing his best to frighten him to death. "i'm going to eat you now," shouted reddy fox, and then he sprang on peter rabbit's baby brother and gave him a cuff that sent him heels over head sprawling in the grass. "coward! coward, reddy fox!" shrieked sammy jay. "shame! shame!" shouted the merry little breezes. "you're nothing but a great big bully!" yelled blacky the crow. but no one did anything to help peter rabbit's baby brother, for reddy fox is so much bigger than any of the rest of them, except bobby coon, that all the little meadow people are afraid of him. but reddy fox just laughed at them, and nipped the long ears of peter rabbit's little brother so hard that he cried with the pain. now all were so intent watching reddy fox torment the baby brother of peter rabbit that no one had seen johnny chuck coming down the lone little path. and for a few minutes no one recognized the furious little yellow-brown bundle that suddenly knocked reddy fox over and seized him by the throat. you see it didn't look a bit like johnny chuck. every hair was standing on end, he was so mad, and this made him appear twice as big as they had ever seen him before. "coward! coward! coward!" shrieked johnny chuck as he shook reddy fox by the throat. and then began the greatest fight that the green meadows had ever seen. now johnny chuck is not naturally a fighter. oh my, no! he is so good-natured and so sunny-hearted that he seldom quarrels with any one. but when he has to fight, there isn't a cowardly hair on him, not the teeniest, weeniest one. no one ever has a chance to cry, "'fraid cat! cry baby!" after johnny chuck. so though, like all the other little meadow people, he was usually just a little afraid of reddy fox, because reddy is so much bigger, he forgot all about it as soon as he caught sight of reddy fox tormenting peter rabbit's little brother. he didn't stop to think of what might happen to himself. he didn't stop to think at all. he just gritted his teeth and in a flash had reddy fox on his back. such a fight was never seen before on the green meadows! reddy fox is a bully and a coward, for he never fights with any one of his own size if he can help it, but when he has to fight, he fights hard. and he certainly had to fight now. "bully!" hissed johnny chuck as with his stout little hind feet he ripped the bright red coat of reddy fox. "you great big bully!" over and over they rolled, johnny chuck on top, then reddy fox on top, then johnny chuck up again, clawing and snarling. it seemed as if news of the fight had gone over all the green meadows, for the little meadow people came running from every direction--billy mink, little joe otter, jerry muskrat, striped chipmunk, jimmy skunk, old mr. toad. even great-grandfather frog, who left his big lily pad, and came hurrying with great jumps across the green meadows. they formed a ring around reddy fox and johnny chuck and danced with excitement. and all wanted johnny chuck to win. peter rabbit's poor little brother, so sore and lame from the knocking about from reddy fox, and so frightened that he hardly dared breathe, lay flat on the ground under a little bush and was forgotten by all but the merry little breezes, who covered him up with some dead grass, and kissed him and whispered to him not to be afraid now. how peter rabbit's little brother did hope that johnny chuck would win! his great, big, round, soft eyes were wide with terror as he thought of what might happen to him if reddy fox should whip johnny chuck. but reddy fox wasn't whipping johnny chuck. try as he would, he could not get a good hold on that round, fat, little body. and johnny chuck's stout claws were ripping his red coat and white vest and johnny chuck's sharp teeth were gripping him so that they could not be shaken loose. pretty soon reddy fox began to think of nothing but getting away. every one was shouting for johnny chuck. every time reddy fox was underneath, he would hear a great shout from all the little meadow people, and he knew that they were glad. now johnny chuck was round and fat and rolly-poly, and when one is round and fat and rolly-poly, one's breath is apt to be short. so it was with johnny chuck. he had fought so hard that his breath was nearly gone. finally he loosed his hold on reddy fox for just a second to draw in a good breath. reddy fox saw his chance, and, with a quick pull and spring, he broke away. how all the little meadow people did scatter! you see they were very brave, very brave indeed, so long as johnny chuck had reddy fox down, but now that reddy fox was free, each one was suddenly afraid and thought only of himself. jimmy skunk knocked jerry muskrat flat in his hurry to get away. billy mink trod on great-grandfather frog's big feet and didn't even say "excuse me." striped chipmunk ran head first into a big thistle and squealed as much from fear as pain. but reddy fox paid no attention to any of them. he just wanted to get away, and off he started, limping as fast as he could go up the lone little path. such a looking sight! his beautiful red coat was in tatters. his face was scratched. he hobbled as he ran. and just as he broke away, johnny chuck made a grab and pulled a great mouthful of hair out of the splendid tail reddy fox was so proud of. when the little meadow people saw that reddy fox was actually running away, they stopped running themselves, and all began to shout: "reddy fox is a coward and a bully! coward! coward!" then they crowded around johnny chuck and all began talking at once about his great fight. just then they heard a great noise up on the hill. they saw reddy fox coming back down the lone little path, and he was using his legs just as well as he knew how. right behind him, his great mouth open and waking all the echoes with his big voice, was bowser the hound. you see, although peter rabbit couldn't fight for his little baby brother and is usually very, very timid, he isn't altogether a coward. indeed, he had been very brave, very brave indeed. he had gone up to farmer brown's and had jumped right under the nose of bowser the hound. now that is something that bowser the hound never can stand. so off he had started after peter rabbit. and peter rabbit had started back for the green meadows as fast as his long legs could take him, for he knew that if once bowser the hound caught sight of reddy fox, he would forget all about such a little thing as a saucy rabbit. sure enough, half way down the lone little path they met reddy fox sneaking off home, and, when bowser the hound saw him, he straightway forgot all about peter rabbit, and, with a great roar, started after reddy fox. when johnny chuck had carefully brushed his coat and all the little meadow people had wished him good luck, he started off up the lone little path for home, the merry little breezes dancing ahead and peter rabbit coming lipperty, lipperty, lip behind, and right between them hopped peter rabbit's little brother, who thought johnny chuck the greatest hero in the world. when they reached johnny chuck's old home, peter rabbit and peter rabbit's little brother tried to tell him how thankful they were to him, but johnny chuck just laughed and said: "it was nothing at all, just nothing at all." when at last all had gone, even the merry little breezes, johnny chuck slipped away to his new home, which is his secret, you know, which no one knows but jolly, round, red mr. sun, who won't tell. "i hope," said johnny chuck, as he stretched himself out on the mound of warm sand by his doorway, for he was very tired, "i hope," said johnny chuck, sighing contentedly, "that reddy fox got away from bowser the hound!" and reddy fox did. ix mr. toad's old suit peter rabbit was tired and very sleepy as he hopped along the crooked little path down the hill. he could see old mother west wind just emptying her merry little breezes out of her big bag onto the green meadows to play all the bright summer day. peter rabbit yawned and yawned again as he watched them dance over to the smiling pool. then he hopped on down the crooked little path towards home. sammy jay, sitting on a fence post, saw him coming. "peter rabbit out all night! oh my goodness what a sight! peter rabbit, reprobate! no good end will be your fate!" shouted sammy jay. peter rabbit ran out his tongue at sammy jay. "who stole happy jack's nuts? thief! thief! thief!" shouted peter rabbit at sammy jay, and kept on down the crooked little path. it was true--peter rabbit had been out all night playing in the moonlight, stealing a midnight feast in farmer brown's cabbage patch and getting into mischief with bobby coon. now when most of the little meadow people were just waking up peter rabbit was thinking of bed. presently he came to a big piece of bark which is the roof of mr. toad's house. mr. toad was sitting in his doorway blinking at jolly, round, red mr. sun, who had just begun to climb up the sky. "good morning, mr. toad," said peter rabbit. "good morning," said mr. toad. "you're looking very fine this morning, mr. toad," said peter rabbit. "i'm feeling very fine this morning," said mr. toad. "why, my gracious, you have on a new suit, mr. toad!" exclaimed peter rabbit. "well, what if i have, peter rabbit?" demanded mr. toad. "oh, nothing, nothing, nothing at all, mr. toad, nothing at all," said peter rabbit hastily, "only i didn't know you ever had a new suit. what have you done with your old suit, mr. toad?" "swallowed it," said mr. toad shortly, turning his back on peter rabbit. and that was all peter rabbit could get out of mr. toad, so he started on down the crooked little path. now peter rabbit has a great deal of curiosity and is forever poking into other people's affairs. the more he thought about it the more he wondered what mr. toad could have done with his old suit. of course he hadn't _swallowed_ it! who ever heard of such a thing! the more he thought of it the more peter rabbit felt that he must know what mr. toad had done with his old suit. by this time he had forgotten that he had been out all night. he had forgotten that he was sleepy. he had got to find out about mr. toad's old suit. "i'll just run over to the smiling pool and ask grandfather frog. he'll surely know what mr. toad does with his old suits," said peter rabbit, and began to hop faster. when he reached the smiling pool there sat great-grandfather frog on his big green lily pad as usual. there was a hungry look in his big goggly eyes, for it was so early that no foolish, green flies had come his way yet. but peter rabbit was too full of curiosity in mr. toad's affairs to notice this. "good morning, grandfather frog," said peter rabbit. "good morning," replied grandfather frog a wee bit gruffly. "you're looking very fine this morning, grandfather frog," said peter rabbit. "not so fine as i'd feel if i had a few fat, foolish, green flies," said grandfather frog. "i've just met your cousin, mr. toad, and he has on a new suit," said peter rabbit. "indeed!" replied grandfather frog. "well, i think it's high time." "what does mr. toad do with his old suit, grandfather frog?" asked peter rabbit. "chug-a-rum! it's none of my business. maybe he swallows it," replied grandfather frog crossly, and turned his back on peter rabbit. peter rabbit saw that his curiosity must remain unsatisfied. he suddenly remembered that he had been out all night and was very, very sleepy, so he started off home across the green meadows. now the merry little breezes had heard all that peter rabbit and grandfather frog had said, and they made up their minds that they would find out from grandfather frog what mr. toad really did do with his old suit. first of all they scattered over the green meadows. presently back they all came, each blowing ahead of him a fat, foolish, green fly. right over to the big green lily pad they blew the green flies. "chug-a-rum! chug-a-rum! chug-a-rum!" said grandfather frog, as each fat, foolish, green fly disappeared inside his white and yellow waistcoat. when the last one was out of sight, all but a leg which was left sticking out of a corner of grandfather frog's big mouth, one of the merry little breezes ventured to ask him what became of mr. toad's old suit. grandfather frog settled himself comfortably on the big green lily pad and folded his hands across his white and yellow waistcoat. "chug-a-rum," began grandfather frog. "once upon a time--" the merry little breezes clapped their hands and settled themselves among the buttercups and daisies, for they knew that soon they would know what mr. toad did with his old suit. "once upon a time," began grandfather frog again, "when the world was young, old king bear received word that old mother nature would visit the green meadows and the green forest. of course old king bear wanted his kingdom and his subjects to look their very best, so he issued a royal order that every one of the little meadow people and every one of the little forest folk should wear a new suit on the day that old mother nature was to pay her visit. "now like old king bear, every one wanted to appear his very best before old mother nature, but as no one knew the exact day she was to come, every one began at once to wear his best suit, and to take the greatest care of it. old king bear appeared every day in a suit of glossy black. lightfoot the deer, threw away his dingy gray suit, and put on a coat of beautiful red and fawn. mr. mink, mr. otter, mr. muskrat, mr. rabbit, mr. woodchuck, mr. coon, who you know was first cousin to old king bear, mr. gray squirrel, mr. fox squirrel, mr. red squirrel, all put on brand new suits. mr. skunk changed his black and white stripes for a suit of all black, very handsome, very handsome indeed. mr. chipmunk took care to see that his new suit had the most beautiful stripes to be obtained. "mr. jay, who was something of a dandy, had a wonderful new coat that looked for all the world as it if had been cut from the bluest patch of sky and trimmed with edging taken from the whitest clouds. even mr. crow and mr. owl took pains to look their very best. "but mr. toad couldn't see the need of such a fuss. he thought his neighbors spent altogether too much time and thought on dress. to be sure he was anxious to look his best when old mother nature came, so he got a new suit all ready. but mr. toad couldn't afford to sit around in idleness admiring his new clothes. no indeed! mr. toad had too much to do. he was altogether too busy. he had a large garden to take care of, had mr. toad, and work in a garden is very hard on clothes. so mr. toad just wore his old suit over his new one and went on about his business. "by and by the great day came when old mother nature arrived to inspect the kingdom of old king bear. all the little meadow people and all the little forest folk hastened to pay their respects to old mother nature and to strut about in their fine clothes--all but mr. toad. he was so busy that he didn't even know that old mother nature had arrived. "late in the afternoon, mr. toad stopped to rest. he had just cleared his cabbage patch of the slugs which threatened to eat up his crop and he was very tired. presently he happened to look up the road, and who should he see but old mother nature herself coming to visit his garden and to find out why mr. toad had not been to pay her his respects. "suddenly mr. toad remembered that he had on his working clothes, which were very old, very dirty and very ragged. for just a minute he didn't know what to do. then he dived under a cabbage leaf and began to pull off his old suit. but the old suit stuck! he was in such a hurry and so excited that he couldn't find the buttons. finally he got his trousers off. then he reached over and got hold of the back of his coat and tugged and hauled until finally he pulled his old coat off right over his head just as if it were a shirt. "mr. toad gave a great sigh of relief as he stepped out in his new suit, for you remember that he had been wearing that new suit underneath the old one all the time. "mr. toad was very well pleased with himself until he thought how terribly untidy that ragged old suit looked lying on the ground. what should he do with it? he couldn't hide it in the garden, for old mother nature's eyes are so sharp that she would be sure to see it. what should he do? "then mr. toad had a happy thought. every one made fun of his big mouth. but what was a big mouth for if not to use? he would swallow his old suit! in a flash mr. toad dived under the cabbage leaf and crammed his old suit into his mouth. "when old mother nature came into the garden, mr. toad was waiting in the path to receive her. very fine he looked in his new suit and you would have thought he had been waiting all day to receive old mother nature, but for one thing--swallow as much and as hard as he would, he couldn't get down quite all of his old suit, and a leg of his trousers hung out of a corner of his big mouth. "of course old mother nature saw it right away. and how she did laugh! and of course mr. toad felt very much mortified. but mother nature was so pleased with mr. toad's garden and with mr. toad's industry that she quite overlooked the ragged trousers leg hanging from the corner of mr. toad's mouth. "'fine clothes arc not to be compared with fine work,' said old mother nature. 'i herewith appoint you my chief gardener, mr. toad. and as a sign that all may know that this is so, hereafter you shall always swallow your old suit whenever you change your clothes!' "and from that day to this the toads have been the very best of gardeners. and in memory of their great, great, great-grandfather a thousand times removed they have always swallowed their old suits. "now you know what my cousin, old mr. toad, did with his old suit just before peter rabbit passed his house this morning," concluded great-grandfather frog. "oh," cried the merry little breezes, "thank you, thank you, grandfather frog!" then they raced away across the green meadows and up the crooked little path to see if old mr. toad was gardening. and peter rabbit still wonders what old mr. toad did with his old suit. x grandfather frog gets even old grandfather frog sat on his big green lily pad in the smiling pool dreaming of the days when the world was young and the frogs ruled the world. his hands were folded across his white and yellow waistcoat. round, red, smiling mr. sun sent down his warmest rays on the back of grandfather frog's green coat. very early that morning old mother west wind, hurrying down from the purple hills on her way to help the white-sailed ships across the great ocean, had stopped long enough to blow three or four fat, foolish, green flies over to the big lily pad, and they were now safely inside the white and yellow waistcoat. a thousand little tadpoles, the great, great-grandchildren of grandfather frog, were playing in the smiling pool, and every once in a while wriggling up to the big lily pad to look with awe at grandfather frog and wonder if they would ever be as handsome and big and wise as he. and still old grandfather frog sat dreaming and dreaming of the days when all the frogs had tails and ruled the world. presently billy mink came hopping and skipping down the laughing brook. sometimes he swam a little way and sometimes he ran a little way along the bank, and sometimes he jumped from stone to stone. billy mink was feeling very good--very good indeed. he had caught a fine fat trout for breakfast. he had hidden two more away for dinner in a snug little hole no one knew of but himself. now he had nothing to do but get into mischief. you can always depend upon billy mink to get into mischief. he just can't help it. so billy mink came hopping and skipping down the laughing brook to the smiling pool. then he stopped, as still as the rock he was standing on, and peeped through the bulrushes. billy mink is very cautious, very cautious indeed. he always looks well before he shows himself, that nothing may surprise him. so billy mink looked all over the smiling pool and the grassy banks. he saw the sunbeams dancing on the water. he saw the tadpoles having such a good time in the smiling pool. he saw the merry little breezes kissing the buttercups and daisies on the bank, and he saw old grandfather frog with his hands folded across his white, and yellow waistcoat sitting on the green lily pad, dreaming of the days when the world was young. then billy mink took a long breath, a very long breath, and dived into the smiling pool. now, billy mink can swim very fast, very fast indeed. for a little way he can swim even faster than mr. trout. and he can stay under water a long time. straight across the smiling pool, with not even the tip of his nose out of water, swam billy mink. the thousand little tadpoles saw him coming and fled in all directions to bury themselves in the mud at the bottom of the smiling pool, for when he thinks no one is looking billy mink sometimes gobbles up a fat tadpole for breakfast. straight across the smiling pool swam billy mink toward the big green lily pad where grandfather frog sat dreaming of the days when the world was young. when he was right under the big green lily pad he suddenly kicked up hard with his hind feet. up went the big green lily pad, and, of course, up went grandfather frog--up and over flat on his back, with a great splash into the smiling pool! now, grandfather frog's mouth is very big. indeed, no one else has so big a mouth, unless it be his cousin, old mr. toad. and when grandfather frog went over flat on his back, splash in the smiling pool, his mouth was wide open. you see he was so surprised he forgot to close it. so, of course, grandfather frog swallowed a great deal of water, and he choked and spluttered and swam around in foolish little circles trying to find himself. finally he climbed out on his big green lily pad. [illustration: he was so surprised he forgot to close it.] "chug-a-rum?" said grandfather frog, and looked this way and looked that way. then he gave a funny hop and turned about in the opposite direction and looked this way and looked that way, but all he saw was the smiling pool dimpling and smiling, mrs. redwing bringing a fat worm to her hungry little babies in their snug nest in the bulrushes, and the merry little breezes hurrying over to see what the trouble might be. "chug-a-rum!" said grandfather frog. "it is very strange. i must have fallen asleep and had a bad dream." then he once more settled himself comfortably on the big green lily pad, folded his hands across his white and yellow waistcoat, and seemed to be dreaming again, only his big goggly eyes were not dreaming. no, indeed! they were very much awake, and they saw all that was going on in the smiling pool. great-grandfather frog was just pretending. you may fool him once, but grandfather frog has lived so long that he has become very wise, and though billy mink is very smart, it takes some one a great deal smarter than billy mink to fool grandfather frog twice in the same way. billy mink, hiding behind the big rock, had laughed and laughed till he had to hold his sides when grandfather frog had choked and spluttered and hopped about on the big lily pad trying to find out what it all meant. he thought it such a good joke that he couldn't keep it to himself, so when he saw little joe otter coming to try his slippery slide he swam across to tell him all about it. little joe otter laughed and laughed until he had to hold his sides. then they both swam back to hide behind the big rock to watch until grandfather frog should forget all about it, and they could play the trick over again. now, out of the corner of one of his big goggly eyes, grandfather frog had seen billy mink and little joe otter with their heads close together, laughing and holding their sides, and he saw them swim over behind the big rock. pretty soon one of the merry little breezes danced over to see if grandfather frog had really gone to sleep. grandfather frog didn't move, not the teeniest, weeniest bit, but he whispered something to the merry little breeze, and the merry little breeze flew away, shaking with laughter, to where the other merry little breezes were playing with the buttercups and daisies. then all the merry little breezes clapped their hands and laughed too. they left the buttercups and daisies and began to play tag across the smiling pool. now, right on the edge of the big rock lay a big stick. pretty soon the merry little breezes danced over to the big rock, and then, suddenly, all together they gave the big stick a push. off it went, and then such a splashing and squealing as there was behind the big rock! in a few moments little joe otter crept out beside his slippery slide and slipped away holding on to his head. and, sneaking through the bulrushes, so as not to be seen, crawled billy mink, back towards his home on the laughing brook. billy mink wasn't laughing now. oh, no! he was limping and he was holding on to his head. little joe otter and billy mink had been sitting right underneath the big stick. "chug-a-rum!" said grandfather frog and held on to his sides and opened his mouth very wide in a noiseless laugh, for grandfather frog never makes a sound when he laughs. "chug-a-rum!" said grandfather frog once more. then he folded his hands across his white and yellow waistcoat and began again to dream of the days when the frogs had long tails and ruled the world. xi the disappointed bush way down beside the laughing brook grew a little bush. it looked a whole lot like other little bushes all around it. but really it was quite different, as you shall see. when in the spring warm, jolly, round mr. sun brought back the birds and set them singing, when the little flowers popped their heads out of the ground to have a look around, then all the little bushes put out their green leaves. this little bush of which i am telling you put out its green leaves with the rest. the little leaves grew bigger and bigger on all the little bushes. by and by on some of the other little bushes, little brown buds began to appear and grow and grow. then on more and more of the little bushes the little brown buds came and grew and grew. but on this little bush of which i am telling you no little brown buds appeared. the little bush felt very sad indeed. pretty soon all the little brown buds on the other little brown bushes burst their brown coats, and then all the little bushes were covered with little flowers. some were white and some were yellow and some were pink; and the air was filled with the sweet odor of all the little flowers. it brought the bees from far, far away to gather the honey, and all the little bushes were very happy indeed. but the little bush of which i am telling you had no little flowers, for you see it had had no little buds, and it felt lonely and shut away from the other little bushes, and very sad indeed. but it bravely kept on growing and growing and growing. its little leaves grew bigger and bigger and bigger, and it tried its best not to mind because it had no little flowers. then one by one, and two by two, and three by three, and finally in whole showers, the little flowers of all the other little bushes fell off, and they looked very much like the little bush of which i am telling you, so that the little bush no longer felt sad. all summer long all the little bushes grew and grew and grew. the birds came and built their nests among them. peter rabbit and his brothers and sisters scampered under them. the butterflies flew over them. by and by came the fall, and with the fall came jack frost. he went about among the little bushes, pinching the leaves. then the little green leaves turned to brown and red and yellow and pretty soon they fluttered down to the ground, the merry little breezes blew them about and all the little bushes were bare. they had no leaves at all to cover their little naked brown limbs. the little bush of which i am telling you lost its leaves with the rest. but all the summer long this little bush had been growing some of those little brown buds, which the other bushes had had in the spring, and now, when all the other little bushes had lost all the green leaves, and had nothing at all upon their little brown twigs, behold! one beautiful day, the little bush of which i am telling you was covered with gold, for each little brown bud had burst its little brown coat and there was a beautiful little yellow flower. such a multitude of these little yellow flowers! they covered the little bush from top to bottom. then the little bush felt very happy indeed, for it was the only bush which had any flowers. and every one who passed that way stopped to look at it and to praise it. colder grew the weather and colder. johnny chuck tucked himself away to sleep all winter. grandfather frog went deep, deep down in the mud, not to come out again until spring. by and by the little yellow flowers dropped off the little bush, just as the other little flowers in spring had dropped off the other bushes. but they left behind them tiny little packages, one for every little flower that had been on the bush. all winter long these little packages clung to the little bush. in the spring when the little leaves burst forth in all the little bushes, these little packages on the little bush of which i am telling you grew and grew and grew. while the other little bushes had a lot of little flowers as they had had the year before, these little brown packages on the little bush of which i am telling you kept on growing. and they comforted the little bush because it felt that it really had something worth while. all the summer long the little brown packages grew and grew until they looked like little nuts. when the fall came again and all the little leaves dropped off all the little bushes, and the little bush of which i am telling you was covered with another lot of little yellow flowers and was very happy, then these little brown nuts, one bright autumn day, suddenly popped open! and out of each one flew two brown shiny little seeds. you never saw such a popping and a snapping and a jumping! pop! pop! snap! snap! hippetty hop! they went, faster than the corn pops in the corn popper. reddy fox, who always is suspicious, thought some one was shooting at him. down on the ground fell the little brown shining seeds and tucked themselves into the warm earth under the warm leaves, there to stay all winter long. and when the third spring came with all its little birds and all its little flowers and the warm sunshine, every one of these little brown seeds which had tucked themselves into the warm earth, burst its little brown skin, and up into the sunshine came a little green plant, which would grow and grow and grow, and by and by become just like the little bush i am telling you about. when the little bush looked down and saw all these little green children popping out of the ground, it was very happy indeed, for it knew that it would no longer be lonely. it no longer felt bad when all the other bushes were covered with flowers, for it knew that by and by when all the other little bushes had lost all their leaves and all their flowers, then would come its turn, and it knew that for a whole year its little brown children would be held safe on its branches. now, what do you think is the name of this little bush? why, it is the witch hazel. and sometime when you fall down and bump yourself hard grandma will go to the medicine closet and will bring out a bottle, and from that bottle she will pour something on that little sore place and it will make it feel better. do you know what it is? it is the gift of the witch hazel bush to little boys and big men to make them feel better when they are hurt. xii why bobby coon washes his food happy-go-lucky bobby coon sat on the edge of the laughing brook just as round, red mr. sun popped up from behind the purple hills and old mother west wind turned all her merry little breezes out to romp on the green meadows. bobby coon had been out all night. you see bobby coon is very apt to get into mischief, and because usually it is safer to get into mischief under cover of the darkness bobby coon prefers the night wherein to go abroad. not that bobby coon is really bad! oh my, no! everybody likes bobby coon. but he can no more keep out of mischief than a duck can keep out of water. so bobby coon sat on the edge of the laughing brook and he was very busy, very busy indeed. he was washing his breakfast. really, it was his dinner, for turning night into day just turns everything topsy-turvy. so bobby coon eats dinner when most of the little meadow people are eating breakfast. this morning he was very busy washing a luscious ear of sweet corn just in the milk. he dipped it in the water and with one little black paw rubbed it thoroughly. then he looked it over carefully before, with a sigh of contentment, he sat down to put it in his empty little stomach. when he had finished it to the last sweet, juicy kernel, he ambled sleepily up the lone little path to the big hollow chestnut tree where he lives, and in its great hollow in a soft bed of leaves bobby coon curled himself up in a tight little ball to sleep the long, bright day away. one of the merry little breezes softly followed him. when he had crawled into the hollow chestnut and only his funny, ringed tail hung out, the merry little breezes tweaked it sharply just for fun, and then danced away down the lone little path to join the other merry little breezes around the smiling pool. "oh! grandfather frog," cried a merry little breeze, "tell us why it is that bobby coon always washes his food. he never eats it where he gets it or takes it home to his hollow in the big chestnut, but always comes to the laughing brook to wash it. none of the other meadow people do that." now great-grandfather frog is counted very wise. he is very, very old and he knows the history of all the tribes of little meadow people way back to the time when the frogs ruled the world. when the merry little breeze asked him why bobby coon always washes his food, grandfather frog stopped to snap up a particularly fat, foolish, green fly that came his way. then, while all the merry little breezes gathered around him, he settled himself on his big green lily pad and began: "once upon a time, when the world was young, old king bear ruled in the green forest. of course old mother nature, who was even more beautiful then than she is now, was the real ruler, but she let old king bear think he ruled so long as he ruled wisely. "all the little green forest folk and all the little people of the green meadows used to take presents of food to old king bear, so that he never had to hunt for things to eat. he grew fatter and fatter and fatter until it seemed as if his skin must burst. and the fatter he grew the lazier he grew." grandfather frog paused with an expectant far-away look in his great bulging eyes. then he leaped into the air so far that when he came down it was with a great splash in the smiling pool. but as he swam back to his big lily pad the leg of a foolish green fly could be seen sticking out of one corner of his big mouth, and he settled himself with a sigh of great contentment. "old king bear," continued grandfather frog, just as if there had been no interruption, "grew fatter and lazier every day, and like a great many other fat and lazy people who have nothing to do for themselves but are always waited on by others, he grew shorter and shorter in temper and harder and harder to please. "now perhaps you don't know it, but the bear family and the coon family are very closely related. in fact, they are second cousins. old mr. coon, bobby coon's father with a thousand greats tacked on before, was young then, and he was very, very proud of being related to old king bear. he began to pass some of his old playfellows on the green meadows without seeing them. he spent a great deal of time brushing his coat and combing his whiskers and caring for his big ringed tail. he held his head very high and he put on such airs that pretty soon he could see no one at all but members of his own family and of the royal family of bear. "now as old king bear grew fat and lazy he grew fussy, so that he was no longer content to take everything brought him, but picked out the choicest portions for himself and left the rest. mr. coon took charge of all the things brought as tribute to old king bear and of course where there were so many goodies left he got all he wanted without working. "so just as old king bear had grown fat and lazy and selfish, mr. coon grew fat and lazy and selfish. pretty soon he began to pick out the best things for himself and hide them before old king bear saw them. when old king bear was asleep he would go get them and stuff himself like a greedy pig. and because he was stealing and wanted no one to see him he always ate his stolen feasts at night. "now old mother nature is, as you all know, very, very wise, oh very wise indeed. one of the first laws she made when the world was young is that every living thing shall work for what it has, and the harder it works the stronger it shall grow. so when old mother nature saw how fat and lazy and selfish old king bear was getting and how fat and lazy and dishonest his cousin, mr. coon, was becoming, she determined that they should be taught a lesson which they would remember for ever and ever and ever. "first she proclaimed that old king bear should be king no longer, and no more need the little folks of the green forest and the little people of the green meadows bring him tribute. "now when old mother nature made this proclamation old king bear was fast asleep. it was just on the edge of winter and he had picked out a nice warm cave with a great pile of leaves for a bed. old mother nature peeped in at him. he was snoring and probably dreaming of more good things to eat. 'if he is to be king no longer, there is no use in waking him now,' said old mother nature to herself, 'he is so fat and so stupid. he shall sleep until gentle sister south wind comes in the spring to kiss away the snow and ice. then he shall waken with a lean stomach and a great appetite and there shall be none to feed him.' "now old mother nature always has a warm heart and she was very fond of bobby coon's grandfather a thousand times removed. so when she saw what a selfish glutton and thief he had become she decided to put him to sleep just as she had old king bear. but first she would teach mr. coon that stolen food is not the sweetest. "so old mother nature found some tender, juicy corn just in the milk which mr. coon had stolen from old king bear. then she went down on the green meadows where the wild mustard grows and gathering a lot of this she rubbed the juice into the corn and then put it back where mr. coon had left it. "now i have told you that it was night when mr. coon had his stolen feasts, for he wanted no one to see him. so no one was there when he took a great bite of the tender, juicy corn old mother nature had put back for him. being greedy and a glutton, he swallowed the first mouthful before he had fairly tasted it, and took a second, and then such a time as there was on the edge of the green forest! mr. coon rolled over and over with both of his forepaws clasped over his stomach and groaned and groaned and groaned. he had rubbed his eyes and of course had got mustard into them and could not see. he waked up all the little green forest folk who sleep through the night, as good people should, and they all gathered around to see what was the matter with mr. coon. "finally old mother nature came to his relief and brought him some water. then she led him to his home in the great hollow in the big chestnut tree, and when she had seen him curled up in a tight little ball among the dried leaves she put him into the long sleep as she had old king bear. "in the spring, when gentle sister south wind kissed away all the snow and ice, old king bear, who was king no longer, and mr. coon awoke and both were very thin, and both were very hungry, oh very, very hungry indeed. old king bear, who was king no longer, wasn't the least mite fussy about what he had to eat, but ate gladly any food he could find. "but mr. coon remembered the burning of his stomach and mouth and could not forget it. so whenever he found anything to eat he first took it to the laughing brook or the smiling pool and washed it very carefully, lest there be some mustard on it. "and ever since that long ago time, when the world was young, the coon family has remembered that experience of mr. coon, who was second cousin to old king bear, and that is why bobby coon washes his food, travels about at night, and sleeps all winter," concluded grandfather frog, fixing his great goggle eyes on a foolish green fly headed his way. "oh thank you, thank you, grandfather frog," cried the merry little breezes as they danced away over the green meadows. but one of them slipped back long enough to get behind the foolish green fly and blow him right up to grandfather frog's big lily pad. "chug-a-rum," said grandfather frog, smacking his lips. xiii the merry little breezes have a busy day old mother west wind came down from the purple hills in the shadowy coolness of the early morning, before even jolly, round, red mr. sun had thrown off his rosy coverlids for his daily climb up through the blue sky. the last little star was blinking sleepily as old mother west wind turned her big bag upside down on the green meadows and all her children, the merry little breezes, tumbled out on the soft green grass. then old mother west wind kissed them all around and hurried away to hunt for a rain cloud which had gone astray. the merry little breezes watched her go. then they played hide and seek until jolly, round, red mr. sun had climbed out of bed and was smiling down on the green meadows. pretty soon along came peter rabbit, lipperty-lipperty-lip. "hello, peter rabbit!" shouted the merry little breezes. "come play with us!" "can't," said peter rabbit. "i have to go find some tender young carrots for my breakfast," and away be hurried, lipperty-lipperty-lip. in a few minutes jimmy skunk came in sight and he seemed to be almost hurrying along the crooked little path down the hill. the merry little breezes danced over to meet him. "hello, jimmy skunk!" they cried. "come play with us!" jimmy skunk shook his head. "can't," said he. "i have to go look for some beetles for my breakfast," and off he went looking under every old stick and pulling over every stone not too big for his strength. the merry little breezes watched him for a few minutes and then raced over to the laughing brook. there they found billy mink stealing softly down towards the smiling pool. "oh, billy mink, come play with us," begged the merry little breezes. "can't," said billy mink. "i have to catch a trout for grandfather mink's breakfast," and he crept on towards the smiling pool. just then along came bumble the bee. now bumble the bee is a lazy fellow who always makes a great fuss, as if he was the busiest and most important fellow in the world. "good morning, bumble," cried the merry little breezes. "come play with us!" "buzz, buzz, buzz," grumbled bumble the bee. "can't, for i have to get a sack of honey," and off he hurried to the nearest dandelion. then the merry little breezes hunted up johnny chuck. but johnny chuck was busy, too busy to play. bobby coon was asleep, for he had been out all night. reddy fox also was asleep. striped chipmunk was in such a hurry to fill the pockets in his cheeks that he could hardly stop to say good morning. happy jack squirrel just flirted his big tail and rushed away as if he had many important things to attend to. finally the merry little breezes gave it up and sat down among the buttercups and daisies to talk it over. every one seemed to have something to do, every one but themselves. it was such a busy world that sunshiny morning! pretty soon one of the merry little breezes hopped up very suddenly and began the maddest little dance among the buttercups. "as we haven't anything to do for ourselves let's do something for somebody else!" he shouted. up jumped all the little breezes, clapping their hands. "oh let's!" they shouted. way over across the green meadows they could see two long ears above the nodding daisies. "there's peter rabbit," cried one. "let's help him find those tender young carrots!" no sooner proposed than off they all raced to see who could reach peter first. peter was sitting up very straight, looking this way and looking that way for some tender young carrots, but not one had he found, and his stomach was empty. the merry little breezes stopped just long enough to tickle his long ears and pull his whiskers, then away they raced, scattering in all directions, to see who could first find a tender young carrot for peter rabbit. by and by when one of them did find a field of tender young carrots he rushed off, taking the smell of them with him to tickle the nose of peter rabbit. peter wriggled his nose, his funny little nose, very fast when it was tickled with the smell of tender young carrots, and the merry little breeze laughed to see him. "come on, peter rabbit, for this is my busy day!" he cried. peter rabbit didn't have to be invited twice. away he went, lipperty-lipperty-lip, as fast as his long legs could take him after the merry little breeze. and presently they came to the field of tender young carrots. "oh thank you, merry little breeze!" cried peter rabbit, and straightway began to eat his breakfast. another merry little breeze, slipping up the crooked little path on the hill, spied the hind legs of a fat beetle sticking out from under a flat stone. at once the little breeze remembered jimmy skunk, who was hunting for beetles for his breakfast. off rushed the little breeze in merry whirls that made the grasses sway and bend and the daisies nod. when after a long, long hunt he found jimmy skunk, jimmy was very much out of sorts. in fact jimmy skunk was positively cross. you see, he hadn't had any breakfast, for hunt as he would he couldn't find a single beetle. when the merry little breeze danced up behind jimmy skunk and, just in fun, rumpled up his black and white coat, jimmy quite lost his temper. in fact he said some things not at all nice to the merry little breeze. but the merry little breeze just laughed. the more he laughed the crosser jimmy skunk grew, and the crosser jimmy skunk grew the more the merry little breeze laughed. it was such a jolly laugh that pretty soon jimmy skunk began to grin a little sheepishly, then to really smile and finally to laugh outright in spite of his empty stomach. you see it is very hard, very hard indeed and very foolish, to remain cross when someone else is perfectly good natured. suddenly the merry little breeze danced up to jimmy skunk and whispered in his right ear. then he danced around and whispered in his left ear. jimmy skunk's eyes snapped and his mouth began to water. "where, little breeze, where?" he begged. "follow me," cried the merry little breeze, racing off up the crooked little path so fast that jimmy skunk lost his breath trying to keep up, for you know jimmy skunk seldom hurries. when they came to the big flat stone jimmy skunk grasped it with both hands and pulled and pulled. up came the stone so suddenly that jimmy skunk fell over flat on his back. when he had scrambled to his feet there were beetles and beetles, running in every direction to find a place to hide. "thank you, thank you, little breeze," shouted jimmy skunk as he started to catch beetles for his breakfast. and the little breeze laughed happily as he danced away to join the other merry little breezes on the green meadows. there he found them very, very busy, very busy indeed, so busy that they could hardly find time to nod to him. what do you think they were doing? they were toting _gold_! yes, sir, toting gold! and this is how it happened: while the first little breeze was showing peter rabbit the field of tender young carrots, and while the second little breeze was leading jimmy skunk to the flat stone and the beetles, the other merry little breezes had found bumble the bee. now bumble the bee is a lazy fellow, though he pretends to be the busiest fellow in the world, and they found him grumbling as he buzzed with a great deal of fuss from one flower to another. "what's the matter, bumble?" cried the merry little breezes. "matter enough," grumbled bumble the bee. "i've got to make a sack of honey, and as if that isn't enough, old mother nature has ordered me to carry a sack of gold from each flower i visit to the next flower i visit. if i don't i can get no honey. buzz-buzz-buzz," grumbled bumble the bee. the merry little breezes looked at the million little flowers on the green meadows, each waiting a sack of gold to give and a sack of gold to receive. then they looked at each other and shouted happily, for they too would now be able to cry "busy, busy, busy." from flower to flower they hurried, each with a bag of gold over his shoulder. wherever they left a bag they took a bag, and all the little flowers nodded happily to see the merry little breezes at work. jolly, round, red mr. sun climbed higher and higher and higher in the blue sky, where he can look down and see all things, great and small. his smile was broader than ever as he watched the hurrying, scurrying little breezes working instead of playing. yet after all it was a kind of play, for they danced from flower to flower and ran races across bare places where no flowers grew. by and by the merry little breezes met peter rabbit. now peter rabbit had made a good breakfast of tender young carrots, so he felt very good, very good indeed. "hi!" shouted peter rabbit, "come play with me." "can't," cried the merry little breezes all together, "we have work to do!" off they hurried, while peter rabbit stretched himself out full length in a sunny spot, for peter rabbit also is a lazy fellow. down the crooked little path onto the green meadows came jimmy skunk. "ho!" shouted jimmy skunk as soon as he saw the little breezes, "come play with me." "can't," cried the little breezes, "for we are busy, busy, busy," and they laughed happily. when they reached the laughing brook they found billy mink curled up in a round ball, fast asleep. it isn't often that billy mink is caught napping, but he had had a good breakfast of trout, he had found no one to play with and, as he never works and the day was so bright and warm, he had first looked for a place where he thought no one would find him and had then curled himself up to sleep, one of the little breezes laid down the bag of gold he was carrying and creeping ever so softly over to billy mink began to tickle one of billy's ears with a straw. at first billy mink didn't open his eyes, but rubbed his ear with a little black hand. finally he jumped to his feet wide awake and ready to fight whoever was bothering him. but all he saw was a laughing little breeze running away with a bag of gold on his back. so all day long, till old mother west wind came with her big bag to carry them to their home behind the purple hills, the merry little breezes hurried this way and that way over the green meadows. no wee flower was too tiny to give and receive its share of gold, and not one was overlooked by the merry little breezes. old mother nature, who knows everything, heard of the busy day of the merry little breezes. nobody knows how she heard of it. perhaps jolly, round, red mr. sun told her. perhaps--but never mind. you can't fool old mother nature anyway and it's of no use to try. so old mother nature visited the green meadows to see for herself, and when she found how the merry little breezes had distributed the gold she was so pleased that straightway she announced to all the world that thenceforth and for all time the merry little breezes of old mother west wind should have charge of the distribution of the gold of the flowers on the green meadows, which they have to this day. and since that day the merry little breezes have been merrier than ever, for they have found that it is not nearly so much fun to play all the time, but that to work for some good in the world is the greatest fun of all. so every year when the gold of the flowers, which some people do not know is gold at all but call pollen, is ready you will find the merry little breezes of old mother west wind very, very busy among the flowers on the green meadows. and this is the happiest time of all. xiv why hooty the owl does not play on the green meadows the merry little breezes of old mother west wind were having a good-night game of tag down on the green meadows. they were having _such_ a jolly time while they waited for old mother west wind and her big bag to take them to their home behind the purple hills. jolly, round, red mr. sun had already put his nightcap on. black shadows crept softly out from the purple hills onto the green meadows. the merry little breezes grew sleepy, almost too sleepy to play, for old mother west wind was very, very late. farther and farther and farther out onto the green meadows crept the black shadows. suddenly one seemed to separate from the others. softly, oh so softly, yet swiftly, it floated over towards the merry little breezes. one of them happened to look up and saw it coming. it was the same little breeze who one time stayed out all night. when he looked up and saw this seeming shadow moving so swiftly he knew that it was no shadow at all. "here comes hooty the owl," cried the little breeze. then all the merry little breezes stopped their game of tag to look at hooty the owl. it is seldom they have a chance to see him, for usually hooty the owl does not come out on the green meadows until after the merry little breezes are snugly tucked in bed behind the purple hills. "perhaps hooty the owl will tell us why it is that he never comes out to play with us," said one of the little breezes. but just as hooty the owl floated over to them up came old mother west wind, and she was in a great hurry, for she was late, and she was tired. she had had a busy day, a very busy day indeed, hunting for a rain cloud which had gone astray. so now she just opened her big bag and tumbled all the merry little breezes into it as fast as she could without giving them so much as a chance to say "good evening" to hooty the owl. then she took them off home behind the purple hills. of course the merry little breezes were disappointed, very much disappointed. but they were also very sleepy, for they had played hard all day. "never mind," said one of them, drowsily, "to-morrow we'll ask great-grandfather frog why it is that hooty the owl never comes out to play with us on the green meadows. he'll know." the next morning old mother west wind was late in coming down from the purple hills. when she finally did turn the merry little breezes out of her big bag onto the green meadows jolly, round, red mr. sun was already quite high in the blue sky. the merry little breezes waited just long enough to say "good-by" to old mother west wind, and then started a mad race to see who could reach the smiling pool first. there they found great-grandfather frog sitting on his big green lily pad as usual. he was very contented with the world, was grandfather frog, for fat green flies had been more foolish than usual that morning and already he had all that he could safely tuck inside his white and yellow waistcoat. "good morning, grandfather frog," shouted the merry little breezes. "will you tell us why it is that hooty the owl never comes out to play with us on the green meadows?" "chug-a-rum," said great-grandfather frog, gruffly, "how should i know?" you see, grandfather frog likes to be teased a little. "oh, but you do know, for you are so old and so very wise," cried the merry little breezes all together. grandfather frog smiled, for he likes to be thought very wise, and also he was feeling very good, very good indeed that morning. "chug-a-rum," said grandfather frog. "if you'll sit perfectly still i'll tell you what i know about hooty the owl. but remember, you must sit perfectly still, _per-fect-ly_ still." the merry little breezes sighed, for it is the hardest thing in the world for them to keep perfectly still unless they are asleep. but they promised that they would, and when they had settled down, each one in the heart of a great white water lily, grandfather frog began: "once upon a time, when the world was young, hooty the owl's grandfather a thousand times removed used to fly about in daylight with the other birds. he was very big and very strong and very fierce, was mr. owl. he had great big claws and a hooked bill, just as hooty the owl has now, and he was afraid of nothing and nobody. "now when people are very big and very strong and afraid of nothing and nobody they are very apt to care for nothing and nobody but themselves. so it was with mr. owl. whatever he saw that he wanted he took, no matter to whom it belonged, for there was no one to stop him. "as i have already told you, mr. owl was very big and very strong and very fierce and he was a very great glutton. it took a great many little birds and little animals to satisfy his appetite. but he didn't stop there! no, sir, he didn't stop there! he used to kill harmless little meadow people just for the fun of killing, and because he could. every day he grew more savage. finally no one smaller than himself dared stir on the green meadows when he was around. the little birds no longer sang. the fieldmice children no longer played among the meadow grasses. those were sad days, very sad days indeed on the green meadows," said grandfather frog, with a sigh. "at last old mother nature came to visit the green meadows and she soon saw what a terrible state things were in. no one came to meet her, for you see no one dared to show himself for fear of fierce old mr. owl. "now i have told you that mr. owl was afraid of nothing and nobody, but this is not quite true, for he was afraid, very much afraid of old mother nature. when he saw her coming he was sitting on top of a tall dead stump and he at once tried to look very meek and very innocent. "old mother nature wasted no time. 'where are all my little meadow people and why do they not come to give me greeting?' demanded old mother nature of mr. owl. "mr. owl bowed very low. 'i'm sure i don't know. i think they must all be taking a nap,' said he. "now you can't fool old mother nature and it's of no use to try. no, sir, you can't fool old mother nature. she just looked at mr. owl and she looked at the feathers and fur scattered about the foot of the dead stump. mr. owl stood first on one foot and then on the other. he tried to look old mother nature in the face, but he couldn't. you see, mr. owl had a guilty conscience and a guilty conscience never looks anyone straight in the face. he did wish that mother nature would say something, did mr. owl. but she didn't. she just looked and looked and looked and looked straight at mr. owl. the longer she looked the uneasier he got and the faster he shifted from one foot to the other. finally he shifted so fast that he seemed to be dancing on top of the old stump. "gradually, a few at a time, the little meadow people crept out from their hiding places and formed a great circle around the old dead stump. with old mother nature there they felt sure that no harm could come to them. then they began to laugh at the funny sight of fierce old mr. owl hopping from one foot to the other on top of the old dead stump. it was the first laugh on the green meadows for a long, long, long time. "of course mr. owl saw them laughing at him, but he could think of nothing but the sharp eyes of old mother nature boring straight through him, and he danced faster than ever. the faster he danced the funnier he looked, and the funnier he looked the harder the little meadow people laughed. "finally old mother nature slowly raised a hand and pointed a long forefinger at mr. owl. all the little meadow people stopped laughing to hear what she would say. "'mr. owl,' she began, 'i know and you know why none of my little meadow people were here to give me greeting. and this shall be your punishment: from now on your eyes shall become so tender that they cannot stand the light of day, so that hereafter you shall fly about only after round, red mr. sun has gone to bed behind the purple hills. no more shall my little people who play on the green meadows all the day long have cause to fear you, for no more shall you see to do them harm.' "when she ceased speaking all the little meadow people gave a great shout, for they knew that it would be even as mother nature had said. then began such a frolic as the green meadows had not known for many a long day. "but mr. owl flew slowly and with difficulty over to the darkest part of the deep wood, for the light hurt his eyes dreadfully and he could hardly see. and as he flew the little birds flew around him in a great cloud and plucked out his feathers and tormented him for he could not see to harm them." grandfather frog paused and looked dreamily across the smiling pool. suddenly he opened his big mouth and then closed it with a snap. one more foolish green fly had disappeared inside the white and yellow waistcoat. "chug-a-rum," said grandfather frog, "those were sad days, sad days indeed for mr. owl. he couldn't hunt for his meals by day, for the light blinded him. at night he could see but little in the darkness. so he got little to eat and he grew thinner and thinner and thinner until he was but a shadow of his former self. he was always hungry, was mr. owl, always hungry. no one was afraid of him now, for it was the easiest thing in the world to keep out of his way. "at last old mother nature came again to visit the green meadows and the green forest. far, far in the darkest part of the deep wood she found mr. owl. when she saw how very thin and how very, very miserable he was her heart was moved to pity, for old mother nature loves all her subjects, even the worst of them. all the fierceness was gone from mr. owl. he was so weak that he just sat huddled in the thickest part of the great pine. you see he had been able to catch very little to eat. "'mr. owl,' said old mother nature gently, 'you now know something of the misery and the suffering which you have caused others, and i think you have been punished enough. no more may you fly abroad over the green meadows while the day is bright, for still is the fear of you in the hearts of all my little meadow people, but hereafter you shall not find it so difficult to get enough to eat. your eyes shall grow big, bigger than the eyes of any other bird, so that you shall be able to see in the dusk and even in the dark. your ears shall grow large, larger than the ears of any of the little forest or meadow people, so that you can hear the very least sound. your feathers shall become as soft as down, so that when you fly none shall hear you.' "and from that day it was even so. mr. owl's eyes grew big and bigger until he could see as well in the dusk as he used to see in the full light of day. his ears grew large and larger until his hearing became so keen that he could hear the least rustle, even at a long distance. and when he flew he made no sound, but floated like a great shadow. "the little meadow people no longer feared him by day, but when the shadows began to creep out from the purple hills each night and they heard his voice 'whoo-too-whoo-hoo-hoo' they felt all the old fear of him. if they were wise they did not stir, but if they were foolish and so much as shivered mr. owl was sure to hear them and silently pounce upon them. "so once more mr. owl grew strong and fierce. but only at night had anyone cause to fear him, and then only the foolish and timid. "and now you know," concluded grandfather frog, "why it is that hooty the owl never comes out to play with you on the green meadows, and why his eyes are so big and his ears so large." "thank you, thank you, grandfather frog!" cried the merry little breezes, springing up from the white water lilies and stretching themselves. "we'll bring you the first foolish green fly we can find." then away they rushed to hunt for it. xv danny meadow mouse learns to laugh danny meadow mouse sat on his doorstep and sulked. the merry little breezes of old mother west wind ran past, one after another, and pointing their fingers at him cried: "fie, danny meadow mouse! better go inside the house! babies cry--oh my! oh my! you're a baby--go and cry!" pretty soon along the lone little path came peter rabbit. peter rabbit looked at danny meadow mouse. then he pointed a finger at him and said: "cry, danny, cry! mammy'll whip you by and by! then we'll all come 'round to see how big a baby you can be. cry, danny, cry!" danny meadow mouse began to snivel. he cried softly to himself as peter rabbit hopped off down the lone little path. soon along came reddy fox. he saw danny meadow mouse sitting on his doorstep crying all by himself. reddy fox crept up behind a tall bunch of grass. then suddenly he jumped out right in front of danny meadow mouse. "boo!" cried reddy fox. it frightened danny meadow mouse. he jumped almost out of his skin, and ran into the house crying at the top of his voice. "ha, ha, ha," laughed reddy fox "danny, danny, crying dan boo-hoo-hooed and off he ran!" then reddy fox chased his tail all the way down the lone little path onto the green meadows. by and by danny meadow mouse came out again and sat on his doorstep. he had stopped crying, but he looked very unhappy and cross and sulky. hopping and skipping down the lone little path came striped chipmunk. "come play with me," called danny meadow mouse. striped chipmunk kept right on hopping and skipping down the lone little path. "don't want to," said striped chipmunk, sticking his tongue in his cheek. "cry-baby danny never'll be a manny! run to mamma, danny, dear, and she will wipe away your tear!" striped chipmunk hopped and skipped out of sight, and danny meadow mouse began to cry again because striped chipmunk would not play with him. it was true, dreadfully true! danny meadow mouse _was_ a cry-baby and no one wanted to play with him. if he stubbed his toe he cried. if striped chipmunk beat him in a race he cried. if the merry little breezes pulled his whiskers just in fun he cried. it had come to such a pass that all the little meadow people delighted to tease him just to make him cry. nowhere on all the green meadows was there such a cry-baby as danny meadow mouse. so danny sat on his doorstep and cried because no one would play with him and he was lonely. the more he thought how lonely he was, the more he cried. presently along came old mr. toad. now mr. toad looks very grumpy and out of sorts, but that is because you do not know old mr. toad. when he reached the house of danny meadow mouse he stopped right in front of danny. he put his right hand behind his right ear and listened. then he put his left hand behind his left ear and listened some more. finally he put both hands on his hips and began to laugh. now mr. toad's mouth is very big indeed, and when he opens it to laugh he opens it very wide indeed. "ha, ha, ha! ha, ha, ha!" laughed mr. toad. danny meadow mouse cried harder than ever, and the harder he cried the harder old mr. toad laughed. by and by danny meadow mouse stopped crying long enough to say to mr. toad: "what are you laughing for, mr. toad?" mr. toad stopped laughing long enough to reply: "i'm laughing, danny meadow mouse, because you are crying at me. what are you crying for?" "i'm crying," said danny meadow mouse, "because you are laughing at me." then danny began to cry again, and mr. toad began to laugh again. "what's all this about?" demanded some one right behind them. it was jimmy skunk. "it's a new kind of game," said old mr. toad. "danny meadow mouse is trying to see if he can cry longer than i can laugh." then old mr. toad once more opened his big mouth and began to laugh harder than ever. jimmy skunk looked at him for just a minute and he looked so funny that jimmy skunk began to laugh too. now a good honest laugh is like whooping cough--it is catching. the first thing danny meadow mouse knew his tears would not come. it's a fact, danny meadow mouse had run short of tears. the next thing he knew he wasn't crying at all--he was laughing. yes, sir, he actually was laughing. he tried to cry, but it was of no use at all; he just _had_ to laugh. the more he laughed the harder old mr. toad laughed. and the harder mr. toad laughed the funnier he looked. pretty soon all three of them, danny meadow mouse, old mr. toad and jimmy skunk, were holding their sides and rolling over and over in the grass, they were laughing so hard. by and by mr. toad stopped laughing. "dear me, dear me, this will never do!" said mr. toad. "i must get busy in my garden. "the little slugs, they creep and crawl and eat and eat from spring to fall they never stop to laugh nor cry, and really couldn't if they'd try. so if you'll excuse me i'll hurry along to get them out of my garden." mr. toad started down the lone little path. after a few hops he paused and turned around. "danny meadow mouse," said old mr. toad, "an honest laugh is like sunshine; it brightens the whole world. don't forget it." jimmy skunk remembered that he had started out to find some beetles, so still chuckling he started for the crooked little path up the hill. danny meadow mouse, once more alone, sat down on his doorstep. his sides were sore, he had laughed so hard, and somehow the whole world had changed. the grass seemed greener than he had ever seen it before. the sunshine was brighter and the songs of the birds were sweeter. altogether it was a very nice world, a very nice world indeed to live in. somehow he felt as if he never wanted to cry again. pretty soon along came the merry little breezes again, chasing butterflies. when they saw danny meadow mouse sitting on his doorstep they pointed their fingers at him, just as before, and shouted: "fie, danny meadow mouse! better go inside the house! babies cry--oh my! oh my! you're a baby--go and cry!" for just a little minute danny meadow mouse wanted to cry. then he remembered old mr. toad and instead began to laugh. the merry little breezes didn't know just what to make of it. they stopped chasing butterflies and crowded around danny meadow mouse. they began to tease him. they pulled his whiskers and rumpled his hair. the more they teased the more danny meadow mouse laughed. when they found that danny meadow mouse really wasn't going to cry, they stopped teasing and invited him to come play with them in the long meadow grass. such a good frolic as they did have! when it was over danny meadow mouse once more sat down on his doorstep to rest. hopping and skipping back up the lone little path came striped chipmunk. when he saw danny meadow mouse he stuck his tongue in his cheek and cried: "cry-baby danny never'll be a manny! run to mamma, danny dear, and she will wipe away your tear!" instead of crying danny meadow mouse began to laugh. striped chipmunk stopped and took his tongue out of his cheek. then he began to laugh too. "do you want me to play with you?" asked striped chipmunk, suddenly. of course danny did, and soon they were having the merriest kind of a game of hide and seek. right in the midst of it danny meadow mouse caught his left foot in a root and twisted his ankle. my, how it did hurt! in spite of himself tears did come into his eyes. but he winked them back and bravely began to laugh. striped chipmunk helped him back to his doorstep and cut funny capers while mother meadow mouse bound up the hurt foot, and all the time danny meadow mouse laughed until pretty soon he forgot that his foot ached at all. when peter rabbit came jumping along up the lone little path he began to shout as soon as he saw danny meadow mouse: "cry, danny, cry! mammy'll whip you by and by! then we'll all come 'round to see how big a baby you can be. cry, danny, cry!" but danny didn't cry. my, no! he laughed instead. peter rabbit was so surprised that he stopped to see what had come over danny meadow mouse. when he saw the bandaged foot and heard how danny had twisted his ankle peter rabbit sat right down on the doorstep beside danny meadow mouse and told him how sorry he was, for happy-go-lucky peter rabbit is very tender-hearted. then he told danny all about the wonderful things he had seen in his travels, and of all the scrapes he had gotten into. when peter rabbit finally started off home danny meadow mouse still sat on his doorstep. but no longer was he lonely. he watched old mother west wind trying to gather her merry little breezes into her big bag to take to their home behind the purple hills, and he laughed right out when he saw her catch the last mischievous little breeze and tumble him, heels over head, in with the others. "old mr. toad was right, just exactly right," thought danny meadow mouse, as he rocked to and fro on his doorstep. "it _is_ much better, oh very much better, to laugh than to cry." and since that day when danny meadow mouse learned to laugh, no one has had a chance to point a finger at him and call him a cry-baby. instead every one has learned to love merry little danny meadow mouse, and now they call him "laughing dan." the tangled threads by eleanor h. porter new york the christian herald bible house copyright, , by eleanor h. porter all rights reserved contents a delayed heritage the folly of wisdom crumbs a four-footed faith and a two a matter of system angelus the apple of her eye a mushroom of collingsville that angel boy the lady in black the saving of dad millionaire mike's thanksgiving when mother fell ill the glory and the sacrifice the daltons and the legacy the letter the indivisible five the elephant's board and keep a patron of art when polly ann played santa claus the stories in this volume are here reprinted by the courteous permission of the publishers of the periodicals in which they first appeared,--lippincott's magazine, the metropolitan magazine, mccall's magazine, harper's magazine, the american magazine, progress magazine, the arena, the christian endeavor world, the congregationalist and christian world, the housewife, harper's bazar [transcriber's note: bazaar?], judge's library magazine, the new england magazine, people's short story magazine, the christian herald, the ladies' world. the tangled threads a delayed heritage when hester was two years old a wheezy hand-organ would set her eyes to sparkling and her cheeks to dimpling, and when she was twenty the "maiden's prayer," played by a school-girl, would fill her soul with ecstasy. to hester, all the world seemed full of melody. even the clouds in the sky sailed slowly along in time to a stately march in her brain, or danced to the tune of a merry schottische that sounded for her ears alone. and when she saw the sunset from the hill behind her home, there was always music then--low and tender if the colors were soft and pale-tinted, grand and awful if the wind blew shreds and tatters of storm-clouds across a purpling sky. all this was within hester; but without-- there had been but little room in hester's life for music. her days were an endless round of dish-washing and baby-tending--first for her mother, later for herself. there had been no money for music lessons, no time for piano practice. hester's childish heart had swelled with bitter envy whenever she saw the coveted music roll swinging from some playmate's hand. at that time her favorite "make-believe" had been to play at going for a music lesson, with a carefully modeled roll of brown paper suspended by a string from her fingers. hester was forty now. two sturdy boys and a girl of nine gave her three hungry mouths to feed and six active feet to keep in holeless stockings. her husband had been dead two years, and life was a struggle and a problem. the boys she trained rigorously, giving just measure of love and care; but the girl--ah, penelope should have that for which she herself had so longed. penelope should take music lessons! during all those nine years since penelope had come to her, frequent dimes and quarters, with an occasional half-dollar, had found their way into an old stone jar on the top shelf in the pantry. it had been a dreary and pinching economy that had made possible this horde of silver, and its effects had been only too visible in hester's turned and mended garments, to say nothing of her wasted figure and colorless cheeks. penelope was nine now, and hester deemed it a fitting time to begin the spending of her treasured wealth. first, the instrument: it must be a rented one, of course. hester went about the labor of procuring it in a state of exalted bliss that was in a measure compensation for her long years of sacrifice. her task did not prove to be a hard one. the widow butler, about to go south for the winter, was more than glad to leave her piano in hester's tender care, and the dollar a month rent which hester at first insisted upon paying was finally cut in half, much to the widow butler's satisfaction and hester's grateful delight. this much accomplished, hester turned her steps toward the white cottage wherein lived margaret gale, the music teacher. miss gale, careful, conscientious, but of limited experience, placed her services at the disposal of all who could pay the price--thirty-five cents an hour; and she graciously accepted the name of her new pupil, entering "penelope martin" on her books for saturday mornings at ten o'clock. then hester went home to tell her young daughter of the bliss in store for her. strange to say, she had cherished the secret of the old stone jar all these years, and had never told penelope of her high destiny. she pictured now the child's joy, unconsciously putting her own nine-year-old music-hungry self in penelope's place. "penelope," she called gently. there was a scurrying of light feet down the uncarpeted back stairs, and penelope, breathless, rosy, and smiling, appeared in the doorway. "yes, mother." "come with me, child," said hester, her voice sternly solemn in her effort to keep from shouting her glad tidings before the time. the woman led the way through the kitchen and dining-room and threw open the parlor door, motioning her daughter into the somber room. the rose-color faded from penelope's cheeks. "why, mother! what--what is it? have i been--naughty?" she faltered. mrs. martin's tense muscles relaxed and she laughed hysterically. "no, dearie, no! i--i have something to tell you," she answered, drawing the child to her and smoothing back the disordered hair. "what would you rather have--more than anything else in the world?" she asked; then, unable to keep her secret longer, she burst out, "i've got it, penelope!--oh, i've got it!" the little girl broke from the restraining arms and danced wildly around the room. "mother! really? as big as me? and will it talk--say 'papa' and 'mamma,' you know?" "what!" something in hester's dismayed face brought the prancing feet to a sudden stop. "it--it's a doll, is n't it?" the child stammered. hester's hands grew cold. "a--a doll!" she gasped. penelope nodded--the light gone from her eyes. for a moment the woman was silent; then she threw back her head with a little shake and laughed forcedly. "a doll!--why, child, it's as much nicer than a doll as--as you can imagine. it's a piano, dear--a pi-a-no!" she repeated impressively, all the old enthusiasm coming back at the mere mention of the magic word. "oh!" murmured penelope, with some show of interest. "and you're to learn to play on it!" "oh-h!" said penelope again, but with less interest. "to play on it! just think, dear, how fine that will be!" the woman's voice was growing wistful. "take lessons? like mamie, you mean?" "yes, dear." "but--she has to practice and--" "of course," interrupted hester eagerly. "that's the best part of it--the practice." "mamie don't think so," observed penelope dubiously. "then mamie can't know," rejoined hester with decision, bravely combating the chill that was creeping over her. "come, dear, help mother to clear a space, so we may be ready when the piano comes," she finished, crossing the room and moving a chair to one side. but when the piano finally arrived, penelope was as enthusiastic as even her mother could wish her to be, and danced about it with proud joy. it was after the child had left the house, however, that hester came with reverent step into the darkened room and feasted her eyes to her heart's content on the reality of her dreams. half fearfully she extended her hand and softly pressed the tip of her fourth finger to one of the ivory keys; then with her thumb she touched another a little below. the resulting dissonance gave her a vague unrest, and she gently slipped her thumb along until the harmony of a major sixth filled her eyes with quick tears. "oh, if i only could!" she whispered, and pressed the chord again, rapturously listening to the vibrations as they died away in the quiet room. then she tiptoed out and closed the door behind her. during the entire hour of that first saturday morning lesson mrs. martin hovered near the parlor door, her hands and feet refusing to perform their accustomed duties. the low murmur of the teacher's voice and an occasional series of notes were to hester the mysterious rites before a sacred shrine, and she listened in reverent awe. when miss gale had left the house, mrs. martin hurried to penelope's side. "how did it go? what did she say? play me what she taught you," she urged excitedly. penelope tossed a consequential head and gave her mother a scornful glance. "pooh! mother, the first lesson ain't much. i've got to practice." "of course," acknowledged hester in conciliation; "but how?--what?" "that--and that--and from there to there," said penelope, indicating with a pink forefinger certain portions of the page before her. "oh!" breathed hester, regarding the notes with eager eyes. then timidly, "play--that one." with all the importance of absolute certainty penelope struck _c_. "and that one." penelope's second finger hit _f_. "and that--and that--and that," swiftly demanded hester. penelope's cheeks grew pink, but her fingers did not falter. hester drew a long breath. "oh, how quick you've learned 'em!" she exclaimed. her daughter hesitated a tempted moment. "well--i--i learned the notes in school," she finally acknowledged, looking sidewise at her mother. but even this admission did not lessen for hester the halo of glory about penelope's head. she drew another long breath. "but what else did miss gale say? tell me everything--every single thing," she reiterated hungrily. that was not only penelope's first lesson, but hester's. the child, flushed and important with her sudden promotion from pupil to teacher, scrupulously repeated each point in the lesson, and the woman, humble and earnestly attentive, listened with bated breath. then, penelope, still airily consequential, practiced for almost an hour. monday, when the children were at school, hester stole into the parlor and timidly seated herself at the piano. "i think--i am almost sure i could do it," she whispered, studying with eager eyes the open book on the music rack. "i--i'm going to try, anyhow!" she finished resolutely. and hester did try, not only then, but on tuesday, wednesday, and thus until saturday--that saturday which brought with it a second lesson. the weeks passed swiftly after that. hester's tasks seemed lighter and her burdens less grievous since there was now that ever-present refuge--the piano. it was marvelous what a multitude of headaches and heartaches five minutes of scales, even, could banish; and when actual presence at the piano was impossible, there were yet memory and anticipation left her. for two of these weeks penelope practiced her allotted hour with a patience born of the novelty of the experience. the third week the "hour" dwindled perceptibly, and the fourth week it was scarcely thirty minutes long. "come, dearie, don't forget your practice," hester sometimes cautioned anxiously. "oh, dear me suz!" penelope would sigh, and hester would watch her with puzzled eyes as she disconsolately pulled out the piano stool. "penelope," she threatened one day, "i shall certainly stop your lessons--you don't half appreciate them." but she was shocked and frightened at the relief that so quickly showed in her young daughter's eyes. hester never made that threat again, for if penelope's lessons stopped-- as the weeks lengthened into months, bits of harmony and snatches of melody became more and more frequent in penelope's lessons, and the "exercises" were supplemented by occasional "pieces"--simple, yet boasting a name. but when penelope played "down by the mill," one heard only the notes--accurate, rhythmic, an excellent imitation; when hester played it, one might catch the whir of the wheel, the swish of the foaming brook, and almost the spicy smell of the sawdust, so vividly was the scene brought to mind. many a time, now, the old childhood dreams came back to hester, and her fingers would drift into tender melodies and minor chords not on the printed page, until all the stifled love and longing of those dreary, colorless years of the past found voice at her finger-tips. the stately marches and the rollicking dances of the cloud music came easily at her beck and call--now grave, now gay; now slow and measured, now tripping in weird harmonies and gay melodies. hester's blood quickened and her cheeks grew pink. her eyes lost their yearning look and her lips their wistful curves. every week she faithfully took her lesson of penelope, and she practiced only that when the children were about. it was when they were at school and she was alone that the great joy of this new-found treasure of improvising came to her, and she could set free her heart and soul on the ivory keys. she was playing thus one night--forgetting time, self, and that penelope would soon be home from school--when the child entered the house and stopped, amazed, in the parlor doorway. as the last mellow note died into silence, penelope dropped her books and burst into tears. "why, darling, what is it?" cried hester. "what can be the matter?" "i--i don't know," faltered penelope, looking at her mother with startled eyes. "why--why did n't you tell me?" "tell you?" "that--that you could--p-play that way! i--i did n't know," she wailed with another storm of sobs, rushing into her mother's arms. hester's clasp tightened about the quivering little form and her eyes grew luminous. "dearie," she began very softly, "there was once a little girl--a little girl like you. she was very, very poor, and all her days were full of work. she had no piano, no music lessons--but, oh, how she longed for them! the trees and the grass and the winds and the flowers sang all day in her ears, but she could n't tell what they said. by and by, after many, many years, this little girl grew up and a dear little baby daughter came to her. she was still very, very poor, but she saved and scrimped, and scrimped and saved, for she meant that this baby girl should not long and long for the music that never came. _she_ should have music lessons." "was it--me?" whispered penelope, with tremulous lips. hester drew a long breath. "yes, dear. i was the little girl long ago, and you are the little girl of to-day. and when the piano came, penelope, i found in it all those songs that the winds and the trees used to sing to me. now the sun shines brighter and the birds sing sweeter--and all this beautiful world is yours--all yours. oh, penelope, are n't you glad?" penelope raised a tear-wet face and looked into her mother's shining eyes. "glad?--oh, mother!" she cried fervently. then very softly, "mother--do you think--could you teach _me_?-- oh, i want to play just like that--just like that!" the folly of wisdom until his fiftieth year jason hartsorn knew nothing whatever about the position of his liver, kidneys, lungs, heart, spleen, and stomach except that they must be somewhere inside of him; then he attended the auction of old doctor hemenway's household effects and bid off for twenty-five cents a dilapidated clothes basket, filled with books and pamphlets. jason's education as to his anatomy began almost at once then, for on the way home he fished out a coverless volume from the basket and became lost in awed wonder over a pictured human form covered from scalp to the toes with scarlet, vine-like tracings. "for the land's sake, jason!" ejaculated mrs. hartsorn, as her husband came puffing into the kitchen with his burden an hour later. "now, what trash have you been buyin'?" "'trash'!" panted jason, carefully setting the basket down. "i guess you won't call it no 'trash' when you see what 't is! it's books--learnin', hitty. i been readin' one of 'em, too. look a-here," and he pulled up his shirt sleeve and bared a brawny arm; "that's all full of teeny little pipes an' cords. why, if i could only skin it--" "jason!" screamed his wife, backing away. "pooh! 't ain't nothin' to fret over," retorted jason airily. "besides, you've got 'em too--ev'ry one has; see!" he finished by snatching up the book and spreading before her horrified eyes the pictured figure with its scarlet, vine-like tracings. "oh-h!" shivered the woman, and fled from the room. shivers and shudders became almost second nature to mehitable hartsorn during the days that followed. the highly colored, carefully explained illustrations of the kidneys, liver, heart, and lungs which the books displayed were to her only a little less terrifying than the thought that her own body contained the fearsome things in reality; while to her husband these same illustrations were but the delightful means to a still more delightful end--finding in his own sturdy frame the position of every organ shown. for a month jason was happy. then it was suddenly borne in upon him that not always were these fascinating new acquaintances of his in a healthy condition. at once he began to pinch and pummel himself, and to watch for pains, being careful, meanwhile, to study the books unceasingly, so that he might know just where to look for the pains when they should come. he counted his pulse daily--hourly, if he apprehended trouble; and his tongue he examined critically every morning, being particular to notice whether or not it were pale, moist, coated, red, raw, cracked, or tremulous. jason was not at all well that spring. he was threatened successively with typhoid fever, appendicitis, consumption, and cholera, and only escaped a serious illness in each case by the prompt application of remedies prescribed in his books. his wife ran the whole gamut of emotions from terror, worry, and sympathy down to indifference and good-natured tolerance, reaching the last only after the repeated failure of jason's diseases to materialize. it was about a week after jason had mercifully escaped an attack of the cholera that he came into the kitchen one morning and dropped heavily into the nearest chair. "i tell ye, my heart ain't right," he announced to his wife. "it's goin' jest like jehu--'palpitation,' they call it; an' i've got 'shortness of breath,' too," he finished triumphantly. "hm-m; did ye catch her at last?" asked mehitable with mild interest. jason looked up sharply. "'catch her'! catch who?" he demanded. "why, the colt, of course! how long did ye have ter chase her?" mrs. hartsorn's carefully modulated voice expressed curiosity, and that was all. jason flushed angrily. "oh, i know what ye mean," he snapped. "ye think thar don't nothin' ail me, an' that jest fetchin' dolly from the pasture did it all. but i know what them symptoms means; they mean heart disease, woman,--'cardiac failure,'--that's what 't is." jason leaned back in his chair and drew a long breath. when he could remember his "book-learnin'" and give a high-sounding name to his complaint, his gratification was enhanced. "hm-m; mebbe 't is, jason," retorted his wife; "but i'm a-thinkin' that when a man of your heft and years goes kitin' 'round a ten-acre lot at the tail of a fly-away colt, he'll have all that kind of heart disease he wants, an' still live ter die of somethin' else!" and mehitable cheerfully banged the oven door after making sure that her biscuits were not getting too brown. as it happened, however, there was really no chance for jason's heart disease to develop, for that night he scratched his finger, which brought about the much more imminent danger of blood-poisoning--"toxemia," jason said it was. for a time the whole household was upset, and mehitable was kept trotting from morning till night with sponges, cloths, cotton, and bowls of curious-smelling liquids, while jason discoursed on antiseptics, germs, bacteria, microbes, and bacilli. the finger was nearly well when he suddenly discovered that, after all, the trouble might have been lock-jaw instead of blood-poisoning. he at once began studying the subject so that he might be prepared should the thing occur again. he was glad, later, that he had done so, for the fourth of july and a toy pistol brought all his recently acquired knowledge into instant requisition. "if it does come, it's 'most likely ter be fatal," he said excitedly to his wife, who was calmly bathing a slight graze on his hand. "an' ye want ter watch me," he added, catching up a book with his uninjured hand and turning to a much-thumbed page for reference. "now, listen. thar's diff'rent kinds of it. they're all 'te-ta-nus,' but ye got to watch out ter find out which kind 't is. if i shut my jaws up tight, it's 'lock-jaw.' if i bend backwards, it's 'o-pis-tho-to-nos.' if i bend forwards, it's 'em-pros-tho-to-nos'; an' if i bend ter one side, it's 'pleu-ro-tho-to-nos,'" he explained, pronouncing the long words after a fashion of his own. "now, remember," he finished. "like enough i shan't know enough ter tell which kind 't is myself, nor which way i am a-leanin'." "no, of course not, dear," agreed mehitable cheerfully; "an' i'll remember," she promised, as she trotted away with her salves and bowls and bandages. for some days jason "tried" his jaw at regular intervals, coming to the conclusion at last that fate once more was kind, and that "te-ta-nus" was to pass him by. the summer ended and autumn came. jason was glad that the cold weather was approaching. the heat had been trying. he had almost suffered a sunstroke, and twice a mosquito bite had given him much trouble--he had feared that he would die of malignant pustule. his relief at the coming of cool weather was short-lived, however, for one of the neighboring towns developed a smallpox scare, and as he discovered a slight rash soon after passing through the place, he thought best to submit to vaccination. he caught a bad cold, too, and was sure pneumonia was setting in--that is, he would have been sure, only his throat was so sore that he could not help thinking it might be diphtheria. realizing the seriousness of the situation, and determining to settle once for all the vexed question, he pored over his books in an exhaustive search for symptoms. it was then that he rushed into the presence of his wife one morning, his face drawn, his eyes wildly staring, and an open book in his shaking hand. "hitty, hitty," he cried; "jest listen ter this! how 'm i goin' ter tell what ails me, i should like ter know, if i don't ache where i'm sick? why, hitty, i can't never tell! jest listen: the location of pain is not always at the seat of disease. in hip disease the pain is not first felt in the hip, but in the knee-joint. in chronic inflammation of the liver the pain is generally most severe in the right shoulder and arm. "only think, hitty, 'in the right shoulder and arm'! why, i had a pain right in that spot only yesterday. so that's what i've got--'hip-disease'! an'--oh, no," he broke off suddenly, consulting his book, "'t ain't hip-disease when the shoulder aches--it's the liver, then." "well, well, jason, i don't think i should fret," soothed mehitable. "if ye don't know, where's the diff'rence? now i've got a pain right now in my little toe. like enough that means i 'm comin' down with the mumps; eh?" "hitty!" jason's voice was agonized. he had been paying no attention to his wife's words, but had been reading on down the page. "hitty, listen! it says--'absence of pain in any disease where ordinarily it should be present is an unfavorable sign.' an', hitty, i hain't got an ache--not a single ache, this minute!" there was no possibility of quieting jason after that, and the days that followed were hard for all concerned. if he had an ache he was terrified; if he did not have one, he was more so. he began, also, to distrust his own powers of diagnosis, and to study all the patent medicine advertisements he could lay his hands on. he was half comforted, half appalled, to read them. far from being able to pick out his own particular malady from among the lot, he was forced to admit that as near as he could make out he had one or more symptoms of each and every disease that was mentioned. "now, hitty, i'll leave it to you," he submitted plaintively. "here's 'dread of impending evil.' now i've got that, sure; ye know i'm always thinkin' somethin' dreadful's goin' ter happen. 'sparks before the eyes.' there! i had them only jest ter-day. i was sweepin' out the barn, an' i see 'em hoppin' up an' down in a streak of sunshine that come through a crack. 'variable appetite.' now, hitty, don't ye remember? yesterday i wanted pie awful, an' i ate a whole one; well, this mornin' seems as if i never wanted ter see an apple pie again. now, if that ain't 'variable,' i don't know what is. 'inquietude.'" "humph! you've got that all right," cut in mehitable. "'weakness.' i hain't got a mite o' strength, hitty," he complained. "an' thar 's dizziness, too,--i can't chase the calf three times round the barnyard but what my head is jest swimmin'! an' hitty,"--his voice grew impressive,--"hitty, i've got ev'ry one of them six symptoms, ev'ry blamed one of 'em, an' i picked 'em out of six diff'rent advertisements--six! now, hitty, which disease is it i've got? that's what i want ter know--which?" his wife could not tell him; in fact, no one could tell him, and in sheer desperation jason answered all six of the advertisements, determined to find out for a certainty what ailed him. in due course the answers came. jason read one, then another, then another, until the contents of the entire six had been mastered. then he raised his head and gazed straight into his wife's eyes. "hitty," he gasped. "i've got 'em all! an' i've got ter take the whole six medicines ter cure me!" even mehitable was stirred then. for one long minute she was silent, then she squared her shoulders, and placed her hands on her hips. "jason hartsorn," she began determinedly, "this thing has gone jest as fur as i'm goin' to stand it. do you bundle yourself off ter boston an' hunt up the biggest doctor you can find. if he says somethin' ails ye, i 'll believe him, an' nuss ye ter the best of my ability; but as fur nussin' ye through six things--an' them all ter once--i won't! so there." twenty-four hours later jason faced a square-jawed, smooth-shaven man who looked sharply into his eyes with a curt, "well, sir?" jason cleared his throat. "well, ye see, doctor," he began, "somethin' ails me, an' i ain't quite sure what 't is. i 've been poorly since last spring, but it's been kind of puzzlin'. now, fur instance: i had a pain in my knee, so i felt sure 'twas hip-disease, but it jumped ter my shoulder, so 'course then i knew 't was my liver." the doctor made a sudden movement. he swung squarely around in his office chair and faced jason. jason was pleased--his learning had already made an impression! he raised his chin and went on with renewed confidence. "ye see i was afraid my liver, or mebbe one o' my kidneys, was hardenin' or floatin' round loose, or doin' somethin' else they had n't orter. lately, thar's been days, lots of 'em, when i hain't had no pain--not a mite, an' 'course that's the worst symptom of all. then sometimes thar's been such shootin' pains that i kind o' worried fur fear 'twas locomotive ataxia; but mebbe the very next day it would change so's i did n't know but 'twas appendicitis, an' that my vermi-er-vermicelli appendix was the trouble." the doctor coughed--he not only coughed, but he choked, so that jason had to pause for a moment; but it was only for a moment. "i 'most had diphtheria, an' pneumonia, an' smallpox this fall," he resumed complacently; "an' thar's six other diseases that i got symptoms of--that is, partly, you know:--'variable appetite,' an' 'inquietude,' an' all that." "hm-m," said the doctor, slowly, his eyes averted. "well, we'll--make an examination. come in here, please," he added, leading the way to an inner room. "gorry!" ejaculated jason some minutes later, when he was once more back in his chair, "i should think you might know what ails me now--after all that thumpin' an' poundin' an' listenin'!" "i do," said the doctor. "well, 't ain't six of 'em; is it?" there was mingled hope and fear in jason's voice. if it were six--he could see hitty's face! "any physicians in your family?" asked the doctor, ignoring jason's question. jason shook his head. "hm-m," commented the doctor. "ever been any?" "why, not as i know of, sir," murmured jason wonderingly. "no? where did you get them, then,--those medical books?" jason stared. "why, how in thunder did you know--" he began. but the doctor interrupted him. "never mind that. you have them, have n't you?" "why, yes; i bought 'em at an auction. i bought 'em last--" "spring--eh?" supplied the doctor. jason's mouth fell open. "never mind," laughed the doctor again, his hand upraised. "now to business!" and his face grew suddenly grave. "you're in a bad way, my friend." "b-bad way?" stammered jason. "it--it is n't six that ails me?" it was all fear this time in jason's voice; some way the doctor's face had carried conviction. "no; you are threatened with more than six." "wha-at?" jason almost sprang from his seat. "but, doctor, they ain't--dangerous!" "but they are, very!" "all of them? why, doctor, how--how many are thar?" the doctor shook his head. "i could not count them," he replied, not meeting jason's eyes. "oh-h!" gasped jason, and shook in his shoes. there was a long silence. "an' will i--die?" he almost whispered. "we all must--sometime," returned the doctor, slowly, as if weighing his words; "but you will die long before your time--unless you do one thing." "i'll do it, doctor, i'll do it--if i have ter mortgage the farm," chattered jason frenziedly. "i'll do anythin'--anythin'; only tell me what it is." "i will tell you," declared the doctor briskly, with a sudden change of manner, whisking about in his chair. "go home and burn those medical books--every single one of them." "burn them! why, doctor, them's the very things that made me know i was sick. i should n't 'a' come ter you at all if it had n't been fur them." "exactly!" agreed the doctor, rubbing his hands together. "that's just what i thought. you were well before, were n't you?" "why, yes,--that is, i did n't know i was sick," corrected jason. "hm-m; well, you won't know it now if you'll go home and burn those books. if you don't burn them you'll have every disease there is in them, and some one of them will be the death of you. as it is now, you're a well man, but i would n't trust one organ of your anatomy within a rod of those books an hour longer!" he said more--much more; and that his words were not without effect was shown no later than that same evening when jason burst into the kitchen at home. "hitty, hitty, thar ain't six, thar ain't one, thar ain't nothin' that ails me," he cried jubilantly, still under the sway of the joy that had been his when the great doctor had told him there was yet one chance for his life. "thar ain't a single thing!" "well, now, ain't that nice?" murmured hitty, as she drew up the chairs. "come, jason, supper's ready." "an' hitty, i'm goin' ter burn 'em up--them books of hemenway's," continued jason confidentially. "they ain't very good readin', after all, an' like enough they're kind of out of date, bein' so old. i guess i'll go fetch 'em now," he added as he left the room. "why, hitty, they're--gone!" he cried a minute later from the doorway. "gone? books?" repeated mehitable innocently. "oh, yes, i remember now. i must 'a' burned 'em this mornin'. ye see, they cluttered up so. come, jason, set down." and jason sat down. but all the evening he wondered. "was it possible, after all, that hitty--knew?" crumbs the story of a discontented woman the floor was untidy, the sink full of dirty dishes, and the stove a variegated thing of gray and dull red. at the table, head bowed on outstretched arms, was kate merton, twenty-one, discouraged, and sole mistress of the kitchen in which she sat. the pleasant-faced, slender little woman in the doorway paused irresolutely on the threshold, then walked with a brisk step into the room. "is the water hot?" she asked cheerily. the girl at the table came instantly to her feet. "aunt ellen!" she cried, aghast. "oh, yes, it's lovely," murmured the lady, peering into the copper boiler on the stove. "but, auntie, you--i"--the girl paused helplessly. "let's see, are these the wipers?" pursued mrs. howland, her hand on one of the towels hanging behind the stove. kate's face hardened. "thank you, aunt ellen. you are very kind, but i can do quite well by myself. you will please go into the living-room. i don't allow company to do kitchen work." "of course not!" acquiesced mrs. howland imperturbably. "but your father's sister is n't company, you know. let's see, you put your clean dishes here?" "but, aunt ellen, you must n't," protested kate. "at home you do nothing--nothing all day." a curious expression came into mrs. howland's face, but kate merton did not seem to notice. "you have servants to do everything, even to dressing you. no, you can't wipe my dishes." for a long minute there was silence in the kitchen. mrs. howland, wiper in hand, stood looking out the window. her lips parted, then closed again. when she finally turned and spoke, the old smile had come back to her face. "then if that is the case, it will be all the more change for me to do something," she said pleasantly. "i want to do them, kate. it will be a pleasure to me." "pleasure!" mrs. rowland's clear laugh rang through the kitchen at the scorn expressed in the one word. "and is it so bad as that?" she demanded merrily. "worse!" snapped kate. "i simply loathe dishes!" but a shamed smile came to her lips, and she got the pans and water, making no further objection. "i like pretty dishes," observed mrs. howland, after a time, breaking a long silence. "there's a certain satisfaction in restoring them to their shelves in all their dainty, polished beauty." "i should like them just as well if they always stayed there, and did n't come down to get all crumbs and grease in the sink," returned the other tartly. "oh, of course," agreed mrs. howland, with a smile; "but, as long as they don't, why, we might as well take what satisfaction there is in putting them in shape again." "don't see it--the satisfaction," retorted kate, and her aunt dropped the subject where it was. the dishes finished and the kitchen put to rights, the two women started for the chambers and the bed-making. kate's protests were airily waved aside by the energetic little woman who promptly went to pillow-beating and mattress-turning. "how fresh and sweet the air smells!" cried mrs. howland, sniffing at the open window. "lilacs," explained kate concisely. "hm-m--lovely!" "think so? i don't care for the odor myself," rejoined kate. the other shot a quick look from under lowered lids. kate's face expressed mere indifference. the girl evidently had not meant to be rude. "you don't like them?" cried mrs. howland. "oh, i do! my dear, you don't half appreciate what it is to have such air to breathe. only think, if you were shut up in a brick house on a narrow street as i am!" "think!" retorted kate, with sudden heat. "i 'd like to do something besides 'think'! i 'd like to try it!" "you mean you'd like to leave here?--to go to the city?" "i do, certainly. aunt ellen, i'm simply sick of chicken-feeding and meal-getting. why, if it was n't for keeping house for father i 'd have been off to new york or boston years ago!" "but your home--your friends!" "commonplace--uninteresting!" declared kate, disposing of both with a wave of her two hands. "the one means endless sweeping and baking; the other means sewing societies, and silly gossip over clothes, beaux, and crops." mrs. howland laughed, though she sobered instantly. "but there must be something, some one that you enjoy," she suggested. kate shook her head wearily. "not a thing, not a person," she replied; adding with a whimsical twinkle, "they're all like the dishes, aunt ellen,--bound to accumulate crumbs and scraps, and do nothing but clutter up." "oh, kate, kate," remonstrated mrs. howland, "what an incorrigible girl you are!" as she spoke her lips smiled, but her eyes did not--there was a wistful light in their blue depths that persistently stayed there all through the day as she watched her niece. at ten, and again at half-past, some neighbors dropped in. after they had gone kate complained because the forenoon was so broken up. the next few hours were free from callers, and at the supper table kate grumbled because the afternoon was so stupid and lonesome. when mr. merton came in bringing no mail, kate exclaimed that nobody ever answered her letters, and that she might just as well not write; yet when the next day brought three, she sighed over the time "wasted in reading such long letters." the week sped swiftly and sunday night came. mrs. howland's visit was all but finished. she was going early the next morning. sunday had not been an unalloyed joy. mrs. howland and her niece had attended church, but to kate the sermon was too long, and the singing too loud. the girl mentioned both in a listless way, at the same time saying that it was always like that except when the sermon was interesting, then it was too short and the choir took up all the time there was with their tiresome singing. dinner had been long in preparation, and, in spite of mrs. rowland's gladly given assistance, the dish-washing and the kitchen-tidying had been longer still. all day kate's step had been more than lagging, and her face more than discontented. in the twilight, as the two women sat together, mrs. rowland laid hold of her courage with both hands and spoke. "kate, dear, is n't there something, anything, worth while to you?" "nothing, auntie. i feel simply buried alive." "but can't you think of anything--" "think of anything!" interrupted the girl swiftly. "of course i can! if i had money--or lived somewhere else--or could go somewhere, or see something once in a while, it would be different; but here--!" mrs. howland shook her head. "but it would n't be different, my dear," she demurred. "why, of course it would!" laughed kate bitterly. "it could n't help it." again mrs. howland shook her head. then a whimsical smile crossed her face. "kate," she said, "there are crumbs on the plates out in the world just the same as there are here; and if here you teach yourself to see nothing but crumbs, you will see nothing but crumbs out there. in short, dissatisfaction with everyday living is the same joy-killer whether in town or city, farmhouse or palace. oh, i 'm preaching, i know, dear," went on mrs. howland hurriedly, as she saw the angry light in the other's eyes, "but--i had to speak--you don't know how it's growing on you. come, let's kiss and make up; then think it over." kate frowned, then laughed constrainedly. "don't worry, aunt," she replied, rising, and just touching her aunt's lips with her own. "i still think it would be different out there; but--i suppose you 'll always remain unconvinced, for i shall never have the chance to prove it. my plates won't belong anywhere but in hopkinsville cupboards! come, will you play to me?" when mrs. rowland returned from england, one of the first letters she received after reaching home was a cordial invitation from her dead brother's daughter, kate, to visit her. in the last five years mrs. howland had seen her niece but once. that was during the sad, hurried days just following mr. merton's sudden death four years before. since then mrs. howland had been abroad and there had been many changes at the little farmhouse in hopkinsville. the farm had been sold, and kate had married and had gone to boston to live. beyond the facts that kate's husband was older than she, and was a man of considerable means, mrs. howland knew little of her niece's present circumstances. it was with curiosity, as well as pleasure, that she accepted kate's invitation, and took the train specified. at the south station mrs. howland found a stylishly gowned, smiling young woman with a cordial welcome. an imposing carriage with a liveried coachman waited to take her to kate's home. "oh, what handsome horses!" cried mrs. howland appreciatively, as she stepped into the carriage. "yes, are n't they," agreed kate. "if only they matched better, they'd be perfect. i wish both had stars on their foreheads!" "let me see, you are on beacon street, i believe," remarked mrs. howland, as the carriage left the more congested quarter of the city. kate frowned. "yes," she answered. "i wanted commonwealth avenue, but mr. blake preferred beacon. all his people live on beacon, and have for years." "oh, but beacon is lovely, i think." "do you? well, perhaps; but commonwealth is so much wider and more roomy. i could breathe on commonwealth avenue, i think!" "and don't you, where you are?" laughed mrs. howland. her niece made a playfully wry face. "just pant--upon my word i do! not one full breath do i draw," she asserted. "hm-m; i've always understood that deep breathing was necessary for health," commented mrs. howland, with a critical, comprehensive glance; "but--you seem to thrive all right! you are looking well, kate." "i don't feel so. i have the most shocking headaches," the other retorted. "ah, here we are!" mrs. howland followed her hostess up a short flight of stone steps into a handsome hall. a well-trained maid was at once in attendance, and another, a little later, helped her unpack. "my dear," mrs. howland said to her niece when she came downstairs, "what a lucky woman you are to have two such maids! they are treasures!" kate's hands flew to her head with a gesture of despair. "maids!--aunt ellen, don't ever say the word to me, i beg! i never keep one more than a month, and i'm shaking in my shoes this very minute. there's a new cook in the kitchen, and i have n't the least idea what your dinner will be." "i 'm not a bit worried," rejoined mrs. howland. "what a pretty home you have, kate," she added, tactfully changing the subject. "think so? i'm glad you like it. i sometimes wish i could get hold of the man who built this house, though, and give him a piece of my mind. the rooms on this floor are so high studded they give me the shivers, while all the chambers are so low they are absurd. did n't you notice it in your room?" "why--no; i don't think i did." "well, you will now." "perhaps so, since you have told me to," returned mrs. howland, a curious smile on her lips. the dinner was well planned, well cooked, and well served, in mrs. howland's opinion, though to her niece it was none of the three. kate's husband, the honorable eben blake, proved to be a genial, distinguished-looking man who welcomed mrs. howland with the cordiality that he displayed toward anybody or anything connected in the most remote degree with his wife. it was evidently with sincere regrets that he made his apologies after dinner, and left the house with a plea of business. "it's always that way when i want him!" exclaimed kate petulantly. "then night after night when i don't want him he'll stay at home and read and smoke." "but you have friends--you go out," hazarded mrs. howland. mrs. blake raised her eyebrows. "oh, of course! but, after all, what do calls and receptions amount to? you always meet the same people who say the same things, whether you go to see them or they come to see you." mrs. howland laughed; then she said, softly, "the old, old story, kate,--the crumbs on the plates." "what?" demanded the younger woman in frank amazement. there was a moment's pause during which she gazed blankly into her aunt's eyes. "oh!--that?" she added, coloring painfully; then she uptilted her chin. "you are very much mistaken, auntie," she resumed with some dignity. "it is nothing of the sort. i am very happy--very happy, indeed!"--positively. "i have a good husband, a pretty home, more money than is good for me, and--well, everything," she finished a little breathlessly. again mrs. howland laughed, but her face grew almost instantly grave. "and yet, my dear," she said gently, "scarcely one thing has been mentioned since i came that was quite right." "oh, aunt ellen, how can you say such a dreadful thing!" "listen," replied mrs. howland; "it's little bits of things that you don't think of. it has grown on you without your realizing it: the horses did n't both have stars; the house was n't on commonwealth avenue; the rooms are too high or too low studded; the roast was over-done; your husband could n't"-- "oh, auntie, auntie, i beg of you!"--interrupted kate hysterically. "are you convinced, then?" kate shook her head. "i can't, auntie--i can't believe it!" she cried. "it--it can't be like that always. there must have been special things to-day that plagued me. auntie, i'm not such a--monster!" "hm-m; well--will you consent to an experiment to--er--find out?" "indeed i will!" returned kate promptly. "very good! every time i hear those little dissatisfied fault-findings, i am going to mention crumbs or plates or china. i think you'll understand. is it a bargain?" "it's a bargain," agreed kate, and she smiled confidently. the rest of the evening mrs. blake kept close guard over her tongue. twice a "but" and once an "only" slipped out; but she bit her lips and completed her sentence in another way in each case, and if mrs. howland noticed, she made no sign. it rained the next morning. kate came into the dining-room with a frown. "i'm so sorry, auntie," she sighed. "i'd planned a drive this morning. it always rains when i want to do something, but when i don't, it just shines and shines, week in and week out." "won't the rain wash the--plates?" asked mrs. howland in a low voice, as she passed her niece's chair. "wha-at?" demanded mrs. blake; then she flushed scarlet. "weather doesn't count," she finished flippantly. "no? oh!" smiled mrs. howland. "fine muffins, these!" spoke up mr. blake, a little later. "new cook--eh?" "yes," replied his wife. "but they're graham. i 'd much rather have had corn-cake." "there are not so many--crumbs to graham," observed mrs. howland musingly. there was no reply. the man of the house looked slightly dazed. his wife bit her lip, and choked a little over her coffee. through the rest of the meal mrs. blake confined herself almost exclusively to monosyllables, leaving the conversation to her husband and guest. at ten the sky cleared, and mrs. blake ordered the horses. "we can't drive far," she began discontentedly, "for i ordered an early luncheon as we have tickets for a concert this afternoon. i wanted to go away out beyond the newtons, but now we'll have to take a little snippy one." "oh, i don't mind," rejoined her guest pleasantly. "where one can't have the whole cake one must be satisfied with--crumbs." "why, i don't see"--began kate aggressively; then she stopped, and nervously tapped her foot. "oh, how pretty that vine is!" cried mrs. howland suddenly. the silence was growing oppressive. "it looks very well now, but you should see it in winter," retorted kate. "great, bare, snake-like things all over the--now, don't cudgel your brains to bring 'plates' or 'crumbs' into that!" she broke off with sudden sharpness. "no, ma'am," answered mrs. howland demurely. by night the guest, if not the hostess, was in a state of nervous tension that boded ill for sleep. the day had been one long succession of "crumbs" and "china plates"--conversationally. according to kate, the roads had been muddy; the sun had been too bright; there had been chops when there should have been croquettes for luncheon; the concert seats were too far forward; the soprano had a thin voice, and the bass a faulty enunciation; at dinner the soup was insipid, and the dessert a disappointment; afterwards, in the evening, callers had stayed too long. mrs. howland was in her own room, on the point of preparing for bed, when there came a knock at her chamber door, "please, aunt ellen, may i come in?" "certainly, my dear," called mrs. howland, hastening across the room. kate stepped inside, closed the door, and placed her back against it. "i'll give it up," she began, half laughing, half crying. "i never, never would have believed it! don't ever say 'crumbs' or 'plates' to me again as long as you live--_please_! i believe i never can even _see_ the things again with any peace or comfort. i am going to try--try--oh, how i'm going to try!--but, auntie, i think it's a hopeless case!" the next instant she had whisked the door open and had vanished out of sight. "'hopeless'?" mrs. howland was whispering to herself the next day, as she passed through the hall. "'hopeless'? oh, no, i think not." and she smiled as she heard her niece's voice in the drawing-room saying: "high studded, eben?--these rooms? yes, perhaps; but, after all, it doesn't matter so much, being a drawing-room--and one does get better air, you know!" a four-footed faith and a two on monday rathburn took the dog far up the trail. stub was no blue-ribbon, petted dog of records and pedigree; he was a vicious-looking little yellow cur of mixed ancestry and bad habits--that is, he had been all this when rathburn found him six months before and championed his cause in a quarrel with a crowd of roughs in mike swaney's saloon. since then he had developed into a well-behaved little beast with a pair of wistful eyes that looked unutterable love, and a tail that beat the ground, the floor, or the air in joyous welcome whenever rathburn came in sight. he was part collie, sharp-nosed and prick-eared, and his undersized little body still bore the marks of the precarious existence that had been his before rathburn had befriended him. rathburn had rescued the dog that day in the saloon more to thwart the designs of pete mulligan, the head of the gang and an old enemy, than for any compassion for the dog itself; but after he had taken the little animal home he rather enjoyed the slavish devotion which--in the dog's mind--seemed evidently to be the only fit return for so great a service as had been done him. for some months, therefore, rathburn petted the dog, fed him, taught him to "speak" and to "beg," and made of him an almost constant companion. at the end of that time, the novelty having worn thin, he was ready--as he expressed it to himself--to "call the whole thing off," and great was his disgust that the dog failed to see the affair in the same light. for some time, rathburn endured the plaintive whines, the questioning eyes, the frequent thrusts of a cold little nose against his hand; then he determined to end it all. "stub, come here!" he called sharply, his right hand seeking his pocket. with a yelp of joy the dog leaped forward--not for days had his master voluntarily noticed him. rathburn raised his pistol and took careful aim. his eye was steady and his hand did not shake. two feet away the dog had come to a sudden halt. something in the eye or in the leveled weapon had stayed his feet. he whined, then barked, his eyes all the while wistfully demanding an explanation. suddenly, his gaze still fixed on his master's face, he rose upright on his haunches and held before him two little dangling paws. there was a silence, followed by a muttered oath, as the pistol dropped to the ground. "confound my babyishness!" snarled rathburn, stooping and pocketing his weapon. "one would think i'd never seen a gun before!" this was on sunday. on monday rathburn took the dog far up the trail. "want a dog?" he said to the low-browed, unkempt man sitting at the door of a squat cabin. "well, i don't. i ain't buyin' dogs these days." "yer don't have ter buy this one," observed rathburn meaningly. the other glanced up with sharp eyes. "humph! bite?" he snapped. rathburn shook his head. "sick of him," he returned laconically. "like his room better'n his company." "humph!" grunted the other. then to the dog: "come here, sir, an' let's have a look at ye!" five minutes later rathburn strode down the trail alone, while behind him, on the other side of the fast-shut cabin door, barked and scratched a frantic little yellow dog. tuesday night, when rathburn came home, the first sound that greeted him was a joyous bark, as a quivering, eager little creature leaped upon him from out of the dark. on wednesday stub trotted into town at rathburn's heels, and all the way down the straggling street he looked neither to the right nor to the left, so fearful did he seem that the two great boots he was following should in some way slip from his sight. and yet, vigilant as he was, the door of swaney's saloon got somehow between and left him on one side barking and whining and running like mad about the room, while on the other his master stood jingling the two pieces of silver in his pocket--the price mike swaney had paid for his new dog. halfway up the mountain-side rathburn was still chuckling, still jingling his coins. "when a man pays money," he was saying aloud, as he squared his shoulders and looked across the valley at the setting sun, "when a man pays money he watches out. i reckon stub has gone fer good, sure thing, this time!" and yet--long before dawn there came a whine and a gentle scratch at his cabin door; and although four times the dog was returned to his new owner, four times he escaped and nosed the long trail that led to the cabin on the mountain-side. after stub's fourth desertion the saloon-keeper refused to take him again, and for a week the dog lay unmolested in his old place in the sun outside the cabin door, or dozed before the fireplace at night. then rathburn bestirred himself and made one last effort, taking the dog quite over the mountain and leaving him tied to a tree. at the end of thirty-six hours, rathburn was congratulating himself; at the end of thirty-seven he was crying, "down, sir--down!" to a joy-crazed little dog which had come leaping down the mountain-side with eighteen inches of rope dangling at his heels--a rope whose frayed and tattered end showed the marks of sharp little teeth. rathburn gave it up after that, and stub stayed on. there was no petting, no trick-teaching; there were only sharp words and sometimes a kick or a cuff. gradually the whines and barks gave way to the more silent appeal of wistful eyes, and stub learned that life now was a thing of little food and less joy, and that existence was a thing of long motionless watchings of a master who would not understand. weeks passed and a cold wind swept down from the mountains. the line of snow crept nearer and nearer the clearing about the cabin, and the sun grew less warm. rathburn came home each night with a deeper frown on his face, and a fiercer oath as he caught sight of the dog. down at swaney's the men knew that bill rathburn was having a "streak o' poor luck"; the golden treasure he sought was proving elusive. stub knew only that he must hide each night now when his master appeared. as the days passed food became scarce in the cabin. it had been some time since rathburn had gone to town for supplies. then came the day when a great joy came into stub's life--his master spoke to him. it was not the old fond greeting, to be sure. it was a command, and a sharp one; but in stub's opinion it was a vast improvement on the snarling oaths or wordless glowerings which had been his portion for the past weeks, and he responded to it with every sense and muscle quiveringly alert. and so it came about that stub, in obedience to that sharp command, frequently scampered off with his master to spend long days in the foothills, or following the mountain streams. sometimes it was a partridge, sometimes it was a squirrel, or a rabbit--whatever it was that fell a victim to rathburn's gun, stub learned very soon that it must be brought at once to the master and laid at his feet; and so proud was he to be thus of use and consequence that he was well content if at the end of the day his master tossed him a discarded bone after the spoils had been cooked and the man's own appetite satisfied. it was on one of the days when work, not hunting, filled the time, that rathburn came home after a long day's labor to find stub waiting for him with a dead rabbit. after that it came to be a common thing for the dog to trot off by himself in the morning; and the man fell more and more in the way of letting him go alone, as it left his own time the more free for the pursuit of that golden sprite who was ever promising success just ahead. as for stub--stub was happy. he spent the long days in the foothills or on the mountain-side, and soon became expert in his hunting. he would trail for hours without giving tongue, and would patiently lie and wait for a glimpse of a venturesome woodchuck or squirrel. so devoted was he, so well trained, and so keenly alive was he to his responsibilities that, whether the day had been one of great or small success, he was always to be found at night crouching before the cabin door on guard of something limp and motionless--something that a dozen hours before had been a throbbing, scurrying bit of life in the forest. to be sure, that "something" did not always have a food value commensurate with the labor and time stub had spent to procure it; but to stub evidently the unforgivable sin was to return with nothing, which fact may explain why rathburn came home one night to find stub on guard beside a small dead snake. both man and dog went supperless that night--the man inside the cabin before a roaring fire; the dog outside in the cheerless dark before a fast-closed door whither his master had promptly consigned him. gradually as the days passed there came still another change in the life at the cabin. rathburn's step became slow, and his cheeks sunken. sometimes he did not leave home all day, but lay tossing from side to side on his bunk in the corner. at such times, if the result of stub's hunt were eatable, the man would rouse himself enough to stir the fire and get supper; and always, after such a day at home, rathburn was astir the next morning at dawn and off in feverish haste for a long day's work to make up for the long day of idleness. but there came a time when he could not do this--when each day found him stretched prone on his bunk or moving feebly about the room. then came a night when stub's bark at the door was unanswered. again and again stub demanded admittance only to be met with silence. the door, though unlatched, was swollen from recent rains, and it took five good minutes and all the strength of one small dog to push it open a narrow foot, and then there were only silence and a dying fire by way of greeting. stub dropped his burden on the floor and whined. he was particularly proud to-night; he had brought home a partridge--the first he had ever caught without the aid of his master's gun. the figure on the bed did not move. the dog picked up the bird he had dropped and walked toward his master. this time he laid his offering close to the bunk and barked. the man stirred and groaned. for long minutes the dog stood motionless, watching; then he crept to the fire and almost into the hot ashes in his efforts to warm the blood in his shivering little legs. in the morning the fire was quite out. stub stretched his stiffened body and gazed about the room. over on the bed the man did not stir nor speak. the dead bird lay untouched at his side. there was a whine, a bark, and a long minute of apparent indecision; then the dog pattered across the floor, wormed himself through the partly open door, and took the trail that led to the foothills. three times stub brought to the fireless, silent cabin the result of his day's hunt and laid it at his master's side, and always there was only silence or a low groan to greet him. on the third night it snowed--the first storm of the season. a keen wind swept down the mountain and played hide-and-seek with the cabin door, so that in the morning a long bar of high-piled snow lay across the cabin floor. when the men from the village had ploughed their way through the snow and pushed open the door, they stopped amazed upon the threshold, looking at one another with mingled alarm and pity; then one of them, conquering his reluctance, strode forward. he stooped for a moment over the prostrate form of the man before he turned and faced his companions. "boys, he's--gone," he said huskily; and in the silence that followed, four men bared their heads. it was a dog's low whine that first stirred into action the man by the bunk. he looked down and his eyes grew luminous. he saw the fireless hearth, the drifted snow, and the half-dead dog keeping watchful guard over a pile of inert fur and feathers on the floor--a pile frozen stiff and mutely witnessing to a daily duty well performed. "i reckon i'm needin' a dog," he said, as he stooped and patted stub's head. a matter of system at the office of hawkins & hawkins, system was everything. even the trotter-boy was reduced to an orbit that ignored craps and marbles, and the stenographer went about her work like a well-oiled bit of machinery. it is not strange, then, that jasper hawkins, senior member of the firm, was particularly incensed at the confusion that christmas always brought to his home. for years he bore--with such patience as he could muster--the attack of nervous prostration that regularly, on the th day of december, laid his wife upon a bed of invalidism; then, in the face of the unmistakable evidence that the malady would this year precede the holy day of peace and good-will, he burst his bonds of self-control and spoke his mind. it was upon the morning of the st. "edith," he began, in what his young daughter called his "now mind" voice, "this thing has got to stop." "what thing?" "christmas." "_jas_-per!"--it was as if she thought he had the power to sweep good-will itself from the earth. "christmas--_stop_!" "yes. my dear, how did you spend yesterday?" "i was--shopping." "exactly. and the day before?--and the day before that?--and before that? you need n't answer, for i know. and you were shopping for--" he paused expectantly. "presents." something quite outside of herself had forced the answer. "exactly. now, edith, surely it need not take all your time for a month before christmas to buy a few paltry presents, and all of it for two months afterward to get over buying them!" "but, jasper, they are n't few, and they're anything but paltry. imagine giving uncle harold a _paltry_ present!" retorted edith, with some spirit. the man waved an impatient hand. "very well, we will call them magnificent, then," he conceded. "but even in that case, surely the countless stores full of beautiful and useful articles, and with a list properly tabulated, and a sufficiency of money--" an expressive gesture finished his sentence. the woman shook her head. "i know; it sounds easy," she sighed, "but it is n't. it's so hard to think up what to give, and after i 've thought it up and bought it, i 'm just sure i ought to have got the other thing." "but you should have some system about it." "oh, i had--a list," she replied dispiritedly. "but i'm so--tired." jasper hawkins suddenly squared his shoulders. "how many names have you left now to buy presents for?" he demanded briskly. "three--aunt harriet, and jimmy, and uncle harold. they always get left till the last. they're so--impossible." "impossible? nonsense!--and i'll prove it to you, too. give yourself no further concern, edith, about christmas, if _that_ is all there is left to do--just consider it done." "do you mean--you'll get the presents for them?" "most certainly." "but, jasper, you know--" an imperative gesture silenced her. "my dear, i'm doing this to relieve you, and that means that you are not even to think of it again." "very well; er--thank you," sighed the woman; but her eyes were troubled. not so jasper's; his eyes quite sparkled with anticipation as he left the house some minutes later. on the way downtown he made his plans and arranged his list. he wished it were longer--that list. three names were hardly sufficient to demonstrate his theories and display his ability. as for aunt harriet, jimmy, and uncle harold being "impossible"--that was all nonsense, as he had said; and before his eyes rose a vision of the three: aunt harriet, a middle-aged spinster, poor, half-sick, and chronically discontented with the world; jimmy, a white-faced lad who was always reading a book; and uncle harold, red-faced, red-headed, and--red-tempered. (jasper smiled all to himself at this last thought.) "red-tempered"--that was good. he would tell edith--but he would not tell others. witticisms at the expense of a rich old bachelor uncle whose heir was a matter of his own choosing were best kept pretty much to one's self. edith was right, however, in one thing, jasper decided: uncle harold surely could not be given a "paltry" present. he must be given something fine, expensive, and desirable--something that one would like one's self. and immediately there popped into jasper's mind the thought of a certain exquisitely carved meerschaum which he had seen in a window and which he had greatly coveted. as for aunt harriet and jimmy--their case was too simple for even a second thought: to one he would give a pair of bed-slippers; to the other, a book. some minutes later jasper hawkins tucked into his pocketbook an oblong bit of paper on which had been neatly written:-- presents to be bought for christmas, : aunt harriet, spinster, (?) years old--bed-slippers. uncle harold, bachelor, years old--pipe. jimmy, boy, years old--book. in the office of hawkins & hawkins that morning, the senior member of the firm found a man waiting for him. this man was the emissary of his mighty chief, and upon this chief rested the whole structure of a "deal" which was just then looming large on the horizon of hawkins & hawkins--and in which the oblong bit of paper in jasper's pocketbook had no part. mrs. jasper hawkins greeted her husband with palpitating interest that evening. "well--what did you get?" she asked. the man of business lifted his chin triumphantly. "not everything we asked for, to be sure," he began, "but we got more than we expected to, and--" he stopped abruptly. the expression on his wife's face had suddenly reminded him that by no possible chance could she know what he was talking about. "er--what do you mean?" he demanded. "why, jasper, there's only one thing i could mean--the presents, you know!" a curious something clutched at jasper's breath and held it for a moment suspended. then jasper throttled the something, and raised his chin even higher. "time enough for that to-morrow," he retorted lightly. "i did n't promise to get them to-day, you know." "but, jasper, to-morrow 's the d!" "and three whole days before christmas." "yes, but they must be sent the th." "and they'll _be_ sent, my dear," declared jasper, in a tone of voice that was a cold dismissal of the subject. on the morning of the d, jasper hawkins told himself that he would not forget the presents this time. he decided, however, that there was no need for him to take the whole day to select a pipe, a book, and a pair of slippers. there would be quite time enough after luncheon. and he smiled to himself in a superior way as he thought of the dizzying rush and the early start that always marked his wife's shopping excursions. he was still smiling happily when he sallied forth at two o'clock that afternoon, leaving word at the office that he would return in an hour. he decided to buy the meerschaum first, and with unhesitating steps he sought the tobacco-store in whose window he had seen it. the pipe was gone, however, and there really was no other in the place that just suited him, though he spent fully half an hour trying to find one. he decided then to look elsewhere. he would try the department store in which he intended to buy the book and the slippers. it was better, anyway, that he should do all his shopping under one roof--it was more systematic. the great clock in the department-store tower had just struck three when jasper stalked through the swinging doors on the street floor. he had been detained. window displays had allured him, and dawdling throngs of christmas shoppers had forced his feet into a snail's pace. he drew now a sigh of relief. he had reached his destination; he would make short work of his purchases. and with a dignified stride he turned toward the nearest counter. at once, however, he found himself caught in a swirl of humanity that swept him along like a useless chip and flung him against a counter much farther down the aisle. with what dignity he could summon to his aid he righted himself and addressed the smiling girl behind it. "i'm looking for pipes," he announced, severely. "perhaps you can tell me where they are." she shook her head. "ask him," she suggested, with a nod and a jerk of her thumb. and jasper, looking in the direction indicated, saw a frock-coated man standing like a rock where the streams of humanity broke and surged to the right and to the left. by some maneuvering, jasper managed in time to confront this man. "pipes," he panted anxiously--he was reduced now to the single word. "annex; second floor. elevator to your right." "thanks!" fervently breathed the senior member of the firm of hawkins & hawkins, muttering as he turned away, "then they have got some system in this infernal bedlam!" the crisp directions had sounded simple, but they proved to be anything but simple to follow. like a shuttlecock, jasper was tossed from clerk to clerk, until by the time he reached his destination he was confused, breathless, and cross. the pipes, however, were numerous and beautiful, and the girl behind the counter was both pretty and attentive; moreover, pipes did not happen to be popular that day, and the corner was a little paradise of quietness and rest. the man drew a long breath of relief and bent to his task. in his mind was the one thought uppermost--he must select just such a pipe as he himself would like; and for long minutes he pondered whether this, that, or another would best please him. so absorbed was he, indeed, in this phase of the question, that he had made his selection and taken out his money, when the sickening truth came to him--uncle harold did not smoke. to jasper it seemed incredible that he had not thought of this before. but not until he pictured his purchase in his uncle's hand had he realized that the thing was not for himself, after all, but for a man who not only did not smoke, but who abhorred the habit in others. with a muttered something that the righteously indignant pretty girl could not hear, jasper hawkins thrust his money into his pocket and rushed blindly away from the pipe counter. long minutes later in the street, he adjusted his tie, jerked his coat into place, straightened his hat, and looked at his watch. it was four o'clock, and he must go back to the office before starting for home. there was still another whole day before him, he remembered, and, after all, it was a very simple matter to buy the book and the slippers, and then look around a little for something for uncle harold. in the morning he would doubtless light upon the very thing. and with this comforting thought he dismissed the subject and went back to the office. mrs. hawkins did not question her husband that night about what he had bought. something in his face stayed the words on her lips. jasper hawkins went early to the office the next morning, but it was fully eleven o'clock before he could begin his shopping. he told himself, however, that there was quite time enough for the little he had to do, and he stepped off very briskly in the direction of the department store he had left the night before. he had decided that he preferred this one to the intricacies of a new one; besides, he was very sure that there would not now be so many people in it. just here, however, jasper met with a disappointment. not only was every one there who had been there the day before, but most of them had brought friends, and in dismay jasper clung to the post near the door while he tried to rally his courage for the plunge. in the distance the frock-coated man was still the rock where the stream foamed and broke; and after a long wait and a longer struggle jasper stood once more before him. "i want slippers--bed-slippers for women," he muttered. "fourth floor, front. elevator to your left," declaimed the man. and jasper quite glowed with awe at the thought of a brain so stupendous that it could ticket and tell each shelf and counter in that vast domain of confusion. jasper himself had been swept to the right on the crest of a particularly aggressive wave formed by the determined shoulders of a huge fat woman who wished to go in that direction; so it was some time before he could stem the current and make an effort to reach the elevator on the other side of the store. it was then that he suddenly decided to grasp this opportunity for "looking about a little to find something for uncle harold"--and it was then that he was lost, for no longer had he compass, captain, or a port in view; but oarless and rudderless he drifted. then, indeed, did the department store, in all its allurements of glitter and show and competing attractions, burst on jasper's eyes, benumbing his senses and overthrowing his judgment. for long minutes he hung entranced above a tray of jeweled side combs, and for other long minutes he critically weighed the charms of a spangled fan against those of one that was merely painted--before he suddenly awoke to the realization that he was looking for something for uncle harold, and that uncle harold did not wear side combs, nor disport himself with gauze fans. "where do you keep things for men?" he demanded then, aggrievedly, of the demure-faced girl behind the counter; and it was while he was on the ensuing frantic search for "things for men" that he stumbled upon the book department. "to be sure--a book for jimmy," he muttered, and confidently approached a girl who already was trying to wait on three customers at once. "i want a book for a boy," he observed; and was surprised that no one answered. "i want a book for a boy," he urged, in a louder tone. still no one answered. "i want a book--for--a--boy," he reiterated distinctly; and this time the girl flicked her ear as at the singing of an annoying insect. "juveniles three aisles over to your left," she snapped glibly; and after a puzzled pondering on her words, jasper concluded that they were meant for him. in the juvenile department, jasper wondered why every one in the store had chosen that particular minute to come there and buy a book for a child. everywhere were haste and confusion. nowhere was there any one who paid the least attention to himself. at his right a pretty girl chatted fluently of this, that, and another "series"; and at his left a severe-faced woman with glasses discoursed on the great responsibility of selecting reading for the young, and uttered fearsome prophecies of the dire evil that was sure to result from indiscriminate buying. her words were not meant for jasper's ears, but they reached them, nevertheless. the man shuddered and grew pale. with soft steps he slunk out of the book department. . . . to think that he--_he_, who knew nothing whatever about books for boys--had nearly bought one of the risky things for jimmy! and to jasper's perverted imagination it almost seemed that jimmy, white-faced and sad-eyed, had already gone wrong--and through him. jasper looked at his watch then, and decided it was time for luncheon. after that he could look around for something else for jimmy. it was six o'clock when jasper, flushed, tired, and anxious, looked at his watch again, and took account of stock. he had a string of beads and a pair of skates. the skates, of course, were for jimmy. he was pleased with those. it was a girl who had helped him in that decision--a very obliging girl who had found him in the toy department confusedly eyeing an array of flaxen-haired dolls, and who had gently asked him the age of the boy for whom he desired a present. he thought of that girl now with gratitude. the string of beads did not so well please him. he was a little doubtful, anyway, how he happened to buy them. he had a dim recollection that they looked wonderfully pretty with the light bringing out sparkles of green and gold, and that the girl who tended them did not happen to have anything to do but to wait on him. so he had bought them. they were handsome beads, and not at all cheap. they would do for some one, he assured himself. and not until he had dropped them in his pocket did it occur to him that he was buying presents for only a boy, a bachelor, and a middle-aged spinster. manifestly a string of beads would not do for jimmy or uncle harold, so they must do for aunt harriet. he had meant to buy bed-slippers for her, but, perhaps, after all, she would prefer beads. at all events, he had bought them, and they would have to go. and with that he dismissed the beads. as yet he had nothing for uncle harold. there seemed to be nothing, really, that he could make up his mind to give. the more he searched, the more undecided he grew. the affair of the pipe had frightened him, and had sown distrust in his heart. he would have to buy something this evening, of course, for it must be sent to-morrow. he would telephone edith that he could not be home for dinner--that business detained him; then he would eat a hasty luncheon and buy uncle harold's present. and with this decision jasper wearily turned his steps toward a telephone booth. jasper hawkins went home at ten o'clock. he still had nothing for uncle harold. the stores had closed before he could find anything. but there was yet until noon the next day. mrs. hawkins did not question her husband. in the morning she only reminded him timidly. "you know those things must get off by twelve o'clock, jasper." "oh, yes, they'll go all right," her husband had replied, in a particularly cheery voice. jasper was not cheery, however, within. he was nervous and anxious. a terrible fear had clutched his heart: what if he could not--but then, he must find something, he enjoined himself. and with that he started downtown at once. he did not go to the office this time, but sought the stores immediately. he found conditions now even worse than before. every one seemed to have an uncle harold for whom was frenziedly being sought the unattainable. if at nine o'clock jasper had been nervous, at ten he was terrified, and at eleven he was nearly frantic. all power of decision seemed to have left him, and he stumbled vaguely on and on, scarcely knowing what he was doing. it was then that his eye fell on a huge sign: "just the thing for christmas! when in doubt, buy me!" there was a crowd before the sign, but jasper knew now how to use his elbows. once at his goal he stared in amazement. then the tension snapped, and he laughed outright--before him were half a dozen cages of waltzing mice. for a long time the curious whirls and antics of the odd little creatures in their black-and-white coats held jasper's gaze in a fascinated stare. then the man, obeying an impulse that he scarcely understood himself, made his purchase, gave explicit directions where and when it was to be sent, and left the store. then, and not until then, did jasper hawkins fully realize that to his uncle harold--the rich old man who must be petted and pampered, and never by any chance offended--he had sent as a christmas present a cage of dancing mice! that night mrs. hawkins fearlessly asked her questions, and as fearlessly her husband answered them. he had determined to assume a bold front. however grave might be his own doubts and fears, he had resolved that she should not know of them. "presents? of course! they went to-day with our love," he answered gayly. "and what--did you send?" "the simplest things in the world; a string of handsome beads to aunt harriet, a pair of skates to jimmy, and a cage of the funniest little waltzing mice you ever saw, to uncle harold. you see it all resolves itself down to a mere matter of system," he went on; but at the real agony in his wife's face he stopped in dismay. "why, edith!" "jasper, you didn't--you _did n't_ send _skates_ to jimmy!" "but i did. why not?" "but, jasper, he's--lame!" jasper fell back limply. all the bravado fled from his face. "edith, how could i--how could i--_forget_--a thing like that!" he groaned. "and beads for aunt harriet! why, jasper, i never saw a bead on her neck! you know how poor she is, and how plain she dresses. i always give her useful, practical things!" jasper said nothing. he was still with jimmy and the skates. he wished he had bought a book--a wicked book, if need be; anything would be better than those skates. "and mice--_mice_ for uncle harold!" wept edith. "why, jasper, how could you?--dirty little beasts that uncle harold can only feed to his cat! and i had hoped so much from uncle harold. oh, jasper, jasper, how could you!" "i don't know," said jasper dully, as he got up to leave the room. to jasper it was not a happy christmas. there were those three letters of thanks to come; and he did not want to read them. as it chanced they all came the same day, the th. they were addressed to mrs. hawkins, and naturally she read them first. when jasper came home that night they lay waiting for him on his desk. he saw them, but he decided not to read them until after dinner. he felt that he needed all the fortification he could obtain. he hoped that his wife would not mention them, and yet he was conscious of a vague disappointment when, as time passed, she did not mention them. dinner over, further delay was impossible; and very slowly he picked up the letters. he singled out aunt harriet's first. dimly he felt that this might be a sort of preparation for the wrath to follow. _dear niece and nephew_ [he read--and he sat suddenly erect]. how ever in the world did you guess that it was beads that i wanted more than anything else in the world? and these are such handsome ones! ever since beads and chains have been worn so much i have longed for one all my own; but i have tried to crush the feeling and hide it, for i feared it might be silly--and me so old and faded, and out-of-date! but i know now that it is n't, and that i need n't be ashamed of it any more, for, of course, you and jasper would never give me anything silly! and thank you ever and ever so much! with a slightly dazed expression jasper hawkins laid down aunt harriet's letter when he had finished it, and picked up the one from uncle harold. as he did so he glanced at his wife; but she was sewing and did not appear to be noticing him. well, well, children, you have done it this time! [read jasper, with fearful eyes]. the little beasts came on christmas morning, and never have i [jasper turned the page and relaxed suddenly] stopped laughing since, i believe! how in the world did you happen to think of a present so original, so cute, and so everlastingly entertaining? the whole house, and i might say the whole town, is in a fever over them, and there is already a constant stream of children past my window--you see, i 've got the little devils where they can best be seen and appreciated! there was more, much more, and all in the same strain; and again, as jasper laid the letter down he glanced at his wife, only to find a demure, downcast gaze. but one letter now remained, and in spite of what had gone before, jasper picked up this with dread. surely, nothing--nothing could reconcile jimmy and those awful skates! he winced as he opened the letter and saw that jimmy's mother had written--poor jimmy's mother! how her heart must have ached!--and then he stared in unbelieving wonder at the words, and read them over and over, lest he had in some way misconstrued their meaning. my dear sister and brother [jimmy's mother had written], i wish you could have seen jimmy when your beautiful skates arrived. he will write you himself and thank you, but i know he can't half make you understand just what that present means to him, so i am going to write you myself and tell you what he said; then maybe you can realize a little what a great joy you have brought into his life. and let me say right here that i myself have been blind all these years. i have n't understood. and what i want to know is, how did you find it out--what jimmy wanted? how did you know? when i, his own mother, never guessed! why, even when the skates came on christmas day, i was frightened and angry, because you had been so "thoughtless" as to send my poor lame boy _skates_! and then--i could hardly believe my own eyes and ears, for jimmy, his face one flame of joy, was waving a skate in each hand. "mother, mother!" he was shouting. "see, i've got a _boy_ present, a real boy present--just as if i was--like other boys. i've always had books and puzzles and girl presents! everybody's thought of _them_ when they thought of _me_!" he cried, thumping the crutches at his side. "but this is a _real_ present-- now i've got something to show, and to lend--something that _is_ something!" and on and on he chattered, with me staring at him as if i thought he was out of his head. but he was n't out of his head. he was happy--happier than i've ever seen him since he was hurt. and it still lasts. he shows those skates to every one, and talks and talks about them, and has already made plans to let his dearest friends try them. best of all, they have given him a new interest in life, and he is actually better. the doctor says at this rate he'll be using the skates himself some day! and now, how can i thank you--_you_ who have done this thing, who have been so wise beyond his mother? i can only thank and thank you, and send you my dearest love. your affectionate sister, bertha the senior member of the firm of hawkins & hawkins folded the letter very hurriedly and tucked it into its envelope. there was a mist in his eyes, and a lump in his throat--two most uncalled-for, unwelcome phenomena. with a determined effort he cleared his throat and began to speak. "you see, edith," he observed pompously, "your fears were quite groundless, after all. this christmas shopping, if reduced to a system--" he paused suddenly. his wife had stopped her sewing and was looking straight into his eyes. angelus to hephzibah the world was a place of weary days and unrestful nights, and life was a thing of dishes that were never quite washed and of bread that was never quite baked--leaving something always to be done. the sun rose and the sun set, and hephzibah came to envy the sun. to her mind, his work extended from the first level ray shot into her room in the morning to the last rose-flush at night; while as for herself, there were the supper dishes and the mending-basket yet waiting. to be sure, she knew, if she stopped to think, that her sunset must be a sunrise somewhere else; but hephzibah never stopped to think; she would have said, had you asked her, that she had no time. first there was the breakfast for theron and the hired man in the chill gray dawn of each day;--if one were to wrest a living from the stones and sand of the hillside farm, one must be up and at work betimes. then harry, tom, and nellie must be roused, dressed, fed, and made ready for the half-mile walk to the red schoolhouse at the cross-roads. after that the day was one blur of steam, dust, heat, and stifling fumes from the oven and the fat-kettle, broken always at regular intervals by meal-getting and chicken-feeding. what mattered the blue of the heavens or the green of the earth outside? to hephzibah the one was "sky" and the other "grass." what mattered the sheen of silver on the emerald velvet of the valley far below? hephzibah would have told you that it was only the sun on otter creek down in johnson's meadows. as for the nights, even sleep brought little relief to hephzibah; for her dreams were of hungry mouths that could not be filled, and of dirt-streaked floors that would not come clean. last summer a visitor had spent a week at the farm--helen raymond, hephzibah's niece from new york; and now a letter had come from this same helen raymond, telling hephzibah to look out for a package by express. a package by express! hephzibah laid the letter down, left the dishes cooling in the pan, and went out into the open yard where she could look far down the road toward the village. when had she received a package before? even christmas brought no fascinating boxes or mysterious bundles to her! it would be interesting to open it; and yet--it probably held a book which she would have no time to read, or a pretty waist which she would have no chance to wear. hephzibah turned and walked listlessly back to her kitchen and her dish-washing. twelve hours later her unaccustomed lips were spelling out the words on a small white card which had come with a handsomely framed photograph: the angelus. jean françois millet. . hephzibah looked from the card to the picture, and from the picture back again to the card. gradually an angry light took the place of the dazed wonder in her eyes. she turned fiercely to her husband. "theron, _why_ did helen send me that picture?" she demanded. "why, hetty, i--i dunno," faltered the man, "'nless she--she--wanted ter please ye." "please me!--_please me_!" scoffed hephzibah. "did she expect to please me with a thing like that? look here, theron, look!" she cried, snatching up the photograph and bringing it close to her husband's face. "look at that woman and that man--they're us, theron,--us, i tell you!" "oh, come, hetty," remonstrated theron; "they ain't jest the same, yer know. she did n't mean nothin'--helen did n't." "didn't mean nothing!" repeated hephzibah scornfully; "then why did n't she send something pretty?--something that showed up pretty things--not just fields and farm-folks! why did n't she, theron,--why did n't she?" "why, hetty, don't! she--why, she--" "i know," cut in the woman, a bright red flaming into her cheeks. "'t was 'cause she thought that was all we could understand--dirt, and old clothes, and folks that look like us! don't we dig and dig like them? ain't our hands twisted and old and--" "hetty--yer ain't yerself! yer--" "yes, i am--i am! i'm always myself--there's never anything else i can be, theron,--never!" and hephzibah threw her apron over her head and ran from the room, crying bitterly. "well, by gum!" muttered the man, as he dropped heavily into the nearest chair. for some days the picture stayed on the shelf over the kitchen sink, where it had been placed by theron as the quickest means of its disposal. hephzibah did not seem to notice it after that first day, and theron was most willing to let the matter drop. it must have been a week after the picture's arrival that the minister made his semi-yearly call. "oh, you have an angelus! that's fine," he cried, appreciatively;--the minister always begged to stay in hephzibah's kitchen, that room being much more to his mind than was the parlor, carefully guarded from sun and air. "'fine'!--that thing!" laughed hephzibah. "aye, that thing," returned the man, quick to detect the scorn in her voice; then, with an appeal to the only side of her nature he thought could be reached, he added: "why, my dear woman, 'that thing,' as you call it, is a copy of a picture which in the original was sold only a few years ago for more than a hundred thousand dollars--a hundred and fifty, i think." "humph! _who_ could have bought it! that thing!" laughed hephzibah again, and changed the subject. but she remembered,--she must have remembered; for, after the minister had gone, she took the picture from the shelf and carried it to the light of the window. "a hundred and fifty thousand dollars," she murmured; "and to think what i'd do with that money!" for some minutes she studied the picture in silence, then she sighed: "well, they do look natural like; but only think what a fool to pay a hundred and fifty thousand for a couple of farm-folks out in a field!" and yet--it was not to the kitchen shelf hephzibah carried the picture that night, but to the parlor--the somber, sacred parlor. there she propped it up on the center-table among plush photograph-albums and crocheted mats--the dearest of hephzibah's treasures. hephzibah could scarcely have explained it herself, but after the minister's call that day she fell into the way of going often into the parlor to look at her picture. at first its famous price graced it with a halo of gold; but in time this was forgotten, and the picture itself, with its silent, bowed figures, appealed to her with a power she could not understand. "there's a story to it--i know there's a story to it!" she cried at last one day; and forthwith she hunted up an old lead-pencil stub and a bit of yellowed note-paper. it was a long hour hephzibah spent then, an hour of labored thinking and of careful guiding of cramped fingers along an unfamiliar way; yet the completed note, when it reached helen raymond's hands, was wonderfully short. the return letter was long, and, though hephzibah did not know it, represented hours of research in bookstores and in libraries. it answered not only hephzibah's questions, but attempted to respond to the longing and heart-hunger miss raymond was sure she detected between the lines of hephzibah's note. twelve hours after it was written, hephzibah was on her knees before the picture. "i know you now--i know you!" she whispered exultingly. "i know why you're real and true. your master who painted you was like us once--like us, and like you! he knew what it was to dig and dig; he knew what it was to work and work until his back and his head and his feet and his hands ached and ached--he knew! and so he painted you! "_she_ says you're praying; that you've stopped your work and 'turned to higher things.' she says we all should have an angelus in our lives each day. good god!--as if she knew!"--hephzibah was on her feet now, her hands to her head. "an angelus?--me?" continued the woman scornfully. "and where? the dish-pan?--the wash-tub?--the chicken-yard? a fine angelus, that! and yet"--hephzibah dropped to her knees again--"you look so quiet, so peaceful, and, oh, so--rested!" "for the land's sake, hetty, what be you doin'? have you gone clean crazy?"--it was theron in the parlor doorway. hephzibah rose wearily to her feet. "sometimes i think i have, theron," she said. "well,"--he hesitated,--"ain't it 'most--supper-time?" "i s'pose 'tis," she assented, listlessly, and dragged herself from the room. it was not long after this that the picture disappeared from the parlor. hephzibah had borne it very carefully to her room and hung it on the wall at the foot of her bed, where her eyes would open upon it the first thing every morning. each day she talked to it, and each day it grew to be more and more a part of her very self. not until the picture had been there a week, however, did she suddenly realize that it represented the twilight hour; then, like a flash of light, came her inspiration. "it's at sunset--i'll go out at sunset! now my angelus will come to me," she cried softly. "i know it will!" then did the little hillside farmhouse see strange sights indeed. each night, as the sun dropped behind the far-away hills, hephzibah left her work and passed through the kitchen door, her face uplifted, and her eyes on the distant sky-line. sometimes she would turn to the left to the open field and stand there motionless, unconsciously falling into the reverent attitude now so familiar to her; sometimes she would turn to the right and pause at the brow of the hill, where the valley in all its panorama of loveliness lay before her; and sometimes she would walk straight ahead to the old tumble-down gate where she might face the west and watch the rose change to palest amber in the sky. at first her eyes saw but grass, sky, and dull-brown earth, and her thoughts turned in bitterness to her unfinished tasks; but gradually the witchery of the summer night entered her soul and left room for little else. strange faces, peeping in and out of the clouds, looked at her from the sky; and fantastic figures, clothed in the evening mist, swept up the valley to her feet. the grass assumed a deeper green, and the trees stood out like sentinels along the hilltop behind the house. even when she turned and went back to the kitchen, and took upon herself once more the accustomed tasks, her eyes still faintly glowed with the memory of what they had seen. "it do beat all," said theron a month later to helen raymond, who was again a visitor at the farm,--"it do beat all, helen, what's come over yer aunt. she used ter be nervous-like, and fretted, an' things never went ter suit. now she's calm, an' her eyes kind o' shine--'specially when she comes in from one of them tramps of hers outdoors. she says it's her angelus--if ye know what that is; but it strikes me as mighty queer--it do, helen, it do!" and helen smiled, content. the apple of her eye it rained. it had rained all day. to helen raymond, spatting along the wet slipperiness of the drenched pavements, it seemed as if it had always rained, and always would rain. helen was tired, blue, and ashamed--ashamed because she was blue; blue because she was tired; and tired because--wearily her mind reviewed her day. she had dragged herself out of bed at half-past five, but even then her simple toilet had been hastened to an untidy half completion by the querulous insistence of her mother's frequent "you know, helen,--you _must_ know how utterly impossible it is for me to lift my head until i've had my coffee! _are n't_ you nearly ready?" mrs. raymond had wakened earlier than usual that morning, and she could never endure to lie in bed when not asleep. with one shoe unbuttoned and no collar on, helen had prepared the coffee; then had come the delicate task of getting the semi-invalid up and dressed, with hair smoothed to the desired satiny texture. the hair had refused to smooth, however, this morning; buttons had come off, too, and strings had perversely knotted until helen's patience had almost snapped--almost, but not quite. in the end her own breakfast, and the tidying of herself and the little four-room flat, had degenerated into a breathless scramble broken by remorseful apologies to her mother, in response to which mrs. raymond only sighed: "oh, of course, it does n't matter; but you _know_ how haste and confusion annoy me, and how bad it is for me!" it had all resulted as helen had feared that it would result--she was late; and tardiness at henderson & henderson's meant a sharp reprimand, and in time, a fine. helen's place in the huge department store was behind a counter where spangled nets and embroidered chiffons were sold. it had seemed to helen today that half the world must be giving a ball to which the other half was invited, so constant--in spite of the rain--were the calls for her wares. the girl told herself bitterly that it would not be so unendurable were she handling anything but those filmy, glittering stuffs that spoke so loudly of youth and love and laughter. if it were only gray socks and kitchen kettles that she tended! at least she would be spared the sight of those merry, girlish faces, and the sound of those care-free, laughing voices. at least she would not have all day before her eyes the slender, gloved fingers which she knew were as fair and delicate as the fabrics they so ruthlessly tossed from side to side. annoyances at the counter had been more frequent to-day than usual, helen thought. perhaps the rain had made people cross. whatever it was, the hurried woman had been more hurried, and the insolent woman more unbearable. there had been, too, an irritating repetition of the woman who was "just looking," and of her sister who "did n't know"; "was n't quite sure"; but "guessed that would n't do." consequently helen's list of sales had been short in spite of her incessant labor--and the list of sales was what henderson & henderson looked at when a promotion was being considered. and through it all, hour after hour, there had been the shimmer of the spangles, the light chatter of coming balls and weddings, the merry voices of care-free girls--the youth, and love, and laughter. "youth, and love, and laughter." unconsciously helen repeated the words aloud; then she smiled bitterly as she applied them to herself. youth?--she was twenty-five. love?--the grocer? the milkman? the floorwalker? oh, yes, and there was the postman. laughter?--she could not remember when she had seen anything funny--really funny enough to laugh at. of all this helen thought as she plodded wearily homeward; of this, and more. at home there would be supper to prepare, her mother to get to bed, and the noon dishes to clear away. helen drew in her breath sharply as she thought of the dinner. she hoped that it had not been codfish-and-cream to-day. if it had, she must speak to mrs. mason. codfish twice a week might do, but five times! (mrs. mason was the neighbor who, for a small sum each day, brought mrs. raymond her dinner fully cooked.) there was a waist to iron and some mending to do. helen remembered that. there would be time, however, for it all, she thought; that is, if it should not unfortunately be one of her mother's wakeful evenings when talking--and on one subject--was the only thing that would soothe her. helen sighed now. she was almost home, but involuntarily her speed slackened. she became suddenly more acutely aware of the dreary flapping of her wet skirts against her ankles, and of the swish of the water as it sucked itself into the hole at the heel of her left overshoe. the wind whistled through an alleyway in a startling swoop and nearly wrenched her umbrella from her half-numbed fingers, but still her step lagged. the rain slapped her face smartly as the umbrella careened, but even that did not spur her to haste. unmistakably she dreaded to go home--and it was at this realization that helen's shame deepened into a dull red on her cheeks; as if any girl, any right-hearted girl, should mind a mother's talk of her only son! at the shabby door of the apartment house helen half closed her umbrella and shook it fiercely. then, as if freeing herself from something as obnoxious as was the rain, she threw back her head and shook that, too. a moment later, carefully carrying the dripping umbrella, she hurried up three flights of stairs and unlocked the door of the rear suite. "my, but it sprinkles! did you know it?" she cried cheerily to the little woman sitting by the west window. "'sprinkles'! helen, how can you speak like that when you _know_ what a dreadful day it is!" fretted the woman. "but then, you don't know. you never do know. if _you_ had to just sit here and stare and stare and stare at that rain all day, as i do, perhaps you would know." "perhaps," smiled helen oddly--she was staring just then at the havoc that that same rain had wrought in what had been a fairly good hat. her mother's glance followed hers. "helen, that can't be--your hat!" cried the woman, aghast. helen smiled quizzically. "do you know that's exactly what i was thinking myself, mother! it can't be--but it is." "but it's ruined, utterly ruined!" "yes, ma'am." "and you have n't any other that's really decent!" "no, ma'am." the woman sighed impatiently. "helen, how can you answer like that when you _know_ what it means to spoil that hat? can't _anything_ dampen your absurd high spirits?" "'high spirits'!" breathed the girl. a quick flash leaped to her eyes. her lips parted angrily; then, as suddenly, they snapped close shut. in another minute she had turned and left the room quietly. clothed in dry garments a little later, helen set about the evening's tasks. at the first turn in the little room that served for both kitchen and dining-room she found the dinner dishes waiting to be cleared from the table--and there were unmistakable evidences of codfish-and-cream. as she expected, she had not long to wait. "helen," called a doleful voice from the sitting-room. "yes, mother." "she brought codfish again to-day--five times this week; and you _know_ how i dislike codfish!" "yes, i know, dear. i'm so sorry!" "'sorry'! but that does n't feed me. you _must_ speak to her, helen. i _can't_ eat codfish like that. you must speak to-night when you take the dishes back." "very well, mother; but--well, you know we don't pay very much." "then pay more. i'm sure i shouldn't think you'd grudge me enough to eat, helen." "mother! how can you say a thing like that!" helen's voice shook. she paused a moment, a dish half-dried in her hands; but from the other room came only silence. supper that night was prepared with unusual care. there was hot corncake, too,--mrs. raymond liked hot corncake. it was a little late, it is true; helen had not planned for the corncake at first--but there was the codfish. if the poor dear had had nothing but codfish! . . . helen opened a jar of the treasured peach preserves, too; indeed, the entire supper table from the courageous little fern in the middle to the "company china" cup at mrs. raymond's plate was a remorseful apology for that midday codfish. if mrs. raymond noticed this, she gave no sign. without comment, she ate the corncake and the peach preserves, and drank her tea from the china cup; with mrs. raymond only the codfish of one's daily life merited comment. it was at the supper table that helen's mother brought out the letter. "you don't ask, nor seem to care," she began with a curious air of injured triumph, "but i've got a letter from herbert." the younger woman flushed. "why, of course, i care," she retorted cheerily. "what does he say?" "he wrote it several days ago. it got missent. but it's such a nice letter!" "they always are." "it asks particularly how i am, and says he's sorry i have to suffer so. _he_ cares." only the swift red in helen's cheeks showed that the daughter understood the emphasis. "of course he cares," she answered smoothly. "and he sent me a present, too--money!" mrs. raymond's usually fretful whine carried a ring of exultation. helen lifted her head eagerly. "money?" "yes. a new crisp dollar bill. he told me to get something pretty--some little trinket that i'd like." "but, a dollar--only a dollar," murmured helen. "now you're needing a wrapper, but that--" "a wrapper, indeed!" interrupted mrs. raymond in fine scorn. "a wrapper is n't a 'trinket' for me! i'd have wrappers anyway, of course. he said to buy something pretty; something i'd like. but then, i might have known. _you_ never think i need anything but wrappers and--and codfish! i--i'm glad i've got one child that--that appreciates!" and mrs. raymond lifted her handkerchief to her eyes. across the table helen caught her lower lip between her teeth. for a moment she did not speak; then very gently she said:-- "mother, you did n't quite mean that, i'm sure. you know very well that i--i'd dress you in silks and velvets, and feed you on strawberries and cream, if i could. it's only that--that-- but never mind. use the dollar as you please, dear. is n't there something--some little thing you would like?" mrs. raymond lowered her handkerchief. her grieved eyes looked reproachfully across at her daughter. "i'd thought of--a tie; a lace tie with pretty ends; a _nice_ tie. you _know_ how i like nice things!" "of course, you do; and you shall have it, too," cried helen. "i'll bring some home tomorrow night for you to select from. now that will be fine, won't it?" the other drew a resigned sigh. "'fine'! that's just like you, helen. you never appreciate--never realize. perhaps you do think it's 'fine' to stay mewed up at home here and have ties _brought_ to you instead of going out yourself to the store and buying them, like other women!" "oh, but just don't look at it that way," retorted helen in a cheerful voice. "just imagine you're a queen, or a president's wife, or a multi-millionairess who is sitting at home in state to do her shopping just because she wishes to avoid the vulgar crowds in the stores; eh, mother dear?" "mother dear" sniffed disdainfully. "really, helen," she complained, "you are impossible. one would think you might have _some_ sympathy, _some_ consideration for my feelings! there's your brother, now. he's all sympathy. look at his letter. think of that dollar he sent me--just a little thing to give me happiness. and he's always doing such things. did n't he remember how i loved peppermints, and give me a whole box at christmas?" helen did not answer. as well she knew, she did not need to. her mother, once started on this subject, asked only for a listener. wearily the girl rose to her feet and began to clear the table. "and it is n't as if he did n't have his hands full, just running over full with his business and all," continued mrs. raymond. "you _know_ how successful he is, helen. now there's that club--what was it, president or treasurer that they made him? anyhow, it was _something_; and that _shows_ how popular he is. and you know every letter tells us of something new. i 'm sure it is n't any wonder i 'm proud of him; and relieved, too--i did hope some one of my children would amount to something; and i 'm sure herbert has." there was a pause. herbert's sister was washing the dishes now, hurriedly, nervously. herbert's mother watched her with dissatisfied eyes. "now there's you, helen, and your music," she began again, after a long sigh. "you _know_ how disappointed i was about that." "oh, but piano practice does n't help to sell goods across the counter," observed helen dully. "at least, i never heard that it did." "'sell goods,'" moaned the other. "always something about selling goods! helen, _can't_ you get your mind for one moment off that dreadful store, and think of something higher?" "but it's the store that brings us in our bread and butter--and codfish," added helen, half under her breath. it was a foolish allusion, born of a much-tried spirit; and helen regretted the words the moment they had left her lips. "yes, that's exactly what it brings--codfish," gloomed mrs. raymond. "i'm glad you at least realize that." there was no reply. helen was working faster now. her cheeks were pink, and her hands trembled. as soon as possible she piled mrs. mason's dinner dishes neatly on the tray and hurried with them to the outer door of the suite. "now, helen, don't stay," called her mother. "you know how much i'm alone, and i just simply can't go to bed yet. i'm not one bit sleepy." "no, mother." the voice was calm, and the door shut quietly; but in the hall helen paused at the head of the stairs, flushed and palpitating. "i wonder--if it would do any good--if i should--throw them!" she choked hysterically, the tray raised high in her hands. then with a little shamed sob she lowered the tray and hurried downstairs to the apartment below. "it's only me, mrs. mason, with the dishes," she said a moment later, as her neighbor peered out into the hall in answer to the knock at the door. "i'm a little late to-night." "oh, to be sure, miss raymond; come in--come in. why, child, what ails you?" cried the woman, as helen stepped into the light. "ails me? why, nothing," laughed the girl evasively. "shall i put the things here?" as she set the tray down and turned to go, the elder woman, by a sudden movement, confronted her. "see here, miss helen, it ain't none o' my business, i know, but i've just got to speak. your eyes are all teary, and your cheeks have got two red spots in 'em. you've been cryin'. i know you have. you're so thin i could just blow you over with a good big breath. and i know what's the matter. you're all wore out. you 're doin' too much. no mortal woman can work both day and night!" "but i don't--quite," stammered the girl "besides, there is so much to be done. you know, mother--though she isn't very sick--can do but little for herself." "yes, i know she don't--seem to. but is n't there some one else that could help?" the girl stirred restlessly. her eyes sought for a means of escape. "why, no, of course not. there is n't any one," she murmured. "you are very kind, really, mrs. mason, but i must go--now." the other did not move. she was standing directly before the hall door. "there 's--your brother." the girl lifted her head quickly. a look that was almost fear came into her eyes. "why, how did you know that i had--a brother?" "know it!" scoffed mrs. mason. "i have known your mother for a year--ever since she moved here; and as if a body could know _her_ and not hear of _him_! he's the very apple of her eye. why can't he--help? would n't he, if he knew?" "why, mrs. mason, of course! he has--he does," declared the girl quickly, the red deepening in her cheeks. "he--he sent her money only to-day." "yes, i know; she told me--of that." mrs. mason's voice was significant in its smoothness. "your mother said she was going to get her--a tie." "yes, a tie," repeated helen, with feverish lightness; "lace, you know. mother does so love pretty things! oh, and by the way," hurried on the girl breathlessly, "if you don't mind--about the dinners, you know. mother does n't care for codfish-and-cream, and if you could just substitute something else, i'll pay more, of course! i'd expect to do that. i've been thinking for some time that you ought to have at least ten cents a day more--if you could manage--on that. and--thank you; if you _would_ remember about--the codfish, and now i really must--go!" she finished. and before mrs. mason knew quite what had happened a flying figure had darted by her through the half-open doorway. "well, of all things! _now_ what have i said?" muttered the puzzled woman, staring after her visitor. "ten cents a day more, indeed! and where, for the land's sake, is the poor lamb going to find that?" long hours later in the raymond flat, after the mending was done, the waist ironed, and the mother's querulous tongue had been silenced by sleep, the "poor lamb" sat down with her little account book and tried to discover just that--where she was going to find the extra ten cents a day to buy off mrs. mason's codfish. it did not rain the next morning. the sun shone, indeed, as if it never had rained, and never would rain. in helen raymond's soul a deeper shame than ever sent the blue devils skulking into the farthermost corners--as if it were anything but a matter for the heartiest congratulations that one's mother had at least one child who had proved not to be a disappointment to her! and very blithely, to cheat the last one of the little indigo spirits, the girl resolutely uptilted her chin, and began her day. it was not unlike the days that had gone before. there was the same apologetic rush in the morning, the same monotonous succession of buyers and near-buyers at the counter, the same glitter and sparkle and chatter--the youth, and love, and laughter. then at night came the surprise. helen raymond went home to find the little flat dominated by a new presence, a presence so big and breezy that unconsciously she sniffed the air as if she were entering a pine grove instead of a stuffy, four-room city flat. "helen, he knows herbert, my herbert," announced mrs. raymond rapturously; and as she seemed to think no further introduction was necessary, the young man rose to his feet and added with a smile:-- "my name is carroll--jack carroll; miss raymond, i suppose. your brother--er--suggested that i call, as i was in the city." "of course you'd call," chirruped mrs. raymond. "as if we were n't always glad to see any friend of my boy's. helen, why don't you say something? why don't you welcome mr. carroll?" "i have n't had much chance yet, mother," smiled the girl, in some embarrassment. "perhaps i--i have n't caught my breath." "not that mr. carroll ought to mind, of course," resumed mrs. raymond plaintively. "and he won't when he knows you, and sees how moderate you are. you know herbert is so quick," she added, turning to herbert's friend. "is he?" murmured the man; and at the odd something in his voice helen looked up quickly to find the stranger's eyes full upon her. "you see, i'm not sure, after all, that i do know herbert," he continued lightly, still with that odd something in his voice. "herbert's mother has been telling me lots of things--about herbert." "yes; we've been having such a nice visit together," sighed mrs. raymond. "you see, _he_ understands, helen,--mr. carroll does." again helen glanced up and met the stranger's eyes. she caught her breath sharply and looked away. "of course he understands," she cried, in a voice that was not quite steady. "if he knew you better, mother dear, he would know that there could n't be any nicer subject than herbert to talk about--herbert and the fine things he has done!" there was no bitterness, no sarcasm, in tone or manner. there was only a frightened little pleading, a warding-off, as of some unknown, threatening danger. "of course, mr. carroll understands," she finished; and this time she turned and looked straight into the stranger's eyes unswervingly. "i understand," he nodded gravely. and yet--it was not of herbert that he talked during the next ten minutes. it was of mrs. raymond and her daughter, of their life at home and at the store. it was a gay ten minutes, for the man laughed at the whimsical playfulness with which miss raymond set off the pitiful little tale of the daily struggle for existence. if he detected the nervousness in the telling, he did not show it. he did frown once; but that was when herbert's mother sighed apologetically:-- "you must n't mind all she says, mr. carroll. helen never did seem to realize the serious side of life, nor what i suffer; but that is helen's way." "after all, it must be a way that helps smooth things over some," he had retorted warmly. and there the matter had ended--except in helen's memory: there it bade fair to remain long, indeed. at the end of the ten minutes, herbert's friend rose to his feet and said that he must go. he added that he would come again, if he might; and to miss raymond he said very low--but very impressively--that she would see him soon, very soon. it was no surprise, therefore, to helen, to encounter the big, tall fellow not twenty feet from her doorway when she started for the store the next morning. his clean-cut face flushed painfully as he advanced; but the girl did not change color. "good-morning. i thought you'd do this," she began hurriedly. "we can talk as we walk. now, tell me, please, quick. what is it about--herbert?" "then you--know?" "not much; only suspect. i know everything is n't quite--right." "but your mother doesn't know--even that much?" "no, no! you saw that, didn't you? i was so glad you did, and did n't speak! he is her pet, and she's so proud of him!" "yes, i know," nodded the man grimly. "i saw--that." the girl lifted her chin. "and mother has a right to be proud of him. herbert is fine. it is only that--that--" she weakened perceptibly. "was it--money?" she faltered. "y-yes." carroll spoke with evident reluctance. his eyes looked down almost tenderly at the girl with the still bravely uptilted chin. "it--it is rather serious this time. he asked me to call and--and make it plain to you. i had told him i was coming up to town on business, and i promised. but--good heavens, miss raymond, i--i can't tell you!" "but you must. i'll have to know," cried the girl sharply. all the pride had fled now. "and you need n't fear. i know what it is. he wants money to settle debts. i've sent it before--once. that is it--that _is_ it?" "yes, only it's--it's a particularly bad job this time," stammered the other. "you see, it--it's club money--a little club among the boys, of which he is treasurer--and he sto--used part of the--funds." the man choked over the wretched tale, and instinctively laid his hand on the girl's arm. she would faint or cry, of course, and he wondered what he could do. but there was no fainting, no crying. there was only the pitiful whitening of a set little face, and the tense question: "how much--was it?" carroll sighed in relief. "miss raymond, you're a--a brick--to take it like that," he cried brokenly. "i don't know another girl who-- it was--well, a hundred dollars will cover it; but he's got to have it--to-morrow." "i'll send it." "but how--forgive me, miss raymond, but last night you were telling me that--that--" he flushed, and came to a helpless pause. "how can i get it?" she supplied wearily. "we've a little in the bank--a very little laid by for a rainy day; but it will cover that. we never think of touching it, of course, for--for ordinary things. but--_this_." she shuddered, and carroll saw her shabbily gloved hand clinch spasmodically. "mr. carroll, how did he come to--do it?" it was a short story, soon told--the usual story of a pleasure-loving, thoughtless youth, tempted beyond his strength. carroll softened it where he could, and ended with:-- "i asked bert to let me make it good, somehow, but he would n't, miss raymond. he--he just would n't!" "of course he would n't," exclaimed the girl sharply. then, in a softer voice: "thank you, just the same. but, don't you see? 't would have done no good. i'd have had to pay you. . . . no, no, don't say any more, please," she begged, in answer to the quick words that leaped to his lips. "you have been kind--very kind. now, just one kindness more, if you will," she hurried on. "come tonight. i must leave you now--it's the store, just around the corner. but to-night i 'll have the money. it's in my name, and i can get it without mother's--knowing. you understand? without--mother's--_knowing_." "i understand," he nodded gravely, as he wrung her hand and turned chokingly away. when helen reached home that night she found the little flat dominated once again by the big, breezy presence of herbert's friend. "i've been telling him more about herbert," mrs. raymond began joyously, as soon as helen entered the room. "i've been telling him about his letters to me, and the peppermints and the lace tie, you know, and how _good_ herbert is to me. we've had such a nice visit!" "have you? i'm so glad!" returned helen, a little unsteadily; and only the man knew the meaning of the quick look of relieved gratitude that came to her face. at the door some minutes later, carroll found a small packet thrust into his fingers. he caught both the hand and the packet in a firm clasp. "you're true blue, little girl," he breathed tremulously, "and i'm going to keep tabs on bert after this. i 'll _make_ him keep straight for her--and for _you_. he's only a bit weak, after all. and you'll see me again soon--very soon," he finished, as he crushed her hand in a grip that hurt. then he turned and stumbled away, as if his eyes did not see quite clearly. "now, wasn't he nice?" murmured mrs. raymond, as the girl closed the hall door. "and--didn't he say that he'd call again sometime?" "yes, mother." "well, i'm sure, i hope he will. he isn't herbert, of course, but he _knows_ herbert." "he--does, mother." there was a little break in helen's voice, but mrs. raymond did not notice it. "dearie me! well, he's gone now, and i _am_ hungry. my dinner didn't seem to please, somehow." "why, mother, it was n't--codfish; was it?" "n-no. it was chicken. but then, like enough it _will_ be codfish to-morrow." helen raymond dreamed that night, and she dreamed of love, and youth, and laughter. but it was not the shimmer of spangled tulle nor the chatter of merry girls that called it forth. it was the look in a pair of steadfast blue eyes, and the grip of a strong man's hand. a mushroom of collingsville there were three men in the hotel office that monday evening: jared parker, the proprietor; seth wilber, town authority on all things past and present; and john fletcher, known in collingsville as "the squire"--possibly because of his smattering of blackstone; probably because of his silk hat and five-thousand-dollar bank account. each of the three men eyed with unabashed curiosity the stranger in the doorway. "good-evening, gentlemen," began a deprecatory voice. "i--er--this is the hotel?" in a trice jared parker was behind the short counter. "certainly, sir. room, sir?" he said suavely, pushing an open book and a pen halfway across the counter. "h'm, yes, i--i suppose so," murmured the stranger, as he hesitatingly crossed the floor. "h'm; one must sleep, you know," he added, as he examined the point of the pen. "certainly, sir, certainly," agreed jared, whose face was somewhat twisted in his endeavors to smile on the prospective guest and frown at the two men winking and gesticulating over by the stove. "h'm," murmured the stranger a third time, as he signed his name with painstaking care. "there, that's settled! now where shall i find professor marvin, please?" "professor marvin!" repeated jared stupidly. "yes; professor george marvin," bowed the stranger. "why, there ain't no professor marvin, that i know of." "mebbe he means old marvin's son," interposed seth wilber with a chuckle. the stranger turned inquiringly. "his name's 'george,' all right," continued seth, with another chuckle, "but i never heard of his professin' anythin'--'nless 't was laziness." the stranger's face showed a puzzled frown. "oh--but--i mean the man who discovered that ants and--" "good gorry!" interrupted seth, with a groan. "if it's anythin' about bugs an' snakes, he's yer man! ain't he?" he added, turning to his friends for confirmation. jared nodded, and squire fletcher cleared his throat. "he's done nothing but play with bugs ever since he came into the world," said the squire ponderously. "a most unfortunate case of an utterly worthless son born to honest, hard-working parents. he'll bring up in the poor-house yet--or in a worse place. only think of it--a grown man spending his time flat on his stomach in the woods counting ants' legs and bugs' eyes!" "oh, but--" the stranger stopped. the hotel-keeper had the floor. "it began when he wa'n't more'n a baby. he pestered the life out of his mother bringing snakes into the sittin'-room, and carrying worms in his pockets. the poor woman was most mortified to death about it. why, once when the parson was there, george used his hat to catch butterflies with--smashed it, too." "humph!" snapped the squire. "the little beast filled one of my overshoes once, to make a swimming-tank for his dirty little fish." "they could n't do nothin' with him," chimed in seth wilber. "an' when he was older, 'twas worse. if his father set him ter hoein' pertaters, the little scamp would be found h'istin' up old rocks an' boards ter see the critters under 'em crawl." "yes, but--" again the stranger was silenced. "and in school he did n't care nothing about 'rithmetic nor jography," interrupted jared. "he was forever scarin' the teacher into fits bringin' in spiders an' caterpillars, an' asking questions about 'em." "gorry! i guess ye can't tell me no news about george marvin's schoolin'," snarled seth wilber--"me, that's got a son tim what was in the same class with him. why, once the teacher set 'em in the same seat; but tim could n't stand that--what with the worms an' spiders--an' he kicked so hard the teacher swapped 'round." "yes; well--er--extraordinary, extraordinary--very!--so it is," murmured the stranger, backing toward the door. the next moment he was out on the street asking the first person he met for the way to george marvin's. on tuesday night a second stranger stopped at the hotel and asked where he could find professor marvin. jared, seth, and squire fletcher were there as before; but this time their derisive stories--such as they managed to tell--fell on deaf ears. the stranger signed his name with a flourish, engaged his room, laughed good-naturedly at the three men--and left them still talking. on wednesday two more strangers arrived, and on thursday, another one. all, with varying manner but unvarying promptitude, called for professor george marvin. jared, seth, and the squire were dumfounded. their mystification culminated in one grand chorus of amazement when, on friday, the squire came to the hotel hugging under his arm a daily newspaper. "just listen to this!" he blurted out, banging his paper down on the desk and spreading it open with shaking hands. as he read, he ran his finger down the column, singling out a phrase here and there, and stumbling a little over unfamiliar words. the recent ento-mo-logical discoveries of professor george marvin have set the scientific world in a flurry. . . . professor marvin is now unanimously conceded to be the greatest entomologist living. he knows his hex-a-poda and myri-a-poda as the most of us know our alphabet. . . . the humble home of the learned man has become a mecca, toward which both great and small of the scientific world are bending eager steps. . . . the career of marvin reads like a romance, and he has fought his way to his present enviable position by sheer grit, and ability, having had to combat with all the narrow criticism and misconceptions usual in the case of a progressive thinker in a small town. indeed, it is said that even now his native village fails to recognize the honor that is hers. "jehoshaphat!" exclaimed seth wilber faintly. fletcher folded the paper and brought his fist down hard upon it. "there's more--a heap more," he cried excitedly. "but how--what--" stammered jared, whose wits were slow on untrodden paths. "it's old marvin's son--don't you see?" interrupted squire fletcher impatiently. "he 's big!--famous!" "'famous'! what for?" "zounds, man!--did n't you hear?" snarled the squire. "he's a famous entomologist. it's his bugs and spiders." "gosh!" ejaculated jared, his hand seeking the bald spot on the back of his head. "who'd ever have thought it? gorry! let's have a look at it." and he opened the paper and peered at the print with near-sighted eyes. it was on monday, three days later, that jared, seth, and the squire were once more accosted in the hotel office by a man they did not know. "good-evening, gentlemen, i--" "you don't even have to say it," cut in jared, with a nourish of both hands. "we know why you're here without your telling." "an' you've come ter the right place, sir--the right place," declared seth wilber, pompously. "what professor marvin don't know about bugs an' spiders ain't wuth knowin'. i tell ye, sir, he's the biggest entymollygist that there is ter be found." "that he is," affirmed the squire, with an indulgently superior smile toward wilber--"the very greatest _entomologist_ living," he corrected carefully. "and no wonder, sir; he's studied bugs from babyhood. _i've known him all his life--all his life, sir_, and i always said he'd make his mark in the world." "oh, but--" began the stranger. "'member when he took the parson's hat to catch butterflies in?" chuckled jared, speaking to the squire, but throwing furtive glances toward the stranger to make sure of his attention. "gorry--but he was a cute one! wish 't had been my hat. i 'd 'a' had it framed an' labeled, an' hung up on the wall there." "yes, i remember," nodded the squire; then he added with a complacent smile: "the mischievous little lad used my overshoe for a fish-pond once--i have that overshoe yet." "have ye now?" asked seth wilber enviously. "i want ter know! well, anyhow, my tim, he went ter school with him, an' set in the same seat," continued seth, turning toward the stranger. "tim's got an old writin'-book with one leaf all sp'iled 'cause one of young marvin's spiders got into the inkwell an' then did a cake-walk across the page. tim, he got a lickin' fur it then, but he says he would n't give up that page now fur forty lickin's." the stranger shifted from one foot to the other. "yes, yes," he began, "but--" "you'd oughter seen him when old marvin used ter send him put to hoe pertaters," cut in jared gleefully. "gorry!--young as he was, he was all bugs then. he was smart enough to know that there was lots of curious critters under sticks an' stones that had laid still for a long time. i tell yer, there wa'n't much that got away from his bright eyes--except the pertaters!--he did n't bother them none." a prolonged chuckle and a loud laugh greeted this sally. in the pause that followed the stranger cleared his throat determinedly. "see here, gentlemen," he began pompously, with more than a shade of irritation in his voice. "_will_ you allow me to speak? and _will_ you inform me what all this is about?" "about? why, it's about professor george marvin, to be sure," rejoined squire fletcher. "pray, what else should it be about?" "i guess you know what it's about all right, stranger," chuckled seth wilber, with a shrewd wink. "you can't fool us. mebbe you're one o' them fellers what thinks we don't know enough ter 'preciate a big man when we've got him. no, sir-ree! we ain't that kind. come, ye need n't play off no longer. we know why you're here, an' we're glad ter see ye, an' we're proud ter show ye the way ter our professor's. come on--'t ain't fur." the stranger drew back. his face grew red, then purple. "i should like to know," he sputtered thickly, "i should like to know if you really think that i--i have come 'way up here to see this old bug man. why, man alive, i never even heard of him!" "what!" ejaculated three disbelieving voices, their owners too dumfounded to take exceptions to the sneer in tone and words. "zounds, man!--what did you come for, then?" demanded the squire. the stranger raised his chin. "see here, who do you think i am?" he demanded pompously, as he squared himself before them in all his glory of checkered trousers, tall hat, and flaunting watch-chain. "who do you think i am? i am theophilus augustus smythe, sir, advance agent and head manager of the kalamazoo none-like-it salve company. i came, sir, to make arrangements for their arrival to-morrow morning. they show in this town to-morrow night. now perhaps you understand, sir, that my business is rather more important than hunting up any old bug man that ever lived!" and he strode to the desk and picked up the pen. for a moment there was absolute silence; then seth wilber spoke. "well, by ginger!--you--you'd oughter have come ter see the professor, anyhow," he muttered, weakly, as he fell back in his chair. "say, squire, 'member when marvin--" over at the desk theophilus augustus smythe crossed his _t_ with so violent an energy that the pen sputtered and made two blots. that angel boy "i am so glad you consented to stay over until monday, auntie, for now you can hear our famous boy choir," ethel had said at the breakfast table that sunday morning. "humph! i've heard of 'em," ann wetherby had returned crisply, "but i never took much stock in 'em. a choir--made o' boys--just as if music could come from yellin', hootin' boys!" an hour later at st. mark's, the softly swelling music of the organ was sending curious little thrills tingling to miss wetherby's finger tips. the voluntary had become a mere whisper when she noticed that the great doors near her were swinging outward. the music ceased, and there was a moment's breathless hush--then faintly in the distance sounded the first sweet notes of the processional. ethel stirred slightly and threw a meaning glance at her aunt. the woman met the look unflinchingly. "them ain't no boys!" she whispered tartly. nearer and nearer swelled the chorus until the leaders reached the open doors. miss wetherby gave one look at the white-robed singers, then she reached over and clutched ethel's fingers. "they be!--and in their nighties, too!" she added in a horrified whisper. one of the boys had a solo in the anthem that morning, and as the clear, pure soprano rose higher and higher, miss wetherby gazed in undisguised awe at the young singer. she noted the soulful eyes uplifted devoutly, and the broad forehead framed in clustering brown curls. to miss wetherby it was the face of an angel; and as the glorious voice rose and swelled and died away in exquisite melody, two big tears rolled down her cheeks and splashed on the shining, black silk gown. at dinner that day miss wetherby learned that the soloist was "bobby sawyer." she also learned that he was one of ethel's "fresh-air" mission children, and that, as yet, there was no place for him to go for a vacation. "that angel child with the heavenly voice--and no one to take him in?" miss wetherby bethought herself of her own airy rooms and flowering meadows, and snapped her lips together with sudden determination. "i'll take him!" she announced tersely, and went home the next day to prepare for her expected guest. early in the morning of the first monday in july, miss wetherby added the finishing touches to the dainty white bedroom upstairs. "dear little soul--i hope he'll like it!" she murmured, giving a loving pat to the spotless, beruffled pillow shams; then her approving eyes fell upon the "morning prayer" hanging at the foot of the bed. "there! them sweet little cherubs sayin' their prayers is jest the thing fur the little saint to see when he first wakes ev'ry mornin'. little angel!" she finished softly. on the table in the comer were hymn books, the great red-and-gold family bible, and a "baxter's saint's rest"--the only reading matter suited to miss wetherby's conception of the mind behind those soulful orbs upraised in devout adoration. just before ann started for the station tommy green came over to leave his pet dog, rover, for miss wetherby's "fresh-air" boy to play with. "now, thomas green," remonstrated ann severely, "you can take that dirty dog right home. i won't have him around. besides, robert sawyer ain't the kind of a boy you be. he don't care fur sech things--i know he don't." half an hour later, ann wetherby, her heart thumping loudly against her ribs, anxiously scanned the passengers as they alighted at slocumville station. there were not many--an old man, two girls, three or four women, and a small, dirty boy with a dirtier dog and a brown paper parcel in his arms. he had not come! miss wetherby held her breath and looked furtively at the small boy. there was nothing familiar in _his_ appearance, she was thankful to say! he must be another one for somebody else. still, perhaps he might know something about her own angel boy--she would ask. ann advanced warily, with a disapproving eye on the dog. "little boy, can you tell me why robert sawyer did n't come?" she asked severely. the result of her cautious question disconcerted her not a little. the boy dropped the dog and bundle to the platform, threw his hat in the air, and capered about in wild glee. "hi, there. bones! we're all right! golly--but i thought we was side-tracked, fur sure!" miss wetherby sank in limp dismay to a box of freight near by--the bared head disclosed the clustering brown curls and broad forehead, and the eyes uplifted to the whirling hat completed the tell-tale picture. the urchin caught the hat deftly on the back of his head, and pranced up to ann with his hands in his pockets. "gee-whiz! marm--but i thought you'd flunked fur sure. i reckoned me an' bones was barkin' up the wrong tree this time. it looked as if we'd come to a jumpin'-off place, an' you'd given us the slip. i'm bob, myself, ye see, an' i've come all right!" "are you robert sawyer?" she gasped. "jest ye hear that, bones!" laughed the boy shrilly, capering round and round the small dog again. "i's 'robert' now--do ye hear?" then he whirled back to his position in front of miss wetherby, and made a low bow. "robert sawyer, at yer service," he announced in mock pomposity. "oh, i say," he added with a quick change of position, "yer 'd better call me 'bob'; i ain't uster nothin' else. i'd fly off the handle quicker 'n no time, puttin' on airs like that." miss wetherby's back straightened. she made a desperate attempt to regain her usual stern self-possession. "i shall call ye 'robert,' boy. i don't like--er--that other name." there was a prolonged stare and a low whistle from the boy. then he turned to pick up his bundle. "come on, bones, stir yer stumps; lively, now! this 'ere lady 's a-goin' ter take us ter her shebang ter stay mos' two weeks. gee-whiz! bones, ain't this great!" and with one bound he was off the platform and turning a series of somersaults on the soft grass followed by the skinny, mangy dog which was barking itself nearly wild with joy. ann wetherby gazed at the revolving mass of heads and legs of boy and dog in mute despair, then she rose to her feet and started down the street. "you c'n foller me," she said sternly, without turning her head toward the culprits on the grass. the boy came upright instantly. "do ye stump it, marm?" "what?" she demanded, stopping short in her stupefaction. "do ye stump it--hoof it--foot it, i mean," he enumerated quickly, in a praise-worthy attempt to bring his vocabulary to the point where it touched hers. "oh--yes; 't ain't fur," vouchsafed ann feebly. bobby trotted alongside of miss wetherby, meekly followed by the dog. soon the boy gave his trousers an awkward hitch, and glanced sideways up at the woman. "oh, i say, marm, i think it's bully of yer ter let me an' bones come," he began sheepishly. "it looked 's if our case 'd hang fire till the crack o' doom; there wa'n't no one ter have us. when miss ethel, she told me her aunt 'd take us, it jest struck me all of a heap. i tell ye, me an' bones made tracks fur slocumville 'bout's soon as they 'd let us." "i hain't no doubt of it!" retorted ann, looking back hopelessly at the dog. "ye see," continued the boy confidentially, "there ain't ev'ry one what likes boys, an'--hi, there!--go it, bones!" he suddenly shrieked, and scampered wildly after the dog which had dashed into the bushes by the side of the road. ann did not see her young charge again until she had been home half an hour. he came in at the gate, then, cheerfully smiling, the dog at his heels. "jiminy christmas!" he exclaimed, "i begun ter think i 'd lost ye, but i remembered yer last name was the same's miss ethel's, an' a boy--tommy green, around the corner--he told me where ye lived. and, oh, i say, me an' bones are a-goin' off with him an' rover after i 've had somethin' ter eat--'t is mos' grub time, ain't it?" he added anxiously. ann sighed in a discouraged way. "yes, i s'pose 't is. i left some beans a-bakin', and dinner'll be ready pretty quick. you can come upstairs with me, robert, an' i'll show ye where yer goin' ter sleep," she finished, with a sinking heart, as she thought of those ruffled pillow shams. bobby followed miss wetherby into the dainty chamber. he gave one look, and puckered up his lips into a long, low whistle. "well, i'll be flabbergasted! oh, i say, now, ye don't expect me ter stay in all this fuss an' fixin's!" he exclaimed ruefully. "it--it is the room i calculated fur ye," said ann, with almost a choke in her voice. the boy looked up quickly and something rose within him that he did not quite understand. "oh, well, ye know, it's slick as a whistle an' all that, but i ain't uster havin' it laid on so thick. i ain't no great shakes, ye know, but i'll walk the chalk all right this time. golly! ain't it squashy, though!" he exclaimed, as with a run and a skip he landed straight in the middle of the puffy bed. with one agitated hand miss wetherby rescued her pillow shams, and with the other, forcibly removed the dog which had lost no time in following his master into the feathery nest. then she abruptly left the room; she could not trust herself to speak. miss wetherby did not see much of her guest that afternoon; he went away immediately after dinner and did not return until supper time. then he was so completely tired out that he had but two words in reply to miss wetherby's question. "did ye have a good time?" she asked wistfully. "you bet!" after supper he went at once to his room; but it was not until miss wetherby ceased to hear the patter of his feet on the floor above that she leaned back in her chair with a sigh of relief. when ann went upstairs to make the bed that tuesday morning, the sight that met her eyes struck terror to her heart. the bedclothes were scattered in wild confusion half over the room. the washbowl, with two long singing-books across it, she discovered to her horror, was serving as a prison for a small green snake. the bible and the remaining hymn books, topped by "baxter's saints' rest," lay in a suspicious-looking pile on the floor. under these miss wetherby did not look. after her experience with the snake and the washbowl, her nerves were not strong enough. she recoiled in dismay, also, from the sight of two yellow, paper-covered books on the table, flaunting shamelessly the titles: "jack; the pirate of red island," and "haunted by a headless ghost." she made the bed as rapidly as possible, with many a backward glance at the book-covered washbowl, then she went downstairs and shook and brushed herself with little nervous shudders. ann wetherby never forgot that fourth of july, nor, for that matter, the days that immediately followed. she went about with both ears stuffed with cotton, and eyes that were ever on the alert for all manner of creeping, crawling things in which bobby's soul delighted. the boy, reinforced by the children of the entire neighborhood, held a circus in miss wetherby's wood-shed, and instituted a wild indian camp in her attic. the poor woman was quite powerless, and remonstrated all in vain. the boy was so cheerfully good-tempered under her sharpest words that the victory was easily his. but on saturday when miss wetherby, returning from a neighbor's, found two cats, four dogs, and two toads tied to her parlor chairs, together with three cages containing respectively a canary, a parrot, and a squirrel (collected from obliging households), she rebelled in earnest and summoned bobby to her side. "robert, i've stood all i'm a-goin' ter. you've got to go home monday. do you hear?" "oh, come off, miss wetherby, 't ain't only a menag'ry, an' you don't use the room none." miss wetherby's mouth worked convulsively. "robert!" she gasped, as soon as she could find her voice, "i never, never heard of such dreadful goin's-on! you certainly can't stay here no longer," she continued sternly, resolutely trying to combat the fatal weakness that always overcame her when the boy lifted those soulful eyes to her face. "now take them horrid critters out of the parlor this minute. you go home monday--now mind what i say!" an hour later, miss wetherby had a caller. it was the chorister of her church choir. the man sat down gingerly on one of the slippery haircloth chairs, and proceeded at once to state his business. "i understand, miss wetherby, that you have an--er--young singer with you." miss wetherby choked, and stammered "yes." "he sings--er--very well, does n't he?" the woman was still more visibly embarrassed. "i--i don't know," she murmured; then in stronger tones, "the one that looked like him did." "are there two?" he asked in stupid amazement. miss wetherby laughed uneasily, then she sighed. "well, ter tell the truth, mr. wiggins, i s'pose there ain't; but sometimes i think there must be. i'll send robert down ter the rehearsal to-night, and you can see what ye can do with him." and with this mr. wiggins was forced to be content. bobby sang on sunday. the little church was full to the doors. bobby was already famous in the village, and people had a lively curiosity as to what this disquieting collector of bugs and snakes might offer in the way of a sacred song. the "nighty" was, perforce, absent, much to the sorrow of ann; but the witchery of the glorious voice entered again into the woman's soul, and, indeed, sent the entire congregation home in an awed silence that was the height of admiring homage. at breakfast time monday morning, bobby came downstairs with his brown paper parcel under his arm. ann glanced at his woeful face, then went out into the kitchen and slammed the oven door sharply. "well, marm, i've had a bully time---sure's a gun," said the boy wistfully, following her. miss wetherby opened the oven door and shut it with a second bang; then she straightened herself and crossed the room to the boy's side. "robert," she began with assumed sternness, trying to hide her depth of feeling, "you ain't a-goin' home ter-day--now mind what i say! take them things upstairs. quick--breakfast's all ready!" a great light transfigured bobby's face. he tossed his bundle into a corner and fell upon miss wetherby with a bearlike hug. "gee-whiz! marm--but yer are a brick! an' i 'll run yer errands an' split yer wood, an' i won't take no dogs an' cats in the parlor, an' i'll do ev'rythin'--ev'rythin' ye want me to! oh, golly--golly!--i'm goin' ter stay--i'm goin' ter stay!" and bobby danced out of the house into the yard there to turn somersault after somersault in hilarious glee. a queer choking feeling came into ann wetherby's throat. she seemed still to feel the loving clasp of those small young arms. "well, he--he's part angel, anyhow," she muttered, drawing a long breath and watching with tear-dimmed eyes bobby's antics on the grass outside. and bobby stayed--not only monday, but through four other long days--days which he filled to the brim with fun and frolic and joyous shouts as before--and yet with a change. the shouts were less shrill and the yells less prolonged when bobby was near the house. no toads nor cats graced the parlor floor, and no bugs nor snakes tortured miss wetherby's nerves when bobby's bed was made each day. the kitchen woodbox threatened to overflow--so high were its contents piled--and miss wetherby was put to her wits' end to satisfy bobby's urgent clamorings for errands to run. and when the four long days were over and saturday came, a note--and not bobby--was sent to the city. the note was addressed to "miss ethel wetherby," and this is what ethel's amazed eyes read: _my dear niece_:--you can tell that singer man of robert's that he is not going back any more. he is going to live with me and go to school next winter. i am going to adopt him for my very own. his father and mother are dead--he said so. i must close now, for robert is hungry, and wants his dinner. love to all, ann wetherby. the lady in black the house was very still. in the little room over the porch the lady in black sat alone. near her a child's white dress lay across a chair, and on the floor at her feet a tiny pair of shoes, stubbed at the toes, lay where an apparently hasty hand had thrown them. a doll, head downward, hung over a chair-back, and a toy soldier with drawn sword dominated the little stand by the bed. and everywhere was silence--the peculiar silence that comes only to a room where the clock has ceased to tick. the clock--such a foolish little clock of filigree gilt--stood on the shelf at the foot of the bed; and as the lady in black looked at it she remembered the wave of anger that had surged over her when she had thrust out her hand and silenced it that night three months before. it had seemed so monstrous to her that the pulse in that senseless thing of gilt should throb on unheeding while below, on the little white bed, that other pulse was so pitiably still. hence she had thrust out her hand and stopped it. it had been silent ever since--and it should remain silent, too. of what possible use were the hours it would tick away now? as if anything mattered, with little kathleen lying out there white and still under the black earth! "muvver!" the lady in black stirred restlessly, and glanced toward the closed door. behind it she knew was a little lad with wide blue eyes and a dimpling mouth who wanted her; but she wished he would not call her by that name. it only reminded her of those other little lips--silent now. "_muvver_!" the voice was more insistent. the lady in black did not answer. he might go away, she thought, if she did not reply. there was a short silence, then the door-knob rattled and turned half around under the touch of plainly unskilled fingers. the next moment the door swung slowly back on its hinges and revealed at full length the little figure in the russian suit. "pe-eek!" it was a gurgling cry of joyful discovery, but it was followed almost instantly by silence. the black-garbed, unsmiling woman did not invite approach, and the boy fell back at his first step. he hesitated, then spoke, tentatively, "i's--here." it was, perhaps, the worst thing he could have said. to the lady in black it was a yet more bitter reminder of that other one who was not there. she gave a sharp cry and covered her face with her hands. "bobby, bobby, how can you taunt me with it?" she moaned, in a frenzy of unreasoning grief. "go away--go away! i want to be alone--alone!" all the brightness fled from the boy's face. his mouth was no longer dimpled, and his eyes showed a grieved hurt in their depths. very slowly he turned away. at the top of the stairs he stopped and looked back. the door was still open, and the lady in black still sat with her hands over her face. he waited, but she did not move; then, with a half-stifled sob, he dropped on the top step and began to bump down the stairs, one at a time. long minutes afterward the lady in black raised her head and saw him through the window. he was down in the yard with his father, having a frolic under the apple tree. a frolic! the lady in black looked at them with somber eyes, and her mouth hardened at the corners. bobby down there in the yard could laugh and dance and frolic. bobby had some one to play with him, some one to love him and care for him; while out there on the hillside kathleen was alone--all alone. kathleen had no one-- with a little cry the lady in black sprang to her feet and hurried into her own room. her hands shook as she pinned on her hat and shrouded herself in the long folds of her black veil; but her step was firm as she swept downstairs and out through the hall. the man under the apple tree rose hurriedly and came forward. "helen, dearest,--not again, to-day!" he begged. "darling, it can't do any good!" "but she's alone--all alone. you don't seem to think! no one thinks--no one knows how i feel. you don't understand--if you did, you'd come with me. you wouldn't ask me to stay--here!" choked the woman. "i have been with you, dear," said the man gently. "i 've been with you to-day, and every day, almost, since--since she left us. but it can't do any good--this constant brooding over her grave. it only makes additional sorrow for you, for me, and for bobby. bobby is--here, you know, dear!" "no, no, don't say it," sobbed the woman wildly. "you don't understand--you don't understand!" and she turned and hurried away, a tall black shadow of grief, followed by the anguished eyes of the man, and the wistful puzzled eyes of the boy. it was not a long walk to the tree-embowered plot of ground where the marble shafts and slabs glistened in the sunlight, and the lady in black knew the way; yet she stumbled and reached out blindly, and she fell, as if exhausted, before a little stone marked "kathleen." near her a gray-haired woman, with her hands full of pink and white roses, watched her sympathetically. she hesitated, and opened her lips as if she would speak, then she turned slowly and began to arrange her flowers on a grave near by. at the slight stir the lady in black raised her head. for a time she watched in silence; then she threw back her veil and spoke. "you care, too," she said softly. "you understand. i've seen you here before, i'm sure. and was yours--a little girl?" the gray-haired woman shook her head. "no, dearie, it's a little boy--or he was a little boy forty years ago." "forty years--so long! how could you have lived forty years--without him?" again the little woman shook her head. "one has to--sometimes, dearie; but this little boy was n't mine. he was none of my kith nor kin." "but you care--you understand. i 've seen you here so often before." "yes. you see, there's no one else to care. but there was once, and i 'm caring now--for her." "for--her?" "his mother." "oh-h!" it was a tender little cry, full of quick sympathy--the eyes of the lady in black were on the stone marked "kathleen." "it ain't as if i did n't know how she'd feel," muttered the gray-haired little woman musingly, as she patted her work into completion and turned toward the lady in black. "you see, i was nurse to the boy when it happened, and for years afterward i worked in the family; so i know. i saw the whole thing from the beginning, from the very day when the little boy here met with the accident." "accident!" it was a sob of anguished sympathy from kathleen's mother. "yes. 't was a runaway; and he did n't live two days." "i know--i know!" choked the lady in black--yet she was not thinking of the boy and the runaway. "things stopped then for my mistress," resumed the little gray-haired woman, after a moment, "and that was the beginning of the end. she had a husband and a daughter, but they did n't count--not either of 'em. nothin' counted but this little grave out here; and she came and spent hours over it, trimmin' it with flowers and talkin' to it." the lady in black raised her head suddenly and threw a quick glance into the other's face; but the gray-haired woman's eyes were turned away, and after a moment she went on speaking. "the house got gloomier and gloomier, but she did n't seem to mind. she seemed to want it so. she shut out the sunshine and put away lots of the pictures; and she wouldn't let the pianner be opened at all. she never sat anywhere in the house only in the boy's room, and there everything was just as 'twas when he left it. she would n't let a thing be touched. i wondered afterward that she did n't see where 't was all leadin' to--but she did n't." "'leading to'?" the voice shook. "yes. i wondered she did n't see she was losin' 'em--that husband and daughter; but she did n't see it." the lady in black sat very still. even the birds seemed to have stopped their singing. then the gray-haired woman spoke: "so, you see, that's why i come and put flowers here--it's for her sake. there's no one else now to care," she sighed, rising to her feet. "but you haven't told yet--what happened," murmured the lady in black, faintly. "i don't know myself--quite. i know the man went away. he got somethin' to do travelin', so he was n't home much. when he did come he looked sick and bad. there were stories that he wa'n't quite straight always--but maybe that wa'n't true. anyhow, he come less and less, and he died away--but that was after she died. he's buried over there, beside her and the boy. the girl--well, nobody knows where the girl is. girls like flowers and sunshine and laughter and young folks, you know, and she did n't get any of them at home. so she went--where she did get 'em, i suppose. anyhow, nobody knows just where she is now. . . . there, and if i have n't gone and tired you all out with my chatter!" broke off the little gray-haired woman contritely. "i 'm sure i don't know why i got to runnin' on so!" "no, no--i was glad to hear it," faltered the lady in black, rising unsteadily to her feet. her face had grown white, and her eyes showed a sudden fear. "but i must go now. thank you." and she turned and hurried away. the house was very still when the lady in black reached home--and she shivered at its silence. through the hall and up the stairs she went hurriedly, almost guiltily. in her own room she plucked at the shadowy veil with fingers that tore the filmy mesh and found only the points of the pins. she was crying now--a choking little cry with broken words running through it; and she was still crying all the while her hands were fumbling at the fastenings of her somber black dress. long minutes later, the lady--in black no longer--trailed slowly down the stairway. her eyes showed traces of tears, and her chin quivered, but her lips were bravely curved in a smile. she wore a white dress and a single white rose in her hair; while behind her, in the little room over the porch, a tiny clock of filigree gilt ticked loudly on its shelf at the foot of the bed. there came a sound of running feet in the hall below; then: "muvver!--it's muvver come back!" cried a rapturous voice. and with a little sobbing cry bobby's mother opened her arms to her son. the saving of dad on the boundary fence sat james, known as "jim"; on the stunted grass of the neighboring back yard lay robert, known as "bob." in age, size, and frank-faced open-heartedness the boys seemed alike; but there were a presence of care and an absence of holes in jim's shirt and knee-breeches that were quite wanting in those of the boy on the ground. jim was the son of james barlow, lately come into the possession of the corner grocery. bob was the son of "handy mike," who worked out by the day, doing "odd jobs" for the neighboring housewives. "i hain't no doubt of it," bob was saying, with mock solemnity. "yer dad can eat more an' run faster an' jump higher an' shoot straighter than any man what walks round." "shucks!" retorted the boy on the fence, with a quick, frown. "that ain't what i said, and you know it." "so?" teased bob. "well, now, 'twas all i could remember. there's lots more, 'course, only i furgit 'em, an'--" "shut up!" snapped jim tersely. "'course ev'ry one knows he's only a sample," went on bob imperturbably. "an' so he's handsomer an'--" "will you quit?" demanded jim sharply. "no, i won't," retorted bob, with a quick change of manner. "you 've been here just two weeks, an' it hain't been nothin' but 'dad says this,' an' 'dad says that,' ever since. jiminy! a feller'd think you'd made out ter have the only dad that's goin'!" there was a pause--so long a pause that the boy on the grass sent a sideways glance at the motionless figure on the fence. "it wa'n't right, of course," began jim, at last, awkwardly, "crowin' over dad as i do. i never thought how--how 't would make the rest of you fellers feel." bob, on the grass, bridled and opened his lips, but something in jim's rapt face kept him from giving voice to his scorn. "'course there ain't any one like dad--there can't be," continued jim hurriedly. "he treats me white, an' he's straight there every time. dad don't dodge. maybe i should n't say so much about him, only--well, me an' dad are all alone. there ain't any one else; they're dead." the boy on the grass turned over and kicked both heels in the air; then he dug at the turf with his forefinger. he wished he would not think of his mother and beloved little sister may just then. he opened his eyes very wide and winked hard, once, twice, and again. he tried to speak; failing in that, he puckered his lips for a whistle. but the lips twitched and would not stay steady, and the whistle, when it came, sounded like nothing so much as the far-away fog-whistle off the shore at night. with a snort of shamed terror lest that lump in his throat break loose, bob sprang upright and began to turn a handspring with variations. "bet ye can't do this," he challenged thickly. "bet ye i can," retorted jim, landing with a thump at bob's side. it was after supper the next night that the two boys again occupied the fence and the grass-plot. they had fallen into the way of discussing at this time the day's fires, dog-fights, and parades. to-day, however, fires had been few, dog-fights fewer, and parades so very scarce that they numbered none at all. conversation had come to a dead pause, when jim, his eyes on the rod of sidewalk visible from where he sat, called softly: "hi, bob, who's the guy with the plug?" bob raised his head. he caught a glimpse of checkered trousers, tail-coat, and tall hat, then he dropped to the ground with a short laugh. "yes, who is it?" he scoffed. "don't ye know?" "would i be askin' if i did?" demanded jim. "humph!" grunted the other. "well, you'll know him fast enough one of these days, sonny, never fear. there don't no one hang out here more'n a month 'fore he spots 'em." "'spots 'em'!" "sure! he's danny o'flannigan." "well?" into bob's face came a look of pitying derision. "'well,'" he mocked. "mebbe 't will be 'well,' an' then again mebbe 't won't. it all depends on yer dad." "on _dad_!" "sure! he's danny o'flannigan, the boss o' this ward." "but what has that got to do with my dad?" "aw, come off--as if ye did n't know! it all depends whether he's nailed him or not." "'nailed him'!" "sure. if he nails him fur a friend, he gits customers an' picnics an' boo-kays all the time. if he don't--" bob made a wry face and an expressive gesture. the frown that had been gathering on jim's brow fled. "ho!" he laughed. "don't you worry. dad always nails folks--never misses hittin' 'em on the head, either," he added, in reckless triumph, confident that there was nothing "dad" could not do. the boy on the grass sat up and stared; then he lay back and gave a hoarse laugh--a long, chuckling laugh that brought the frown back to jim's face. "well, what you laughin' at?" demanded jim sharply. "oh, gee, gee!--that's too good!" gurgled the boy on the grass, rolling from side to side. "the saint, the sample, the pattern, the feller what treats 'em square, a-sellin' his vote! oh, gee, gee!" the ground suddenly shook with the impact of two sturdy little feet, and bob found his throat in the grasp of two strong little hands. "bob sullivan, quit yer laughin' an' tell me what you're talkin' about," stormed a shrill treble. "who's a-sellin' their vote?" bob squirmed and struggled. "a feller--can't talk--without--breathin'!" he choked. "well, then,--breathe!" commanded jim, jerking his companion to a sitting posture and loosening his clasp on his throat. "now--who's a-sellin' their vote?" "ye said it yerself, i didn't," snarled bob sullenly. "said what?" "that yer dad would nail danny o'flannigan, sure." "and is that sellin' his vote?" "what else is it, then?" demanded bob wrathfully. "he votes as danny says, an' danny sends him trade, an'--oh, oh, q-quit it--q-quit it--i say!" choked bob, breath and speech almost cut off by the furious clutch of jim's lean little fingers. "i won't quit it; i won't!" stormed jim, shaking his victim with a force that was as strong as it was sudden. "you know i never meant it that way; an' dad won't sell his vote; he won't--he won't--he won't!" the next instant a wrathful, palpitating bob lay alone on the grass, while a no less wrathful and palpitating jim vaulted the fence at a bound and disappeared into the next house. jim awoke the next morning with a haunting sense that something had happened. in a moment he remembered; and with memory came rage and a defiant up tilting of the chin. as if dad--_dad_ could do this thing! very possibly--even probably--handy mike had long ago gone down before this creature in the checkered trousers and tall hat; but dad--dad was not handy mike! the ins and outs, the fine points, the ethics of it all were not quite clear to jim; but the derision in bob's laugh was unmistakable; and on that derision and on that laugh hung his unfaltering confidence that dad would not, could not, do anything to merit either. for three nights the boys shunned the fence and the back yard. on the fourth night, as if by common impulse, each took his accustomed place, wearing an elaborate air of absolute forgetfulness of the past. there had been two fires and a parade that day, so any embarrassment that the situation held was easily talked down. not until handy mike on the side porch of his dilapidated cottage had greeted a visitor did there come a silence between the two boys. even then it did not last long, for bob broke it with a hoarse whisper. "it's danny o'flannigan, sure's a gun! it's gittin' mos' 'lection-time, an' he's drummin' 'em up. now, jest watch pap. he hain't no use fur danny. oh, of course," he added, in hurried conciliation, "'t ain't as if it made any difference ter pap. pap works fur the women-folks, an' women don't cut much ice in pol'tics." and jim did watch--with his eyes wide open and his hands so tightly clenched they fairly ached. he could not hear the words, but he could the voices, and he noted that for the first five minutes one was jovial, the other sullen; and for the next five minutes one was persuasive, the other contradictory; and for the third five minutes one was angry and the other back to its old sullenness. then he saw that danny o'flannigan jerked himself to his feet and strode away, leaving handy mike stolidly smoking on the side porch. "humph!" muttered bob. "danny hung to longer 'n i thought he would. must be somethin' special's up." it was on the next night that jim, from his perch on the back fence, saw the checkered trousers and tall hat on his own doorstep. bob, on the grass below, could not see, so jim held his breath while the door opened and his father admitted danny o'flannigan to the house. jim's heart swelled, and his eyes flashed with pride. now, we should see how a _man_ dealt with this thing. surely now there would be no fifteen minutes' dallying. danny o'flannigan would soon find out what sort of a person he had to deal with. he would see that dad was not handy mike. it was on jim's lips to speak to bob, that bob might share with him the sight of danny o'flannigan's discomfiture. he longed to display this overwhelming proof of the falseness of bob's assertion that dad would sell his vote; but--best let by-gones be by-gones; he had punished bob for that, and, after all, handy mike _was_ bob's father. he could tell bob of it later--how dad had sent danny o'flannigan to the right-about at once. yes, that was the better way. so jim schooled himself to hide his exultation, and he listened with well-feigned interest to bob's animated account of the morning's fire. two, three, five minutes passed, and danny o'flannigan had not come out. jim hitched about on his narrow perch, and sent furtive glances across the expanse of yard to his own door. six, seven, ten minutes passed; jim's throat grew dry, and his fingers cold at their tips. his eyes had long ago ceased to look at bob; they were fixed in growing horror on that closed door, behind which were dad--and that man. eleven, thirteen, fifteen minutes passed. "i--i'm goin' in now," faltered jim. "i--i reckon i don't feel well," he finished thickly, as he slipped to the ground and walked unsteadily across the yard. in the woodshed he stopped short at the kitchen door. a murmur of voices came from far inside, and jim's knees shook beneath him--it was not so--it could not be possible that dad was _still_ talking! jim stole through the back hallway and out on to the grass beneath the sitting-room windows on the other side of the house. the voices were louder now--the visitor's very loud. jim raised his head and tried to smile. of course!--dad was sending him about his business, and the man was angry--that was it. it had taken longer than he thought, but dad--dad never did like to hurt folks' feelings. some men--some men did not care how they talked; but not dad. why, dad--dad did not even like to kill a mouse; he-- there came the sound of a laugh--a long, ringing laugh with a gleeful chuckle at the end. jim grew faint. that was--_dad_! ten seconds later the two men in the sitting-room were confronted by a white-faced, shaking boy. "maybe you did n't know, mr. o'flannigan," began jim eagerly, "maybe you did n't know that dad don't speak sharp. he ain't much for hurtin' folks' feelings; but he means it just the same--that he won't do what you want him to do. he's square and straight--dad is, an' he don't dodge; but maybe you thought 'cause he laughed that he was easy--but he ain't. why, dad would n't--" "tut, tut, not so fast, my boy," cut in danny o'flannigan pompously. "your father has already--" a strong hand gripped o'flannigan's shoulder, and an agonized pair of eyes arrested his words. "for god's sake, man," muttered barlow, "have you no mercy? think--have you no son of your own that believes you 're almost--god himself?" for a brief instant danny o'flannigan's eyebrows and shoulders rose in an expressive gesture, and his hands made a disdainful sweep; then his eyes softened strangely. "as you please," he said, and reached for his hat with an air that was meant to show indifference. "then the deal is off, i suppose." "there!" crowed jim, as the door clicked behind the checkered trousers. "there, i knew you'd do it, dad. just as if-- why, dad, you 're--_cryin_'! pooh! who cares for danny o'flannigan?" he soothed, patting the broad shoulders bowed low over the table. "i would n't cry for him!" millionaire mike's thanksgiving he was not mike at first; he was only the millionaire--a young millionaire who sat in a wheel chair on the pier waiting for the boat. he had turned his coat-collar up to shut out the wind, and his hatbrim down to shut out the sun. for the time being he was alone. he had sent his attendant back for a forgotten book. it was thanksgiving, but the millionaire was not thankful. he was not thinking of what he had, but of what he wanted. he wanted his old strength of limb, and his old freedom from pain. true, the doctors had said that he might have them again in time, but he wanted them now. he wanted the girl, also. he would have her, to be sure, that very evening; but he wanted her now. the girl had been very sweet and gentle about it, but she had been firm. as he could recollect it, their conversation had run something like this: "but i want you myself, all day." "but, billy, don't you see? i promised; besides, i ought to do it. i am the president of the club. if i shirk responsibility, what can i expect the others to do?" "but i need you just as much--yes, more--than those poor families." "oh, billy, how can you say that, when they are so very poor, and when every one of them is the proud kind that would simply rather starve than go after their turkey and things! that's why we girls take them to them. don't you see?" "oh, yes, i see. i see i don't count. it could n't be expected that i'd count--now!" and he patted the crutches at his side. it was despicable in him, and he knew it. but he said it. he could see her eyes now, all hurt and sorrowful as she went away. . . . and so this morning he sat waiting for the boat, a long, lonely day in prospect in his bungalow on the island, while behind him he had left the dearest girl in the world, who, with other petted darlings of wealth and luxury, was to distribute thanksgiving baskets to the poor. not that his day needed to be lonely. he knew that. a dozen friends stood ready and anxious to supply him with a good dinner and plenty of companionship. but he would have none of them. as if _he_ wanted a thanksgiving dinner! and thus alone he waited in the wheel chair; and how he abhorred it--that chair--which was not strange, perhaps, considering the automobile that he loved. since the accident, however, his injured back had forbidden the speed and jar of motor cars, allowing only the slow but exasperating safety of crutches and a wheel chair. to-day even that seemed denied him, for the man who wheeled his chair did not come. with a frown the millionaire twisted himself about and looked behind him. it was near the time for the boat to start, and there would not be another for three hours. from the street hurried a jostling throng of men, women, and children. longingly the millionaire watched them. he had no mind to spend the next three hours where he was. if he could be pushed on to the boat, he would trust to luck for the other side. with his still weak left arm he could not propel himself, but if he could find some one-- twice, with one of the newspapers that lay in his lap, he made a feeble attempt to attract attention; but the millionaire was used to commanding, not begging, and his action passed unnoticed. he saw then in the crowd the face of a friend, and with a despairing gesture he waved the paper again. but the friend passed by unheeding. what happened then was so entirely unexpected that the millionaire fell back in his chair dumb with amazement. "here, mike, ye ain't on ter yer job. youse can't sell nuttin' dat way," scoffed a friendly voice. "here, now, watch!" and before the millionaire could collect his wits he saw the four papers he had bought that morning to help beguile a dreary day, snatched into the grimy hands of a small boy and promptly made off with. the man's angry word of remonstrance died on his lips. the boy was darting in and out of the crowd, shouting "poiper, here's yer poiper!" at the top of his voice. nor did he return until the last pair of feet had crossed the gangplank. then in triumph he hurried back to the waiting man in the wheel chair and dropped into his lap a tiny heap of coppers. "sold out, pardner! dat's what we be," he crowed delighted. "sold out!" "but--i--you--" gasped the man. "aw, furgit it--'t wa'n't nuttin'," disdained the boy airily. "ye see, youse got ter holler." "to--to 'holler'!" "sure, mike, or ye can't sell nuttin'. i been a-watchin' ye, an' i see right off ye wa'n't on ter yer job. why, pardner, ye can't sell poipers like ye was shellin' out free sody-checks at a picnic. youse got ter yell at 'em, an' git dere 'tention. 'course, ye can't run like i can"--his voice softened awkwardly as his eyes fell to the crutches at the man's side--"but ye can holler, an' not jest set dere a-shakin' 'em easy at 'em, like ye did a minute ago. dat ain't no way ter sell poipers!" with a half-smothered exclamation the millionaire fell back in his chair. he knew now that he was not a millionaire, but a "mike" to the boy. he was not william seymore haynes, but a cripple selling papers for a living. he would not have believed that a turned-up collar, a turned down soft hat, and a few jerks of a newspaper could have made such a metamorphosis. "youse'll catch on in no time now, pardner," resumed the boy soothingly, "an' i'm mighty glad i was here ter set ye goin'. sure, i sells poipers meself, i does, an' i knows how 't is. don't look so flabbergasted. 't ain't nuttin'. shucks! hain't fellers what's pardners oughter do a turn fur 't odder?" the millionaire bit his lip. he had intended to offer money to this boy, but with his gaze on that glowing countenance, he knew that he could not. he had come suddenly face to face with something for which his gold could not pay. "th-thank you," he stammered embarrassedly. "you--you were very kind." he paused, and gazed nervously back toward the street. "i--i was expecting some one. we were going to take that boat." "no! was ye? an' he did n't show up? say, now, dat's tough--an' t'anksgivin', too!" "as if i cared for thanksgiving!" the words came tense with bitterness. "aw, come now, furgit it!" there was a look of real concern on the boy's face. "dat ain't no way ter talk. it's t'anksgivin'!" "yes, i know--for some." the man's lips snapped shut grimly. "aw, come off! never mind if yer pal did n't show up. dere 's odders; dere 's me now. tell ye what, youse come home wid me. dere won't be no boat now fur a heap o' time, an' i 'm goin' ter t'anksgive. come on! 't ain't fur. i'll wheel ye." the man stared frankly. "er--thank you," he murmured, with an odd little laugh; "but--" "shucks! 'course ye can. what be ye goin' ter do?--set here? what's the use o' mopin' like dis when youse got a invite out ter t'anksgivin'? an' ye better catch it while it's goin', too. ye see, some days i could n't ask ye--not grub enough; but i can ter-day. we got a s'prise comin'." "indeed!" the tone was abstracted, almost irritable; but the boy ignored this. "sure! it's a dinner--a t'anksgivin' dinner bringed in to us. now ain't ye comin'?" "a dinner, did you say?--brought to you?" "yeaup!" "who brings it?" "a lady what comes ter see me an' kitty sometimes; an' she's a peacherino, she is! she said she 'd bring it." "do you know--her name?" the words came a little breathlessly. "you bet! why, she's our friend, i tell ye! her name is miss daisy carrolton; dat 's what 't is." the man relaxed in his chair. it was the dearest girl in the world. "say, ain't ye comin'?" urged the boy, anxiously. "coming? of course i'm coming," cried the man, with sudden energy. "just catch hold of that chair back there, lad, and you'll see." "say, now, dat's sumpin' like," crowed the boy, as he briskly started the chair. "'t ain't fur, ye know." neither the boy nor the millionaire talked much on the way. the boy was busy with his task; the man, with his thoughts. just why he was doing this thing was not clear even to the man himself. he suspected it was because of the girl. he could fancy her face when she should find that it was to him she was bringing her turkey dinner! he roused himself with a start. the boy was speaking. "my! but i 'm glad i stopped an' watched ye tryin' ter sell poipers. t'ink o' youse a-settin' dere all dis time a-waitin' fur dat boat--an' t'anksgivin', too! an' don't ye worry none. ma an' kitty 'll be right glad to see ye. 't ain't often we can have comp'ny. it's most allers us what's takin' t'ings give ter us--not givin' ourselves." "oh," replied the man uncertainly. "is--is that so?" with a distinct shock it had come to the millionaire that he was not merely the disgruntled lover planning a little prank to tease the dearest girl in the world. he was the honored guest of a family who were rejoicing that it was in their power to give a lonely cripple a thanksgiving dinner. his face grew red at the thought. "ugh-uh. an', oh, i say, what _is_ yer name, pardner?" went on the boy. "'course i called ye 'mike,' but--" "then suppose you still call me 'mike,'" retorted the man, nervously wondering if he _could_ play the part. he caught a glimpse of the beaming face of his benefactor--and decided that he _must_ play it. "a' right, den; an' here we be," announced the boy in triumph, stopping before a flight of steps that led to a basement door. with the aid of his crutches the man descended the steps. behind him came the boy with the chair. at the foot the boy flung wide the door and escorted his guest through a dark, evil-smelling hallway, into a kitchen beyond. "ma! kitty! look a-here!" he shouted, leaving the chair, and springing into the room. "i 've bringed home comp'ny ter dinner. dis is mike. he was sellin' poipers down ter de dock, an' he lost his boat. i told him ter come on here an' eat wid us. i knowed what was comin', ye see!" "why, yes, indeed, of course," fluttered a wan-faced little woman, plainly trying not to look surprised. "sit down, mr. mike," she finished, drawing up a chair to the old stove. "thank you, but i--i--" the man looked about for a means of escape. in the doorway stood the boy with the wheel chair. "here, mr. mike, mebbe youse wanted dis. say, kitty, ain't dis grand?" he ended admiringly, wheeling the chair to the middle of the room. from the corner came the tap of crutches, and the man saw then what he had not seen before; a slip of a girl, perhaps twelve years old, with a helpless little foot hanging limp below the skirt-hem. "oh, oh!" she breathed, her eyes aflame with excitement. "it is--it is--a _wheel_ one! oh, sir, how glad and proud you must be--with that!" the man sat down, though not in the wheel chair. he dropped a little helplessly into the one his hostess had brought forward. "perhaps you--you'd like to try it," he managed to stammer. "oh, can i? thank you!" breathed a rapturous voice. and there, for the next five minutes, sat the millionaire watching a slip of a girl wheeling herself back and forth in his chair--his chair, which he had never before suspected of being "fine" or "wonderful" or "grand"--as the girl declared it to be. shrinkingly he looked about him. nowhere did his eyes fall upon anything that was whole. he had almost struggled to his feet to flee from it all when the boy's voice arrested him. "ye see, it's comin' 'bout noon--de grub is; an' it's goin' ter be all cooked so we can begin ter eat right off. dere, how's dat?" he questioned, standing away to admire the propped-up table he and his mother were setting with a few broken dishes. "now ain't ye glad youse ain't down dere a-waitin' fur a boat what don't come?" "sure i am," declared the man, gazing into the happy face before him, and valiantly determining to be mike now no matter what happened. "an' ain't the table pretty!" exulted the little girl. "i found that chiny cup with the gold on it. 'course it don't hold nothin', 'cause the bottom's fell out; but it looks pretty--an' looks counts when comp'ny's here!" the boy lifted his head suddenly. "look a-here! i'll make it hold sumpin'," he cried, diving his hands into his pockets, and bringing out five coppers and a dime. "youse jest wait. i 'll get a posy up ter de square. 'course, we 'd ought ter have a posy, wid comp'ny here." "hold on!" the millionaire's hand was in his pocket now. his fingers were on a gold piece, and his eyes--in fancy--were on a glorious riot of jacqueminots that filled the little room to overflowing, and brought a wondrous light to three pairs of unbelieving eyes--then mike remembered. "here," he said a little huskily, "let me help." but the fingers, when he held them out, carried only the dime that mike might give, not the gold piece of the millionaire. "aw, g'wan," scoffed the boy, jubilantly. "as if we'd let comp'ny pay! dis is our show!" and for the second time that day the millionaire had found something that money could not buy. and thus it happened that the table, a little later, held a centerpiece of flowers--four near-to-fading pinks in a bottomless, gold-banded china cup. it was the man who heard the honk of a motor-car in the street outside. instinctively he braced himself, and none too soon. there was a light knock, then in the doorway stood the dearest girl in the world, a large basket and a box in her hands. "oh, how lovely! you have the table all ready," she exclaimed, coming swiftly forward. "and what a fine--_billy_!" she gasped, as she dropped the box and the basket on the table. the boy turned sharply. "aw! why did n't ye tell a feller?" he reproached the man; then to the girl: "_does_ ye know him? he _said_ ter call him 'mike.'" the man rose now. with an odd directness he looked straight into the girl's startled eyes. "maybe miss carrolton don't remember me much, as i am now," he murmured. the girl flushed. the man, who knew her so well, did not need to be told that the angry light in her eyes meant that she suspected him of playing this masquerade for a joke, and that she did not like it. even the dearest girl in the world had a temper--at times. "but why--are you--here?" she asked in a cold little voice. the man's eyes did not swerve. "jimmy asked me to come." "he asked you to come!" "sure i did," interposed jimmy, with all the anxiety of a host who sees his guest, for some unknown reason, being made uncomfortable. "i knowed youse would n't mind if we did ask comp'ny ter help eat de dinner, an' he lost his boat, ye see, an' had a mug on him as long as me arm, he was that cut up 'bout it. he was sellin' poipers down t' de dock." "selling papers!" "as it happened, i did not _sell_ them," interposed the man, still with that steady meeting of her eyes. "jimmy sold them for me. he will tell you that i was n't on to my job, so he helped me out." "aw, furgit it," grinned jimmy sheepishly. "dat wa'n't nuttin'. i only showed him ye could n't sell no poipers widout hollerin'." a curious look of admiration and relief came to the face of the girl. her eyes softened. "you mean--" she stopped, and the man nodded his head gravely. "yes, miss. i was alone, waiting for thompson. he must have got delayed. i had four papers in my lap, and after jimmy had sold them and the boat had gone, he very kindly asked me to dinner, and--i came." "whew! look at dis!" cried an excited voice. jimmy was investigating the contents of the basket. "say, mike, we got turkey! ye see," he explained, turning to miss carrolton, "he kinder hung back fur a while, an' wa'n't fast on comin'. an' i did hope 't would be turkey--fur comp'ny. folks don't have comp'ny ev'ry day!" "no, folks don't have company every day," repeated the girl softly; and into the longing eyes opposite she threw, before she went away, one look such as only the dearest girl in the world can give--a look full of tenderness and love and understanding. long hours later, in quite a different place, the girl saw the man again. he was not mike now. he was the millionaire. for a time he talked eagerly of his curious visit, chatting excitedly of all the delightful results that were to come from it; rest and ease for the woman; a wheel chair and the best of surgeons for the little girl; school and college for the boy. then, after a long minute of silence, he said something else. he said it diffidently, and with a rush of bright color to his face--he was not used to treading quite so near to his heart. "i never thought," he said, just touching the crutches at his side, "that i 'd ever be thankful for--for these. but i was--almost--to-day. you see, it was they that--that brought me--my dinner," he finished, with a whimsicality that did not hide the shake in his voice. when mother fell ill tom was eighteen, and was spending the long summer days behind the village-store counter--tom hoped to go to college in the fall. carrie was fifteen; the long days found her oftenest down by the brook, reading--carrie was a bit romantic, and the book was usually poetry. robert and rosamond, the twins--known to all their world as "rob" and "rose"--were eight; existence for them meant play, food, and sleep. to be sure, there were books and school; but those were in the remote past or dim future together with winter, mittens, and fires. it was summer, now--summer, and the two filled the hours with rollicking games and gleeful shouts--and incidentally their mother's workbasket with numerous torn pinafores and trousers. behind everything, above everything, and beneath everything, with all-powerful hands and an all-wise brain, was mother. there was father, of course; but father could not cook the meals, sweep the rooms, sew on buttons, find lost pencils, bathe bumped foreheads, and do countless other things. so thought tom, carrie, and the twins that dreadful morning when father came dolefully downstairs and said that mother was sick. _mother sick_! tom stared blankly at the sugar bowl, carrie fell limply into the nearest chair, and the twins began to cry softly. the next thirty-six hours were never forgotten by the dudleys. the cool nook in the woods was deserted, and carrie spent a hot, discouraged morning in the kitchen--sole mistress where before she had been an all too seldom helper. at noon mr. dudley and tom came home to partake of underdone potatoes and overdone meat. the twins, repressed and admonished into a state of hysterical nervousness, repaired directly after dinner to the attic. half an hour later a prolonged wail told that rob had cut his finger severely with an old knife; and it was during the attendant excitement that rose managed to fall the entire length of the attic stairs. at night, after a supper of soggy rolls and burnt omelet, mr. dudley sent an appealing telegram to "cousin helen"; and the next afternoon, at five, she came. miss helen mortimer was pretty, sweet-tempered, and twenty-five. the entire family fell captive to her first smile. there was a world of comfort and relief in her very presence, and in the way she said cheerily: "we shall do very well, i am sure. carrie can attend to her mother, and i will take the helm downstairs." the doctor said that rest and quiet was what mrs. dudley most needed, so carrie's task would be comparatively light; and with a stout woman to come twice a week for the heavy work downstairs, the household gave promise of being once more on a livable basis. it was at breakfast the next morning that the first cloud appeared on miss mortimer's horizon. it came in the shape of the crisply fried potatoes she was serving. the four children were eating late after their father had left. "oh, cousin helen," began tom, in an annoyed manner, "i forgot to tell you; i don't like fried potatoes. i have baked ones." "baked ones?" "yes; mother always baked them for me."' "oh, that's too bad; you can't eat them, then,--they hurt you!" tom laughed. "hurt me? not a bit of it! i don't like them, that's all. never mind; you can do it to-morrow." when "to-morrow" came miss mortimer had not forgotten. the big round dish was heaped with potatoes baked to a turn. "thank you, i'll take the fried," said carrie, as the dish was passed to her. "the f-fried?" stammered miss mortimer. "yes; i prefer those." "but there _are_ no fried. i baked them." "well, how funny!" laughed carrie. "i thought we had it all fixed yesterday. i thought we were to have both fried and baked. mother always did, you know. you see, we don't like them the same way. never mind," she added with a beaming smile, quite misunderstanding the look on her cousin's face, "it does n't matter a bit and you must n't feel so bad. it 'll be all right to-morrow, i'm sure." "yes, and i want buckwheat cakes, please," piped up rob. "all right, you shall have them," agreed cousin helen with a smile. tom laughed. "maybe you don't quite know what you 're getting into, cousin helen," he suggested. "if you make buckwheat cakes for rob--it means graham muffins for rose." "and she shall have them; the very next morning, too." "oh, no, that will never do. she demands them the same day." "what!" "oh, i thought you didn't understand," chuckled tom. "when you make one, you have to make both. mother always did--she had to; 't was the only way she could suit both the twins, and i don't believe you 'll find any other way out of it. as for us--we don't mind; we eat them all!" "oh!" said cousin helen faintly. "and another thing," resumed tom, "we might as well settle the drink question right away--of course you 'll want to know. father is the only one who drinks cereal coffee. we (carrie and i) like the real thing, every time; and the twins have cocoa--weak, of course, so there 's not much to it." "and you must n't sweeten mine while you 're cooking it," interposed rose decidedly. "sure enough--lucky you thought of that," laughed tom, "or else poor cousin helen would have had another mistake to fret over. you see," he explained pleasantly, "rose insists on putting in _all_ the sugar herself, so hers has to be made unsweetened; but rob is n't so particular and prefers his made in the regular way--sweetened while cooking, you know." "oh, i make two kinds of cocoa, do i?" asked cousin helen. "yes--er--that is, in two ways." "hm-m; and coffee and the cereal drink, making four in all?" continued cousin helen, with ominous sweetness. tom stirred uneasily and threw a sharp glance into his cousin's face. "well--er--it does seem a good many; but--well, mother did, you know, and we might as well have what we want, as something different, i suppose," he finished, with vague uneasiness. "oh, certainly, who would mind a small thing like that!" laughed miss mortimer, a queer little gleam in her eyes. this was but the beginning. on the pantry-shelf were four kinds of cereals. carrie explained that all were served each morning, for the family could n't agree on any particular one. as for eggs; tom always had to have his dropped on a slice of toast; the twins liked theirs scrambled; but carrie herself preferred hers boiled in the shell. apple-pie must always be in the house for tom, though it so happened, strangely enough, carrie said, that no one else cared for it at all. "mother was always making apple-pie," laughed carrie apologetically. "you see, they get stale so quickly, and tom is the only one to eat them, they have to be made pretty often--one at a time, of course." bread, rolls, pastry, meat, vegetables--each had its own particular story, backed always by that ever-silencing "mother did," until miss mortimer was almost in despair. sometimes she made a feeble protest, but the children were so good-natured, so entirely unaware that they were asking anything out of the ordinary, and so amazed at any proposed deviation from the established rules, that her protests fell powerless at their feet. "mother did"--"mother did"--"mother did," miss mortimer would murmur wearily to herself each day, until she came to think of the tired little woman upstairs as "mother did" instead of "aunt maria." "no wonder 'mother did' fell ill," she thought bitterly. "who wouldn't!" the weeks passed, as weeks will--even the dreariest of them--and the day came for cousin helen to go home, mrs. dudley being now quite her old self. loud were the regrets at her departure, and overwhelming were the thanks and blessings showered in loving profusion; but it was two weeks later, when tom, carrie, and the twins each sent her a birthday present, that an idea came to miss mortimer. she determined at once to carry it out, even though the process might cause her some heartache. thus it came about that tom, carrie, rob, and rose, each received a letter (together with the gift each had sent) almost by return mail. tom's ran: _my dear cousin_: thank you very much for the novel you sent me, but i am going to ask you to change it for a book of travels. i like that kind better, and mother and all my friends give me travels whenever they want to please me. i might as well have something i want as something different, i suppose, so i am asking you to change. very lovingly your cousin helen carrie read this: _my dear carrie_: thank you for the pretty little turnover collar and cuffs you sent me for my birthday; but i think it is so funny you never noticed that i don't care for pink. mother found it out even when i was but little more than a baby. oh, i can wear it, but i don't care for it. don't feel badly, however, my dear carrie; all you've got to do is just to take these back and make me some blue ones, and i know you won't mind doing that. lovingly cousin helen rob's letter ran: _my dear rob_: i am writing to thank you for the box of chocolates you sent yesterday. i am sending them back to you, though, because i seldom eat chocolates. oh, no, they don't hurt me, but i don't like them as well as i do caramels, so won't you please change them? mother gives me a box of candy every christmas, but it is never chocolates. i know you would rather give me what i like, rob, dear. lots of love cousin helen rose had striven early and late over a crocheted tidy, spending long hours of her playtime in doing work to which her fingers were but little accustomed. she confidently expected a loving letter of thanks and praise, and could scarcely wait to open the envelope. this is what she read: _my dear rose_: thank you very much for the tidy, dear, but whatever in the world caused you to make it in that stitch? i like shell-stitch ever so much better, so would you mind doing it over for me? i am returning this one, for maybe you will decide to ravel it out; if you don't, you can just make me a new one. mother has crocheted several things for me, but most of them are in shell-stitch, which, after all, is about the only stitch i care for. lots of love from your cousin helen after a dazed five minutes of letter-reading, the four children hurried to the attic--always their refuge for a conference. there they read the four letters aloud, one after another. a dumfounded silence followed the last word. rose was the first to break it. "i think she's a mean old thing--so there!" rose was almost crying. "hush, dear, hush!" choked carrie. "she isn't mean; she's good and kind--we know she is. she--she means something by it; she must. let's read them again!" bit by bit they went over the letters. it was at the third mention of "mother" that tom raised his head with a jerk. he looked sheepishly into carrie's face. "i--i guess i know," he said with a shame-faced laugh. it must have been a month later that miss mortimer received a letter from mrs. dudley. one paragraph sent a quick wave of color to the reader's face; and this was the paragraph: i am feeling better than for a long time. some way, the work does n't seem nearly so hard as it used to. perhaps it is because i am stronger, or perhaps it is because the children are not nearly so particular about their food as they used to be. i am so glad, for it worried me sometimes--they were so very fussy. i wondered how they would get along out in the world where "mother" could n't fix everything to their liking. perhaps you noticed it when you were here. at any rate, they are lots better now. perhaps they have out-grown it. i hope so, i'm sure. the glory and the sacrifice the honorable peter wentworth was not a church-going man, and when he appeared at the prayer-meeting on that memorable friday evening there was at once a most irreligious interest manifested by every one present, even to the tired little minister himself. the object of their amazed glances fortunately did not keep the good people long in suspense. after a timid prayer--slightly incoherent, but abounding in petitions for single-mindedness and worshipful reverence--from the minister's wife, the honorable peter wentworth rose to his feet and loudly cleared his throat: "ahem! ladies and gentlemen--er--ah--brethren," he corrected, hastily, faint memories of a godly youth prompting his now unaccustomed lips; "i--er--i understand that you are desirous of building a new church. a very laudable wish--very," with his eyes fixed on a zigzag crack in the wall across the room; "and i understand that your funds are--er--insufficient. i am, in fact, informed that you need two thousand dollars. ahem! ladies--er--brethren, i stand here to announce that on the first day of january i will place in your pastor's hands the sum of one thousand dollars, provided"--and he paused and put the tips of his forefingers together impressively--"provided you will raise an equal amount on your own part. the first day of next january, remember. you have nearly a year, you will notice, in which to raise the money. i--er--i hope you will be successful." and he sat down heavily. the remainder of that meeting was not conspicuous for deep spirituality, and after the benediction the honorable peter wentworth found himself surrounded by an excited crowd of grateful church members. the honorable gentleman was distinctly pleased. he had not given anything away before since--well, he had the same curious choking feeling in his throat now that he remembered to have felt when he gave the contents of his dinner pail to the boy across the aisle at the old red schoolhouse. after all, it was a rather pleasant sensation; he almost wished it had oftener been his. it was not until the silent hours of the night brought a haunting premonition of evil to the reverend john grey that the little minister began to realize what the church had undertaken. one thousand dollars! the village was small and the church society smaller. the honorable peter wentworth was the only man who by even the politest fiction could be called rich. where, indeed, was the thousand to be found? when morning came, the reverend john grey's kindly blue eyes were troubled, and his forehead drawn into unwonted lines of care; but his fathers had fought king george and the devil in years long past, and he was a worthy descendant of a noble race and had no intention of weakly succumbing, even though king george and the devil now masqueraded as a two-thousand-dollar debt. by the end of the week an urgent appeal for money had entered the door of every house in fairville. the minister had spent sleepless nights and weary days in composing this masterly letter. his faithful mimeograph had saved the expense of printing, and his youngest boy's willing feet had obviated the necessity of postage stamps. the first congregational church being the only religious organization in the town of fairville, john grey had no hesitation in asking aid from one and all alike. this was in february, yet by the end of may there was only four hundred dollars in the fund treasury. the pastor sent out a second appeal, following it up with a house-to-house visit. the sum grew to six hundred dollars. then the ladies held a mass-meeting in the damp, ill-smelling vestry. the result was a series of entertainments varying from a strawberry festival to the "passion play" illustrated. the entertainers were indefatigable. they fed their guests with baked beans and "red flannel" hash, and acted charades from the bible. they held innumerable guessing contests, where one might surmise as to the identity of a baby's photograph or conjecture as to the cook of a mince pie. these heroic efforts brought the fund up to eight hundred dollars. two hundred yet to be found--and it was november! with anxious faces and puckered brows, the ladies held another meeting in that cheerless vestry--then hastened home with new courage and a new plan. bits of silk and tissue-paper, gay-colored worsteds and knots of ribbon appeared as by magic in every cottage. weary fingers fashioned impossible fancy articles of no earthly use to any one, and tired housewives sat up till midnight dressing dolls in flimsy muslin. the church was going to hold a fair! everything and everybody succumbed graciously or ungraciously to the inevitable. the prayer-meetings were neglected, the missionary meetings postponed, the children went ragged to school, and the men sewed on their own buttons. in time, however, the men had to forego even that luxury, and were obliged to remain buttonless, for they themselves were dragged into the dizzy whirl and set to making patchwork squares. the culminating feature of the fair was to be a silk crazy quilt, and in an evil moment miss wiggins, a spinster of uncertain age, had suggested that it would be "perfectly lovely" to have the gentlemen contribute a square each. the result would have made the craziest inmate of a lunatic asylum green with envy. the square made by old deacon white, composed of pieces of blue, green, scarlet, and purple silk fastened together as one would sew the leather on a baseball, came next to the dainty square of the town milliner's covered with embroidered butterflies and startling cupids. nor were the others found wanting in variety. it was indeed a wonderful quilt. the fair and a blizzard began simultaneously the first day of december. the one lasted a week, and the other three days. the people conscientiously ploughed through the snow, attended the fair, and bought recklessly. the children made themselves sick with rich candies, and deacon white lost his temper over a tin trumpet he drew in a grab bag. at the end of the week there were three cases of nervous prostration, one of pneumonia, two of grippe--and one hundred dollars and five cents in money. the ladies drew a long breath and looked pleased; then their faces went suddenly white. where was ninety-nine dollars and ninety-five cents to come from in the few days yet remaining? silently and dejectedly they went home. it was then that the reverend john grey rose to the occasion and shut himself in his study all night, struggling with a last appeal to be copied on his faithful mimeograph and delivered by his patient youngest born. that appeal was straight from the heart of an all but despairing man. was two thousand dollars to be lost--and because of a paltry ninety-nine dollars and ninety-five cents? the man's face had seemed to age a dozen years in the last twelve months. little streaks of gray showed above his temples, and his cheeks had pitiful hollows in them. the minister's family had meat but twice a week now. the money that might have bought it for the other five days had gone to add its tiny weight to the minister's contribution to the fund. the pressure was severe and became crushing as the holidays approached. the tree for the sunday-school had long since been given up, but christmas eve a forlorn group of wistful-eyed children gathered in the church and spoke christmas pieces and sang christmas carols, with longing gaze fixed on the empty corner where was wont to be the shining tree. it was on christmas day that the widow blake fought the good fight in her little six-by-nine room. on the bed lay a black cashmere gown, faded and rusty and carefully darned; on the table lay a little heap of bills and silver. the woman gathered the money in her two hands and dropped it into her lap; then she smoothed the bills neatly one upon another, and built little pyramids of the dimes and quarters. fifteen dollars! it must be five years now that she had been saving that money, and she did so need a new dress! she needed it to be--why--even decent!--looking sourly at the frayed folds on the bed. it was on christmas day, too, that the little cripple who lived across the bridge received a five-dollar gold piece by registered mail. donald's eyes shone and his thin fingers clutched the yellow gold greedily. now he could have those books!--his eyes rested on an open letter on the floor by his chair; a mimeograph letter signed "john w. grey." gradually his fingers relaxed; the bit of money slipped from the imprisoning clasp, fell to the floor, and rolled in flashing, gleaming circles round and round the letter, ending in a glistening disk, like a seal, just at the left of the signature. the lad looked at the yellow, whirling thing with frightened eyes, then covered his face with his hands, and burst into a storm of sobs. on the th of december, the reverend john grey entered on his list: "mrs. blake, $ . ; donald marsh, $ . ." the little minister's face grew pale and drawn. the money came in bit by bit, but it wanted twenty dollars and ninety-five cents yet to complete the needed thousand. on the th the teacher of the infant class brought a dollar, the gift of her young pupils. on the th, nothing came; on the th, five cents from a small boy who rang the bell with a peal that brought the reverend john grey to the door with a startled hope in his eyes. he took the five pennies from the small dirty fingers and opened his mouth to speak his thanks, but his dry lips refused to frame the words. the morning of the th dawned raw and cloudy. the little minister neither ate nor slept now. the doorbell rang at brief intervals throughout the day, and stray quarters, dimes, and nickels, with an occasional dollar, were added to the precious store until it amounted to nine hundred and eighty-nine dollars and eighty-five cents. when the reverend john grey looked out of his bedroom window on the last day of that weary year, he found a snow-white world, and the feathery flakes still falling. five times that day he swept his steps and shoveled his path--mute invitations to possible donors; but the path remained white and smooth in untrodden purity, and the doorbell was ominously silent. he tried to read, to write, to pray; but he haunted the windows like a maiden awaiting her lover, and he opened the door and looked up and down the street every fifteen minutes. the poor man had exhausted all his resources. he himself had given far more than he could afford, and he had begged of every man, woman and child in the place. and yet--must two thousand dollars be lost, all for the lack of ten dollars and fifteen cents? mechanically he thrust his hands into his pockets and fingered the few coins therein. it was nearly midnight when there came a gentle tap at the study door. without waiting for permission the minister's wife turned the knob and entered the room. her husband sat with bowed head resting on his outstretched arms on the desk, and her eyes filled with tears at the picture of despair before her. "john, i suppose we can take this," said she, in a low voice, reluctantly laying a little pile of silver on the desk; "there's just ten dollars there." then she recoiled in terror, so wildly did her husband clutch the money. "where did you get this?" he gasped. "i--i saved it from time to time out of the household money. i meant you should take it and go out to cousin frank's for a rest and vacation after this was over," said she doggedly. "vacation! mary--vacation!" he exclaimed, with unutterable scorn. then he fumbled in his pocket and brought out a little change. with trembling fingers he picked out ten pennies and a five-cent piece, putting a lone quarter back in his empty pocket. "thank god, mary, we've done it!" and the man's voice broke, and a big tear rolled down his cheek and splashed on a dingy nickel. new year's night there was a jubilee meeting in the town hall. the reverend john grey hurried through his bread-and-milk supper in some excitement. he was to preside, and must not be late. the hall was full to overflowing. on the platform with the minister sat the deacons of the first congregational church--and the honorable peter wentworth. the well-fed, well-groomed, honorable gentleman himself looked about with a complacent smile--this was indeed a most delightful occasion. the reverend john grey's address was an eloquent tribute to the great generosity of their distinguished fellow-townsman. the minister's voice trembled affectingly, and his thin cheeks flushed with emotion. the first congregational church was deeply indebted to the honorable peter wentworth, and would fain express its gratitude. the minister's wife listened with a far-away look on her face, and little donald marsh gazed with round eyes of awe at the great man who had been so very generous; while over in an obscure corner of the hall a pale little woman stealthily rearranged the folds of her gown, that she might hide from inquisitive eyes the great darn on the front breadth of her worn black cashmere. the daltons and the legacy the legacy amounted to ten thousand dollars; and coming as it did from a little known, scarcely remembered relative it seemed even more unreal than the man who had bequeathed it. not until lawyers' visits and numerous official-looking papers had convinced the daltons beyond the smallest doubt did the family believe their good fortune genuine; then, with the conviction, came all the overwhelming ambitions and unsatisfied longings of past years. "there, now we can leave the farm," exulted mrs. dalton. "why, sarah, do--do you think that is quite--wise?" asked her husband. "wise? of course it is!" she returned decidedly. "why, caleb, don't you know?--we've always wanted to go to the city; and cousin john said he 'd give you a place in his store any time, so you'll earn something to start with right away. we never dared to before, you know, for you wa'n't sure how you'd do; but now we 've got all this money we shan't have to worry a mite. oh, isn't it just splendid, caleb?" "yes; but--" he hesitated. "why, caleb, i don't believe you appreciate it a bit!" "oh, i do, indeed i do, sarah, but--" again he hesitated. "but there is n't any 'but,' caleb," laughed sarah, and turned to a boy of twelve and a girl of fourteen who entered the room at that moment. "we've got it all settled, children. we 're going to boston, sure, this fall." "oh, mother!"--ethel's hands came together in ecstasy, while fred whooped in glee. "there's the lovely big stores and the people," cried ethel. "and the cars and bunker hill monument," supplemented fred. "and we won't ever have to come back to this snippy little town," continued ethel. "my, won't bill higgins just stare!" interposed fred. "oh, i say, sis, we might come back just once, you know, just to tell them about things." "yes, that's so," agreed ethel readily; "and--say, let's tell them now that we're going. come on!" she finished over her shoulder as she flew through the door. "there, caleb, i told you how it would be," smiled mrs. dalton as the door banged behind fred; then, anxiously: "you would n't want to spoil it all, now, would you?" "n-no; but--no, no, of course not," murmured caleb, rising to his feet and crossing to the outside door with heavy, slow-moving steps. this was in august. by the middle of september such household goods as the daltons had planned to take with them were packed, burlapped, crated, and labeled. it had been mrs. dalton's idea to sell the rest of the furniture and the farm at auction, but just here she encountered an unexpected but stubborn resistance from her husband. consequently, the remainder of the goods were stored in the attic, and the farm was rented until the first of may--the house being close to the village, it made a not undesirable winter residence. a longer lease than this caleb would not grant, in spite of his wife's remonstrances. "just as if we would want to come back by may, caleb!" she scoffed. "why, by that time we shall be real city folks, and you 'll be a partner in the business, maybe." "hm-m,--maybe," echoed caleb imperturbably; "but--we'll see when may comes." "cousin john" in boston had received the news of their intended coming with cordial interest, and had already procured for them a six-room apartment in roxbury; and it was in his thriving market and grocery store on warren avenue that caleb was to have a position as clerk. the wages, at first, were not large--cousin john explained when he good-naturedly ran up to the farm to make arrangements--but the figures looked fabulous to sarah until john told her that they must pay twenty-five dollars every month for their flat. "twenty-five dollars, and not even a spare room!" she gasped. "why, john, it's too nice--it must be. we did n't want such a fancy one." "oh, 't is n't fancy," laughed the man, "not a bit! it's clean and neat and on a respectable street. land costs something down there, you know. you have to pay something for rent. why, i pay fifty, myself." "oh, oh!" moaned sarah. then she threw back her head with an assumed courage. "never mind, i 'll just have to change my plans a bit. i did n't intend to keep anything, but i can have just a few hens and a cow as well as not, and that will help some. like enough i can sell a little butter and what eggs i don't use, too, and--" a long, hearty laugh interrupted her. "oh, cousin sarah, cousin sarah!" choked john, as soon as he could find his voice. "well," said mrs. dalton, with some dignity, "i'm waiting." cousin john pulled his face into shape and steadied his voice. "sarah, your flat is up three flights, and has n't even a back piazza. where are you going to keep hens and cows?" mrs. dalton's jaw fell. "three flights!" she gasped. he nodded. "and is n't there a yard, or--or anything?" "not that belongs to you--except the fire escape and a place on the roof to dry your clothes." his lips were twitching, as mrs. dalton was not slow to see. "never mind," she retorted airily. "i did n't want them, anyhow, and, after all, we've got the money, so why can't we take a little good in spending it!" some weeks later when mrs. dalton saw her new home, she did n't know whether to laugh or to cry. the three long flights of stairs and dim, narrow halls filled her with dismay, but the entrance with its shining letter-boxes and leaded-glass door-panels overwhelmed her with its magnificence. the big brick block in which she was to live looked like a palace to her eyes; but the six rooms in which she was to stow herself and family amazed and disheartened her with their diminutiveness. "why, caleb, i--i can't breathe--they 're so small!" she gasped. then she broke off suddenly, as she glanced through the window: "oh, my, my--who 'd ever have thought there were so many roofs and chimneys in the world!" getting settled was a wonderful experience. the daltons had never moved before, and it took many days to bring even a semblance of order out of the chaos into which the six small rooms were thrown by the unpacking of the boxes and barrels. the delay worried sarah more than did the work itself. "oh, dear, ethel," she moaned each afternoon, "we're so slow in getting settled, and i just know some one will call before we 're even half fixed!" at last the tiny "parlor" with its mirror-adorned mantel and showy gas fixtures--the pride of sarah's heart--was in order; and, after that, sarah made sure each day that three o'clock found her dressed in her best and sitting in solemn state in that same parlor waiting for the calls that were surely now long overdue. days passed, and her patience was unrewarded save for a sharp ring from a sewing-machine agent, and another from a book canvasser. sarah could not understand it. surely, her neighbors in the block must know of her arrival even if those in her immediate vicinity on the street did not. occasionally she met women in the halls, or going in and out of the big main door. at first she looked at them with a half-formed smile on her face, waiting for the confidently expected greeting; later, she eyed them with a distinctly grieved expression--the greeting had never been given; but at last, her hunger to talk with some one not of her own family led her to take the initiative herself. meeting a tall, slender woman, whom she had already seen three times, she spoke. "how--how d'ye do?" she began timidly. the tall woman started, threw a hurried glance around her, then came to the conclusion that the salutation was meant for herself. "good-morning," she returned, then hurried along through the hall. sarah stood looking after her with dazed eyes. "why, how funny!" she murmured. "she did n't even stop a minute. maybe she's sort of bashful, now. i should n't wonder a mite if she was." three days later the two ladies again met at the outer door. "oh, how d'ye do? nice day, ain't it?" began sarah, hurriedly. "you--you live here, don't you?" "why--yes," said the woman, smiling a little. "i do, too--on the top floor. you 're not so high up, are you?" the woman shook her head. "not quite," she said. "i--i 'm all settled, now," announced sarah, stumbling over the words a little. "is that so?" returned the woman politely, but without enthusiasm. sarah nodded. "yes, all ready for callers. i--i hope you'll come soon," she finished with sudden courage. "thank you; you are very kind," murmured the woman, as she smiled and turned away. the tall woman did not call, and sarah never asked her again. a few words from cousin john's wife at about this time opened sarah's eyes, and taught her not to expect to become acquainted with her neighbors. at first sarah was more than dismayed; but she quickly brought to bear the courage with which she fought all the strange things in this new life. "of course they can't call on every one, cousin mary," she said airily to john's wife; "and like enough they 're not the kind of folks i would care to know, anyhow." sarah was not the only member of the family who had found trials by the way. ethel and fred had entered school, and at first they came home each afternoon with woeful faces. new methods of study, recitation, discipline, and even of recreation puzzled and frightened them. they regularly begged each morning not to go back; but as regularly their mother's diplomatic bantering and systematic appeals to their pride conquered, and they started off at half-past eight, heads high, and chins bravely up-raised. to caleb, the city was a thing of noise, hurry, and more people than he had thought existed. early and late he worked in the store. to the "early" part he did not object--it even seemed late to his farm-bred ideas of early rising; but to the evenings--caleb never understood the rush and confusion that entered the big market and grocery with the lighting of the flaring gas jets. to him it was a time for quiet meditation and sleep--not for haggling over the price of sugar and beans. "i don't like it," he would say sometimes to his wife; "i don't like it, sarah. this doling out a peck of potatoes and two quarts of apples--why, sarah, just think of the bushels and barrels i 've grown myself! it's so small, sarah, so small!" "of course it is now," comforted sarah, "but only think what 't will be later on--only think." december, january, february, and march passed; and the first of april brought a letter from the lessee of the farm asking if he was to have the place through the summer. "of course he can have it," declared sarah. "just as if we wanted it again!" "yes, yes, of course," murmured caleb. "i--i'll write later on. he said if he heard by the middle of the month, 't would do." it was an early, and a wonderfully beautiful spring that year. warm, moist winds came up from the south and stirred the twigs and branches into life. the grass grew green on sunny slopes, and the tulips and crocuses turned the dull brown beds into riotous color and bloom. caleb went out of his way each day that he might pass a tiny little park, and he always stopped there a motionless two minutes--he would have told you that he was listening to the green things growing. sarah grew restless indoors. she even crawled out on to the fire escape and sat there one day; but she never tried that but once. downstairs, on each side of the big front door was a square-yard patch of puny, straggling grass; and it was these two bits of possibilities that put a happy thought into sarah's head. for three days she said nothing, but she fell into the way of going often in and out of that door, and always her eyes were hungrily fixed on one or the other of those squares. on the fourth day she bought a trowel and some flower seeds and set resolutely to work. she had dug the trowel into the earth four times, and was delightedly sniffing the odor from the moist earth when the janitor appeared. "did ye lose something, ma'am?" he asked suspiciously. "lose something?" laughed the woman. "of course not! i've found something, william. i 've found a flower bed. i 'm going to have the prettiest one ever was." "oh, come now," began the man, plainly disturbed, "that ain't going to do, you know. i'll have to--" "oh, i'll tend it," she interrupted eagerly. "you won't even have to touch it." the man shook his head. "'t won't do, ma 'am,--'t won't, really, now. i'm sorry, but the boss won't stand it." "won't stand it!--not even for flowers!" she gasped. "no, ma'am"--the janitor's tone was firm but regretful. a queer feeling of sympathy came over him for this gentle little woman on the top floor whom he had always liked. "there hain't none of the tenants no business with them yards; he said so." "oh!" said mrs. dalton, "i--i'll go then." and she picked up the trowel and rose to her feet. she passed the janitor without a word, her head held high, and her eyes looking straight before her; but once in the seclusion of the halls, her head drooped, and her eyes rained tears that rolled down her cheeks unceasingly all the way to the top floor. it was that night that caleb brought out the paper and pen to write the letter which would lease the farm for another six months. twice he dipped his pen in the ink, and paused with no word written. finally he spoke. "i--i'm going to give him some hints, sarah. he won't know how to run some of the things, i 'm sure. if he should plant the meadow lot to potatoes, now, it--" "and, caleb," cut in sarah, "be sure and send word to his wife about the roses; if she don't spray 'em real early, the bugs and worms will get an awful start. caleb, don't you remember how lovely that crimson rambler was last year?" caleb nodded; his eyes were fixed on the wallpaper. "i--i wonder if this warm weather has made the leaves start out on it," resumed sarah. "i hope not--you know we always have frosts up there." "hm-m," murmured caleb. there was a long silence; then sarah drew a deep breath. "caleb, do you s'pose it 'll get up to the front-chamber window this year--that rosebush, i mean?" "i don't know, sarah." caleb's eyes were still on the wall-paper. there was another long silence, broken this time by the children's entrance. "mother," began fred discontentedly, "don't they ever go fishing down here, or swimming, or anything?" sarah sprang to her feet with a nervous little laugh. "caleb, we--we might go up home just for--for a visit," she said. "hurrah!--let's!" crowed fred; and ethel clapped her hands. "i'll do it," cried caleb suddenly, bringing his fist down hard on his knee. "i'll write that we 'll go up next week for three days. there's lots of room, and they can tuck us away somewhere for just that little time. we can show 'em things better than we can tell 'em, and i can close the deal when i get there." it was a jubilant four that left the north station a few days later, and it was a still more jubilant four that arrived in the village at the foot of the green hills. the dalton's intended visit had been heralded far and near, and the progress from the train to the farmhouse was a succession of hand-shakes and cordial greetings. "oh, don't it look splendid and roomy!" cried sarah, as they reached the turn where they could see the farmhouse. "and don't the air smell good!" "hm-m," murmured caleb, and turned his face away with set lips. how crowded to overflowing those three days were! caleb valiantly tried to give his intended suggestions, but the most of his time was spent in joyous tramps from one end of the farm to the other, that no favorite field nor pet pasture should escape his adoring eyes. sarah, when not gloating over every tender shoot and starting bud in her flower garden, was being fêted and fed by the entire neighborhood. "oh, how good it is to just talk!" murmured sarah, as she went to sleep that first night. as for fred and ethel, they were scarcely seen at the farmhouse. just at dusk on the third day caleb found his wife in the old summer-house. wrapped in shawls, she was fastening vines to the trellis. "well, sarah, i--i s'pose i'd better settle up with west, now. i hain't yet, you know." sarah nodded, without speaking. "i hain't seemed to amount to much about telling him things," continued caleb. "somehow, i did n't get time. he's careless, too; i'm afraid he ain't going to do well." "she is, too," moaned sarah. "she don't know a thing about roses. caleb, do you think that rosebush will get up to that window?" "i don't know," returned caleb absently. then, with a choke in his voice, he said: "things look first-rate, now, but--i've got my doubts of west. i--i wish i could handle them myself." sarah threw a quick glance at his averted face. "well--why--don't you?" she almost whispered. "sarah!" exclaimed caleb. "oh, here you are," cried fred from the doorway. "say, is it to-morrow we go?--just to-morrow? why, we have n't done half that we wanted to!" behind him stood ethel, her eyes wistful, her mouth drooping at the corners. sarah drew a quick breath. "ask--ask your father," she faltered. "sarah, would you?--would you come back? do you mean it?" cried caleb, with a swift joy in his eyes. sarah burst into tears, and threw herself into her husband's arms. "oh, caleb, i--just would! i--i 've wanted to ever so long, but--i just would n't own up." "there, there," soothed the man, with loving pats, his face alight, "we'll come back, so we will; we'll come back right away." ethel and fred ran shouting from the summer-house, and sarah raised a tear-stained face. "well, anyhow," she laughed softly, "now we can see just how high that rosebush does get!" the letter monday noon the postman gave the letter to twelve-year-old emily, and emily in turn handed it to her young brother. between the gate and the door, however, teddy encountered rover, and rover wanted to play. it ended in the letter disappearing around the corner of the house, being fast held in the jaws of a small black-and-tan dog. five minutes later the assembled family in the dining-room heard of the loss and demanded an explanation. "'t wasn't t-ten minutes ago, mother," stammered emily defensively. "the postman handed it to me and i gave it to teddy to bring in." "but whose letter was it?" demanded several voices. emily shook her head. "i don't know," she faltered. "don't know! why, daughter, how could you be so careless?" cried mrs. clayton. "it is probably that note from the bixbys--they were to write if they could not come. but i should like to know what they said." "but it might have been to me," cut in ethel. (ethel was pretty, eighteen, and admired.) there was a sudden exclamation across the table as james, the first-born, pushed back his chair. "confound it, emily, you've got us in a pretty mess! it so happened i was looking for a letter myself," he snapped, as he jerked himself to his feet. "see here, teddy, where did that rascally little dog go to? come, let's go find rover," he finished, stooping and lifting the small boy to his shoulder. the next moment the dining-room door had banged behind them. "dear, dear!" laughed mrs. clayton, a little hysterically, turning to her husband. "you don't happen to be expecting a letter, do you, charles?" "i do happen to be--and a very important one, too," returned the man; and mrs. clayton, after a nervous glance at his frowning face, subsided into her chair with a murmured word of regret. when luncheon was over she slipped from the room and joined in the hunt for rover. they scoured the yard, the street, the house, and the woodshed, finding the culprit at last in the barn asleep under the big automobile. of the letter, however, there was not a trace. "dear, dear, if dogs only could talk!" moaned mrs. clayton that night as, restless and full of fancies, she lay on her bed. "if only i knew where and what that letter was. but then, of course, it's from the bixbys; i'm going to think so, anyway," she comforted herself, and resolutely closed her eyes. "if that _should_ be dennison's letter," mused mr. clayton as he locked up the house; "if that should be--confound it, and i know it is! i 'd swear it! it serves me right, too, i suppose, for telling him to write me at the house instead of at the office. confound that little beast of a dog!" in the south chamber ethel, sending long, even strokes over the brown satin of her hair, eyed her image in the glass with a plaintive pout. "now, if that letter _should_ be an invitation from fred!" she said aloud. "and when i 'd so much rather go on that ride with him! oh, dear! where can rover have put it?" across the hall james clayton paced the room from end to end. "great scott! what if it _were_ may's letter, after all?" he groaned. "what a fool i was to leave it that if i did n't hear by thursday night i'd understand 'twas 'no'! and now she may have written and be expecting me to-morrow, wednesday,--_to-night_, even, and i not know it--tied hand and foot! oh, hang that dog!" tuesday morning the family awoke and met at the breakfast table. the air was electric with unrest, and the food almost untouched. it was mrs. clayton who broke the long silence that followed the morning's greetings. "i--i don't think i 'll do much to get ready for the bixbys," she began; "i 'm so sure that letter was from them." "you mean that, julia?" demanded her husband, brightening. "are you really positive?" "yes, really positive. they said all the time that they did n't think they could come, and that without doubt i should get a letter saying so." "then of course 'twas it," asserted ethel, her face suddenly clearing. "of course," echoed her brother with a promptitude that hinted at more than a willingness to be convinced that the letter was the bixbys' and none other. it was about ten minutes past five that afternoon when the four bixbys came. "there, we did get here!" they chorused gleefully. "yes, yes, i see, i see," murmured mrs. clayton, and signaled to ethel to hurry into the kitchen and give the alarm to the cook. "then you--you did n't write?" "write? why, no, of course not! we were n't to, you know, if we could come." "yes--er--i mean no," stammered mrs. clayton, trying to calculate just how long it would take the maid to put three rooms in order. at half-past six the family, with their guests, sat down to a dinner that showed unmistakable signs of having been started as a simple one for six, and finished as a would-be elaborate one for ten. to the faces of mr. clayton, ethel, and james the cloud of the morning had returned. mrs. clayton, confident that the missing letter contained nothing worse for her than its absence had already brought her, looked comparatively serene. after dinner, as by common consent, mr. clayton and his elder son and daughter met in a secluded comer of the library. "hang it all, dad, _now_ whose letter do you suppose that was?" began james aggressively. "it's mine," groaned the father, with a shake of his head. "i know it's mine." "but it might n't be," demurred ethel, with a hesitation that showed a fear lest her suggestion meet with prompt acceptance. "i tell you i know it's mine," retorted mr. clayton, and ethel sighed her relief. "i did hope 't was your mother's," he continued; "but i might have known better. it's mine, and--and it means dollars to me--hundreds of them." "why, father!" the two voices were one in shocked surprise. "well, it does. dennison was going to drop me a line here if certain things happened. and if they have happened, and i don't sell my p. & z. before to-morrow noon, it 'll mean--well, there 'll be something to pay. on the other hand, if those certain things have n't happened, and i do sell--it 'll be worse." "well, well," laughed james in a surprisingly buoyant tone, considering the gloom on his father's face. "i guess the letter was yours all right. i should take it so, anyhow, and go ahead and sell." "yes, so should i," tossed ethel over her shoulder as she tripped happily away. "after all," mused james, slowly crossing the hall, "it could n't have been my letter. may would n't have written so soon; she 'd have waited until nearer thursday. she would n't let me have the 'yes' quite so quickly. not she!--the little tease of a sweetheart!" on wednesday morning, at half-past eight, the maid brought in the mail and laid it at her master's plate. there were a paper and two letters. "hm-m," began mr. clayton, "one for you, julia, my dear, and--by jove, it's dennison's letter!" he finished joyfully, thrusting an eager thumb under the flap of the other envelope. twenty minutes later, with head erect and shoulders squared, the senior member of the firm of clayton & company left his home and hurried down the street. behind him, on the veranda steps, were a young man and a young girl looking into each other's faces in blank dismay. "you--you said _you_ were expecting a letter, did n't you?" began ethel hopefully. "well, so were you, were n't you?" the tone showed quick irritation. "why, yes, but--" "well, don't you think it is yours?" "why, i--i don't know. it might be, of course; but--" "you _said_ you thought it was yours, the very first thing." "yes, i know; but--well, perhaps it is." "of course it is," asserted james, as he ran down the steps. and ethel, looking after him, frowned in vague wonder. thursday morning's mail brought four letters, and ethel blushed prettily as she tucked them all in her belt. "but they aren't all yours," protested her brother james. "but they are!" she laughed. "all?" "all." "but _i_ was expecting a letter." "oh-ho!--so you were, were you?" teased the girl merrily. ethel could afford to be merry; she had recognized a certain bold handwriting on one of the envelopes. "i really don't see, then, but you 'll have to go to rover. perhaps he can tell you where it is." "confound that dog!" growled james, turning on his heel. "i'm going to accept fred's invitation," soliloquized ethel happily, as she hurried into her own room. "i shall read his first, so, of course, that will be the first one that i get!" the noon delivery brought no letters for any one. james clayton fidgeted about the house all the afternoon instead of going down to the golf club to see the open handicap--the annual club event. he felt that, in the present state of affairs, he could take no chances of seeing a certain young woman who was just then very much in his thoughts. if she _had_ written, and he should meet her as though she had not!--his blood chilled at the thought; and if she had not written, and he should meet her as though she had!--to james clayton, at the moment, the thought of her precious letter lost forever to his longing eyes was only a shade worse than that there should have been no letter at all. five o'clock came, bringing the last mail--and still no letter. in the clayton residence that night dinner was served at a table which showed a vacant place; james clayton was reported to be indisposed. yet, two hours later, after a sharp peal of the doorbell and a hasty knocking at his chamber door by the maid, james clayton left the house; and one who met him on the steps said that his face was certainly not that of a sick man. it was after breakfast the next morning, before the family had dispersed, that ethel rushed headlong into the dining-room. "oh, james, james!" she cried breathlessly. "it _was_ your letter that rover had, and here 't is!" "but it was n't," retorted the young man airily. "i got mine last night--special delivery." "but it is yours. teddy found it in a hole under the barn. see!" crowed ethel; and she thrust into his hand a tattered, chewed, bedraggled envelope whose seal was yet unbroken. "well, by george--'t is for me," muttered the young man, as he descried his own name among the marks left by dirt-stained paws and sharp little teeth. "humph!" he ejaculated a moment later, eyeing the torn and crumpled sheet of paper which the envelope had contained. "well?" prompted several voices. "it's an advertising letter from the clover farm kennels," he announced, with a slight twitching of his lips. "do you think we--er--need another--dog?" the indivisible five at the ages of fifty-four and fifty, respectively, mr. and mrs. wentworth found themselves possessed of a roomy, old-fashioned farmhouse near a thriving city, together with large holdings of lands, mortgages, and bank stock. at the same time they awoke to an unpleasant realization that many of their fellow creatures were not so fortunate. "james," began mrs. wentworth, with some hesitation, one june day, "i've been thinking--with all our rambling rooms and great big yards, and we with never a chick nor a child to enjoy them--i 've been thinking--that is, i went by the orphan asylum in town yesterday and saw the poor little mites playing in that miserable brick oven they call a yard, and--well, don't you think we ought to have one--or maybe two--of them down here for a week or two, just to show them what summer really is?" the man's face beamed. "my dear, it's the very thing! we'll take two--they'll be company for each other; only"--he looked doubtfully at the stout little woman opposite--"the worst of it will come on you, mary. of course hannah can manage the work part, i suppose, but the noise--well, we 'll ask for quiet ones," he finished, with an air that indicated an entirely satisfactory solution of the problem. life at "meadowbrook" was a thing of peaceful mornings and long, drowsy afternoons; a thing of spotless order and methodical routine. in a long, childless marriage mr. and mrs. wentworth's days had come to be ordered with a precision that admitted of no frivolous deviations: and noise and confusion in the household machinery were the unforgivable offenses. it was into this placid existence that mr. and mrs. wentworth proposed to introduce two children from the orphan asylum. before the week was out a note was sent to the matron of the institution, and the prospective host and hostess were making their plans with unwonted excitement. "we 'll rise at six and breakfast at seven," began mrs. wentworth. "and they must be in bed by eight o'clock," supplemented her husband. "i did n't say whether to send boys or girls, and i forgot to say anything about their being quiet; but if they 're boys, you can teach them gardening, james, and if they 're girls, they can sew with me a good deal." "hm-m--yes; i really don't know what we shall do to entertain them. perhaps they might like to read," suggested mr. wentworth, looking with some doubt at his big bookcases filled with heavy, calf-bound volumes. "of course; and they can walk in the garden and sit on the piazza," murmured mrs. wentworth happily. in the orphan asylum that same evening there was even greater excitement. mrs. wentworth's handwriting was not of the clearest, and her request for "two" children had been read as "ten"; and since the asylum--which was only a small branch of a much larger institution--had recently been depleted until it contained but five children, the matron was sorely perplexed to know just how to fill so generous an order. it ended in her writing an apologetic note to mrs. wentworth and dispatching it the next morning by the hand of the eldest girl, tilly, who was placed at the head of four other jubilant children, brushed, scrubbed, and admonished into a state of immaculate primness. at half-past nine o'clock the driver of the big carry-all set five squirming children on to their feet before the front door at "meadowbrook," and rang the bell. "here you are," he called gayly, as hannah opened the door. "i've washed my hands of 'em--now they're yours!" and he drove briskly out of the yard. hannah neither moved nor spoke. she simply stared. "here's a note," began tilly, advancing shyly, "for mis' wentworth." mechanically hannah took the note and, scarcely realizing what she was doing, threw open the door of the parlor--that parlor which was sacred to funerals, weddings, and the minister's calls. the children filed in slowly and deposited themselves with some skill upon the slippery haircloth chairs and sofa. hannah, still dazed, went upstairs to her mistress. "from the asylum, ma'am," she said faintly, holding out the note. mrs. wentworth's eyes shone. "oh, the children! where are they, hannah?" "in the parlor, ma'am." "the parlor? why, hannah, the parlor is no place for those two children!" mrs. wentworth started toward the door. hannah coughed and uptilted her chin. "they ain't two, ma'am. there's as much as half a dozen of 'em." "what!" "there is, ma'am." "why, hannah, what--" the lady tore open the note with shaking fingers, and read: _my dear madam_: you very generously asked for ten children, but i hope you will pardon me for sending only five. that is all we have with us now, owing to several recent adoptions from our ranks--you know we are never very large, being only a branch of the hollingsworth asylum. the children were so crazy, though, at the idea of a trip to the country, that i am sure each child will have fun enough--and make noise enough, also, i fear--for two, so in the end you may think you've got your ten children, after all. you must be fond of children to be willing to give so many a two-weeks' vacation, but you don't know what a lot of good you are doing. if you could have seen the children when i read them your note, you would have been well repaid for all your trouble. i wish there were more like you in the world. yours respectfully, amanda higgins. "hannah," faltered mrs. wentworth, dropping into her chair, "they did n't read my note right. they--they've actually sent us the whole asylum!" "well, it looks like it--downstairs," returned hannah grimly. "sure enough, they _are_ downstairs, and i must go to them," murmured mrs. wentworth, rising irresolutely to her feet. "i--i 'll go down. i'll have to send all but two home, of course," she finished, as she left the room. downstairs she confronted five pairs of eyes shining out at her from the gloom. "good-morning, children," she began, trying to steady her voice. "there is--er--i--well--" she stopped helplessly, and a small girl slid to the floor from her perch on the sofa and looked longingly toward the hall. "please, ma'am, there's a kitty out there; may i get it?" she asked timidly. "please, have you got a dog, too?" piped up a boy's voice. "an' chickens an' little pigs? they said you had!" interposed a brown-eyed girl from the corner. "an' there's hammocks an' swings, maybe," broke in tilly; "an' please, ma'am, may n't we go outdoors and begin right away? two weeks is an awful short time, you know, for all we want to do," she finished earnestly. four pairs of feet came down to the floor with a thump and eight small boots danced a tattoo of impatience on the parlor carpet--the small girl was already out in the hall and on her knees to the cat. "why, yes,--that is--you see, there was a mistake; i--" mrs. wentworth stopped suddenly, for as soon as the "yes" had left her lips the children had fled like sheep. she stepped to the front door and looked out. a boy was turning somersaults on the grass. three girls had started a game of tag. watching all this with eager eyes was a boy of eight, one foot tightly bound into an iron brace. it was on this child that mrs. wentworth's eyes lingered the longest. "poor little fellow! well, he shall be one of the two," she murmured, as she hurried out to hannah. "when they going, ma'am?" began hannah, with an assurance born of long service. "i--i haven't told them; i--well, i waited for mr. wentworth," confessed her mistress hastily. then, with some dignity: "they can just as well have to-day outdoors, anyway." it was nearly noon when mr. wentworth drove into the yard, gave his horse into the care of bill, the man-of-all-work, and hurried into the house. "mary, mary--where are you?" he called sharply. never before had james wentworth broken the serene calm of his home with a voice like that. "yes, dear, i 'm here--in the dining-room." mrs. wentworth's cheeks were flushed, her hair was disordered, and her neck-bow was untied; but she was smiling happily as she hovered over a large table laden with good things and set for six. "you can sit down with them, james," she exclaimed; "i'm going to help hannah serve them." "mary, what in the world does this mean? the yard is overrun with screaming children! have they sent us the whole asylum?" he demanded. mrs. wentworth laughed hysterically. "that's exactly what they have done, dear. they took my 'two' for a 'ten,' and--and they did the best they could to supply my wants!" "well, but--why don't you send them home? we can't--" "yes, yes; i know, dear," interrupted the woman hastily, the happy look gone from her eyes. "after dinner i am--that is, you may send all but two home. i thought i 'd let them play awhile." "humph!" ejaculated the man; "send them home?--i should think so!" he muttered, as his wife went to call the children to dinner. what a wonderful meal that was, and how the good things did vanish down those five hungry throats! the man at the head of the table looked on in dumb amazement, and he was still speechless when, after dinner, five children set upon him and dragged him out to see the bird's nest behind the barn. "an' we found the pigs an' the chickens, mister, jest as they said we would," piped up tommy eagerly, as they hurried along. "an' a teeny little baby cow, too," panted the smaller girl, "an' i fed him." "well, i guess you could n't 'a' fed him if i had n't held him with the rope," crowed bobby. "or if i had n't scared him with my stick!" cut in tilly. "i guess you ain't the only pebble on the beach, bobby mack!" "good heavens!" groaned mr. wentworth, under his breath. "and have i got to keep two of these little hoodlums for a whole fortnight? er--children," he said aloud, after the bird's nest had been duly admired; "er--suppose we go and--er--read." into the house trooped the five chattering boys and girls in the wake of an anxious, perplexed man. some minutes later the children sat in a stiff row along the wall, while the man, facing them, read aloud from a ponderous calf-bound volume on "the fundamental causes of the great rebellion." for some time mr. wentworth read without pausing to look up, his sonorous voice filling the room, and his mind wholly given to the subject in hand; then he raised his eyes--and almost dropped the book in his hand: tommy, the cripple, sat alone. "why, where--what--" stammered mr. wentworth. "they've gone out ter the barn, mister," explained tommy cheerfully, pointing to the empty chairs. "oh!" murmured mr. wentworth faintly, as he placed the book on the shelf. "i--er--i think we won't read any more." "come on, then; let's go to the barn," cried tommy. and to the barn they went. there were no "fundamental causes of the great rebellion" in the barn, but there were fundamental causes of lots of other things, and mr. wentworth found that now his words were listened to with more eagerness; and before he knew it, he was almost as excited as were the children themselves. they were really a very intelligent lot of youngsters, he told himself, and the prospect of having two of them for guests did not look so formidable after all. from the barn they went to the garden, from the garden to the pond, from the pond back to the yard; then they all sat down under the apple trees while mr. wentworth built them a miniature boat; in days long gone by james wentworth had loved the sea, and boat-making had been one of his boyhood joys. at four o'clock mrs. wentworth called from the house: "james, will you come here a minute, please?" a slow red stole over the man's face as he rose to his feet. the red was a deep crimson by the time he faced his wife. "how are you going to send them home, dear?" she asked. he shook his head. "but it's four o'clock, and we ought to be thinking of it. which two are you going to keep?" "i--i don't know," he acknowledged. for some unapparent reason mrs. wentworth's spirits rose, but she assumed an air of severity. "why, james!--have n't you told them?" she demanded. "mary, i couldn't; i've been trying to all the afternoon. er--you tell them--do!" he urged desperately. "i can't--playing with them as i have!" "suppose we keep them all, then?" she hazarded. "mary!" "oh, i can manage it! i 've been talking with hannah--i saw how things were going with you "--his features relaxed into a shame-faced smile--"and hannah says her sister can come to help, and we 've got beds enough with the cots in the attic." he drew a deep breath. "then we won't have to tell them!" he exclaimed. "no, we won't have to tell them," she laughed, as she turned back into the house. what a fortnight that was at "meadowbrook!" the mornings--no longer peaceful--were full of rollicking games; and the long, drowsy afternoons became very much awake with gleeful shouts. the spotless order fled before the bats and balls and books and dolls that mr. wentworth brought home from the store; and the methodical routine of the household was shattered to atoms by daily picnics and frequent luncheons of bread and butter. no longer were the days ordered with a precision that admitted of no frivolous deviations, for who could tell in the morning how many bumped heads, cut fingers, bruised noses and wounded hearts would need sympathetic attention before night? and so it went on until the evening before the two weeks were completed; then, after the children were abed and asleep, the man and his wife talked it over. "well, this ends to-morrow, i suppose. you must be tired, mary; it's been a hard time for you, dear," he began. "not a bit of it, james," she demurred. "hannah and betsey have done all the work, and you 've been with the children so much i 've not felt their care at all." the man stirred uneasily. "well, i--i wanted to relieve you as much as possible," he exclaimed, wondering if she knew how many boats he had built for the boys, and how many jackknives he had broken in the process. "do you know?--i think i shall be actually lonely when they are gone," declared mrs. wentworth, without looking up. the man threw a sharp glance at his wife. "so shall i," he said. "james, i've been wondering, could n't we--adopt one of them?" she suggested, trying to make it appear as if the thought had but just entered her head. again the man gave his wife a swift glance. "why--we--might--i suppose," he returned, hoping that his hesitation would indicate that the idea was quite new to him--instead of having been almost constantly in his thoughts for a week. "we might take two--company for each other, you know!" she looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "hm-m," he agreed pleasantly. "the only trouble is the selecting, james." "yes, that is a drawback," murmured the man, with a vivid recollection of a certain afternoon under the apple trees. "well, i'll tell you"--mrs. wentworth leaned forward in sudden animation--"to-morrow you pick out the one you want and ask him--or her--to go into the parlor for a few minutes at nine o'clock in the morning, and i will do the same." "well, maybe," he began a little doubtfully, "but--" "and if there are two, and you are n't real sure which you want, just ask both of them to go, and we 'll settle it together, later," she finished. to this, with some measure of content, her husband agreed. the next morning at ten minutes before nine mrs. wentworth began her search. with no hesitation she accosted the little cripple. "tommy, dear, i want you to go into the parlor for a few minutes. take your book in there and read, and i 'll come very soon and tell you what i want." tommy obeyed at once and mrs. wentworth sighed in relief. at that moment tilly came into the garden. what a dear little woman those two weeks of happiness had caused tilly to become! how much she loved tommy, and what care she took of him! really, it was a shame to separate them--they ought to be brought up together--perhaps mr. wentworth would n't find any child that he wanted; anyway, she believed she should send tilly in, at a venture. a moment later tilly was following in tommy's footsteps. on the piazza steps sat bobby--homely, unattractive bobby, crying. "why, my dear!" remonstrated mrs. wentworth. "tommy's gone! i can't find him," sobbed the boy. mrs. wentworth's back straightened. of course bobby cried--no one was so good to him as tommy was--no one seemed to care for him but tommy. poor, homely bobby! he had a hard row to hoe. he-- but she could n't take bobby! of course not--she had tommy and tilly already. still-- mrs. wentworth stooped and whispered a magic word in bobby's ear, and the boy sprang to his feet and trotted through the hall to the parlor door. "i don't care," muttered mrs. wentworth recklessly. "i could n't bear to leave him alone out here. i can settle it later." twice she had evaded her husband during the last fifteen minutes; now, at nine o'clock, the appointed time, they both reached the parlor door. neither one could meet the other's eyes, and with averted faces they entered the room together; then both gave a cry of amazement. in the corner, stiff, uncomfortable, and with faces that expressed puzzled anxiety, sat five silent children. mrs. wentworth was the first to recover presence of mind. "there, there, dears, it's all right," she began a little hysterically. "you can call it a little game we were playing. you may all run outdoors now." as the last white apron fluttered through the door she dropped limply into a chair. "james, what in the world are we going to do?" she demanded. "give it up!" said the man, his hands in his pockets--james wentworth's vocabulary had grown twenty years younger in the last two weeks. "but really, it's serious!" "it certainly is." "but what _shall_ we do?" the man took his hands from his pockets and waved them in a manner that would indicate entire irresponsibility. "we might end it as we did two weeks ago and keep the whole lot of them," she proposed merrily. "well--why don't you?" he asked calmly. "james!" his face grew red with a shame-faced laugh. "well--there are families with five children in them, and i guess we could manage it," he asserted in self-defense. she sat up and looked at him with amazement. "surely we have money enough--and i don't know how we could spend it better," he continued rapidly; "and with plenty of help for you--there 's nothing to hinder turning ourselves into an orphan asylum if we want to," he added triumphantly. "oh, james, could we--do you think?" she cried, her eyes shining with a growing joy. "tommy, and tilly, and all? oh, we will--we will! and--and--we'll never have to choose any more, will we, james?" she finished fervently. the elephant's board and keep on twelve hundred dollars a year the wheelers had contrived to live thus far with some comforts and a few luxuries--they had been married two years. genial, fun-loving, and hospitable, they had even entertained occasionally; but brainerd was a modest town, and its four hundred was not given to lavish display. in the bank herbert wheeler spent long hours handling money that was not his, only to hurry home and spend other long hours over a tiny lawn and a tinier garden, where every blade of grass and every lettuce-head were marvels of grace and beauty, simply because they were his. it was june now, and the lawn and the garden were very important; but it was on a june morning that the large blue envelope came. herbert went home that night and burst into the kitchen like a whirlwind. "jessica, we 've got one at last," he cried. "one what?" "an automobile." jessica sat down helplessly. in each hand she held an egg--she had been selecting two big ones for an omelet. "herbert, are you crazy? what are you talking about?" she demanded. "about our automobile, to be sure," he retorted. "'t was cousin john's. i heard to-day--he's left it to us." "to _us_! but we hardly knew him, and he was only a third or fourth cousin, anyway, was n't he? why, we never even thought of going to the funeral!" "i know; but he was a queer old codger, and he took a great fancy to you when he saw you. don't you remember? anyhow, the deed is done." "and it's ours?--a whole automobile?" "that's what they say--and it's a three-thousand-dollar car." "oh, herbert!" when jessica was pleased she clapped her hands; she clapped them now--or rather she clapped the eggs--and in the resulting disaster even the automobile was for a moment forgetten [transcriber's note: forgotten?]. but for only a moment. "and to think how we 've wanted an automobile!" she cried, when the impromptu omelet in her lap had been banished into oblivion. "the rides we 'll have--and _we_ won't be pigs! _we 'll_ take our friends!" "indeed we will," agreed herbert. "and our trips and vacations, and even down town--why, we won't need any carfare. we 'll save money, herbert, lots of money!" "er.--well, an auto costs something to run, you know," ventured herbert. "gasoline, 'course!--but what's a little gasoline? i fancy we can afford that when we get the whole car for nothing!" "well, i should say!" chuckled the man. "where is it now?" "in the garage on the estate," returned herbert, consulting his letter. "i'm requested to take it away." "requested! only fancy! as if we were n't dying to take it away!" "yes, but--how?" the man's face had grown suddenly perplexed. "why, go and get it, of course." "but one can't walk in and pocket a motor-car as one would a package of greenbacks." "of course not! but you can get it and run it home. it's only fifty miles, anyhow." "i don't know how to run an automobile. besides, there's licenses and things that have to be 'tended to first, i think." "well, _somebody_ can run it, can't there?" "well, yes, i suppose so. but--where are we going to keep it?" "herbert wheeler, one would think you were displeased that we 've been given this automobile. as if it mattered _where_ we kept it, so long as we had it to keep!" "yes, but--really, jessica, we can't keep it here--in the kitchen," he cried. "it's smashed two eggs already, just the mention of it," he finished whimsically. "but there _are_ places--garages and things, herbert; you know there are." "yes, but they--cost something." "i know it; but if the car is ours for nothing, seems as if we might be able to afford its board and keep!" "well, by george! it does, jessica; that's a fact," cried the man, starting to his feet. "there 's dearborn's down to the square. i 'll go and see them about it. they 'll know, too, how to get it here. i 'll go down right after supper. and, by the way, how about that omelet? did our new automobile leave any eggs to make one?" "well, a few," laughed jessica. there was no elation in herbert wheeler's step when, two hours later, the young bank teller came home from dearborn's. "well, i guess we--we're up against it, jessica," he groaned. "what's the matter? won't they take it? never mind; there are others." "oh, yes, they 'll take it and take care of it for fifteen or twenty dollars a month, according to the amount of work i have them do on it." "why, i never heard of such a thing! does it cost that--all that? but then, the _car_ does n't cost anything," she added soothingly, after a pause. "oh, no, the car doesn't cost anything--only eight or ten dollars to bring it down by train, or else two dollars an hour for a chauffeur to run it down for us," retorted her husband. "eight or ten dollars! two dollars an hour to run it!" gasped jessica. "why, herbert, what shall we do? there is only ten dollars now of the household money to last the rest of the month; and there 's this week's grocery bill and a dollar and a half for the laundry to pay!" "that's exactly it--what shall we do?" snapped herbert. this thing was getting on his nerves. "but we must do," laughed jessica hysterically. "the idea of giving up a three-thousand-dollar automobile because one owes a grocery bill and a dollar and a half for laundry!" "well, we can't eat the automobile, and 't won't wash our clothes for us." "naturally not! who wants it to?" jessica's nerves, also, were feeling the strain. "we might--sell it." "sell it! sell our automobile!" flamed jessica; and to hear her, one would think the proposition was to sell an old family heirloom, beloved for years. her husband sighed. "isn't there something somewhere about selling the pot to get something to put into it?" he muttered dismally, as he rose to lock up the house for the night. "well, i fancy that's what we 'll have to do--sell the automobile to get money enough to move it!" two days later the automobile came. perhaps the grocer waited. perhaps the laundry bill went unpaid. perhaps an obliging friend advanced a loan. whatever it was, spic and span in dearborn's garage stood the three-thousand-dollar automobile, the admired of every eye. june had gone, and july was weeks old, however, before the preliminaries of license and lessons were over, and mr. and mrs. herbert wheeler could enter into the full knowledge of what it meant to be the joyous possessors of an automobile which one could run one's self. "and now we'll take our friends," cried jessica. "who'll go first?" "let's begin with the a's--the arnolds. they 're always doing things for us." "good! i'll telephone mrs. arnold to-night. to-morrow is saturday, half-holiday. we'll take them down to the lake and come home by moonlight. oh, herbert, won't it be lovely?" "you bet it will," exulted herbert, as he thought of the arnolds' admiring eyes when their car should sweep up to their door. at three o'clock saturday afternoon the wheelers with their two guests started for the lake. it was a beautiful day. the road was good and every one was in excellent spirits--that is, every one but the host. it had come to him suddenly with overwhelming force that he was responsible not only for the happiness but for the lives of his wife and their friends. what if something should go wrong? but nothing did go wrong. he stopped twice, it is true, and examined carefully his car; but the only result of his search was a plentiful bedaubing of oil and gasoline on his hands and of roadway dust on his clothing. he was used to this and did not mind it, however--until he went in to dinner at the lakeside house beside the fresh daintiness of his wife and their friends; then he did mind it. the ride home was delightful, so the arnolds said. the arnolds talked of it, indeed, to each other, until they fell asleep--but even then they did not talk of it quite so long as their host worked cleaning up the car after the trip. wheeler kept the automobile now in a neighbor's barn and took care of it himself; it was much cheaper than keeping it in dearborn's garage. there were several other friends in the a's and b's and two in the c's who were taken out in the wheeler automobile before herbert one day groaned: "jessica, this alphabet business is killing me. it does seem as if z never would be reached!" "why, herbert!--and they 're all our friends, and you know how much they think of it." "i think of it, too, when the dinner checks and the supper checks come in. jessica, we just simply can't stand it!" jessica frowned and sighed. "i know, dear; but when the _car_ did n't cost anything--" "well, lobster salads and chicken patties cost something," mentioned the man grimly. "i know it; but it seems so--so selfish to go all by ourselves with those empty seats behind us. and there are so many i have promised to take. herbert, what can we do?" "i don't know; but i know what we can't do. we can't feed them to the tune of a dollar or two a plate any longer." there was a long pause; then jessica clapped her hands. "herbert, i have it! we'll have basket picnics. i 'll take a lunch from the house every time. and, after all, that'll be lots nicer; don't you think so?" "well, that might do," acquiesced the man slowly. "anyhow, there would n't be any dinner checks a-coming." august passed and september came. the wheelers were in "m" now; they had been for days, indeed. even home-prepared luncheons were beyond the wheelers' pocketbook now, and no friend had been invited to ride for a week past. the spoiling of two tires and a rather serious accident to the machine had necessitated the wheelers spending every spare cent for repairs. in the eyes of most of the town the wheelers were objects of envy. _they_ had an automobile. _they_ could ride while others must plod along behind them on foot, blinded by their dust and sickened by their noisome odor of gasoline. as long as the wheelers were "decently hospitable" about sharing their car, the townspeople added to their envy an interested tolerance based on a lively speculation as to when one's own turn for a ride would come; but when a whole week went by, and not one of the many anxious would-be guests had been invited, the interest and the tolerance fled, leaving only an angry disdain as destructive to happiness as was the gasoline smell of the car itself. there were some things, however, that the townspeople did not know. they did not know that, though the wheelers had a motor-car, they had almost nothing else; no new clothes, except dust coats and goggles; no new books and magazines, except such as dealt with "the practical upkeep and operation of a car"; no leisure, for the car must be kept repaired and shining; no fresh vegetables to eat, for the garden had died long ago from want of care, and they could buy only gasoline. but they did have an automobile. this much the town knew; and there came a day when this fact loomed large and ominous on the horizon of the wheelers' destiny. on the first day of october the bank in which young wheeler worked closed its doors. there had been a defalcation. a large sum of money was missing, and the long finger of suspicion pointed to herbert wheeler. did he not sport an automobile? was he not living far beyond his means? had not the wheelers for weeks past flaunted their ill-gotten wealth in the very eyes of the whole town? to be sure they had. the idea, indeed, of a twelve-hundred-dollar-a-year clerk trying to cut a dash like that! as if every one could not guess just where had gone that missing sum of money. and so the town talked and wagged its head, and back in the tiny house in the midst of its unkept lawn and garden sat the angry, frightened, and appalled herbert wheeler, and jessica, his wife. in vain did the wheelers point out that the automobile was a gift. in vain did they bare to doubting eyes the whole pitiful poverty of their daily life. the town refused to see or to understand; in the town's eyes was the vision of the wheeler automobile flying through the streets with selfishly empty seats; in the town's nose was the hateful smell of gasoline. nothing else signified. to the bank examiners, however, something else did signify. but it took their sworn statement, together with the suicide of cashier jewett (the proved defaulter), to convince the town; and even then the town shook its head and said: "well, it might have been that automobile, anyhow!" the wheelers sold their elephant--their motor-car. "yes, i think we 'd better sell it," agreed jessica tearfully, when her husband made the proposition. "of course the car did n't cost us anything, but we--" "cost us anything!" cut in herbert wheeler wrathfully. "cost us anything! why, it's done nothing but cost from the day it smashed those two eggs in the kitchen to the day it almost smashed my reputation at the bank. why, jessica, it's cost us everything--food, clothing, fun, friends, and almost life itself! i think we 'll sell that automobile." and they sold it. a patron of art mrs. livingstone adored art--art with a capital a, not the kind whose sign-manual is a milking-stool or a beribboned picture frame. the family had lived for some time in a shabby-genteel house on beacon hill, ever since, indeed, mrs. livingstone had insisted on her husband's leaving the town of his birth and moving to boston--the center of art (according to mrs. livingstone). here she attended the symphony concerts (on twenty-five cent tickets), and prattled knowingly of mozart and beethoven; and here she listened to patti or bernhardt from the third balcony of the boston theater. if she attended an exhibit of modern paintings she saw no beauty in pictured face or flower, but longed audibly for the masterpieces of rubens and of titian; and she ignored the ordinary books and periodicals of the day, even to the newspapers, and adorned her center-table with copies of shakespeare and of milton. to be sure, she occasionally read a novel or a book of poems a trifle less ancient in character, but never unless the world had rung with the author's praises for at least a score of years. the stamp of time's approval was absolutely necessary to the aspirant after mrs. livingstone's approbation. indeed, there was only one of the present-day celebrities who interested the good lady at all, but that one attracted with a power that compensated for any lack in the others. she would have given much--had it been hers to give--to once meet that man. of course he was famous--he had been for thirty years. she called him the "inimitable one," and set him up in her heart and groveled joyfully at his feet. she bought each of his books when published, whether she had shoes to her feet or clothes to her back. he was the prophet--the high priest--the embodiment of art. she occasionally even allowed his books to rest on the table along with milton and shakespeare. mrs. livingstone's husband was only an ordinary being who knew nothing whatever of art; and it was a relief to her--and perhaps to him, poor man--when he departed this life, and left her to an artistic widowhood with anything but an artistic income--if size counts in art. but one must eat, and one must wear clothes (in chilly, civilized boston, at least), and mrs. livingstone suddenly realized that something must be done toward supplying these necessities of life for herself and her young daughter, mabel. it was at about this time that there came a sharp ring at the doorbell, and a stout man with small, but very bright, black eyes asked to see mrs. livingstone. "i have come, my dear madam, on a matter of business," said he suavely; "and though i am a stranger to you, you certainly are not one to me. i said 'business,' madam, yet i and the one for whom i am speaking are so anxious that you should look favorably upon our proposition that i had almost said that i had come to ask a favor." mrs. livingstone relaxed from the forbidding aspect she had assumed, and looked mildly interested. "a gentleman wishes to leave his house in your charge, madam. the house is advertised for sale, and from time to time parties may wish to see it. he would like it to be in the care of some one who will understand how to show it to the best advantage, you see." mrs. livingstone's back straightened, and her chin rose perceptibly. had she come to this--a common caretaker? and yet--there was mabel. something must certainly be done. "who is this man?" she asked aggressively; and then she almost started from her chair as the name fell from the other's lips--it was that borne by the inimitable one. "that man!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "that famous creature with the world at his feet!" the stout gentleman opposite smiled, and his little eyes narrowed to mere slits of light. he had counted on this. his employer was indeed famous--very famous, though perhaps not in the way this good lady supposed. it was not the first time he had traded on this convenient similarity of names. "i thought, madam, we had made no mistake. i was sure you would deem it a privilege. and as for us, your keen appreciative sense of the fitness of things will--er--will make it a favor to us if you comply with our request," said he, floundering in helpless confusion for a moment. but mrs. livingstone did not notice. she went through the rest of that interview in a dazed, ecstatic wonder. she only knew at its conclusion that she was to go up to vermont to care for his house, to live in the rooms that he had lived in, to rest where he had rested, to walk where he had walked, to see what he had seen. and she was to receive pay--money for this blissful privilege. incredible! it did not take mrs. livingstone long to make all necessary arrangements. the shabby-genteel house in boston was rented by the month, all furnished, and the good lady promptly gave her notice and packed her trunks for departure. the first day of the month found her and her daughter whirling away from the city toward their destination. as they stepped from the train to the platform at the little country station, mrs. livingstone looked about her with awed interest. he had been here! the jouncing yellow stage coach became a hallowed golden chariot, and the ride to the house a sacred pilgrimage. she quoted his poetry on the doorstep, and entered the hall with a reverent obeisance; whereupon the man who brought the trunks ever after referred to her with a significant tap on his forehead and the single word "cracked." "only think, mabel, he walked here, and sat here," said the woman adoringly, suiting the action to the word and sinking into a great morris chair. mabel sniffed her disdain. "i presume so; but i should like to know where he ate--maybe he left something!" mrs. livingstone rose in despairing resignation. "just like your father, child. no conception of anything but the material things of life. i did hope my daughter would have some sympathy with me; but it seems she has n't. bring me my bag--the black one; the lunch is in that. of course we can't have a warm supper until we get started." the next few days were a dream of bliss to mrs. livingstone. the house was a handsome mansion set well back from the street, and surrounded by beautiful grounds which were kept in order by a man who came two or three times a week to attend to them. mrs. livingstone had but herself and mabel to care for, and she performed the work of the house as a high-priestess might have attended upon the altars of her gods. it was on the fifth day that a growing wonder in the mind of mrs. livingstone found voice. "mabel, there is n't one of his works in the house--not one. i 've been everywhere!" said 'the woman plaintively. "well, mother," laughed the girl saucily, "that's the most sensible thing i ever knew of the man. i don't wonder he did n't want them round--i should n't!" "mabel!" "well, i shouldn't!" and mabel laughed wickedly while her mother sighed at the out-spoken heresy. it was plain that mabel had no soul. mrs. livingstone was furthermore surprised at her idol's taste in art; some of the pictures on the wall were a distinct shock to her. and if the absence of the inimitable one's works astonished her, the presence of some others' books certainly did more than that. the house was to be sold completely furnished, with the exception of the books and pictures. the price was high, and there were but few prospective purchasers. occasionally people came to see the property; such mrs. livingstone conducted about the house with reverent impressiveness, displaying its various charms much as a young mother would "show off" her baby. "it is something to buy a house owned by so famous a man," she insinuated gently one day, after vainly trying to awaken a proper enthusiasm in a prim little woman who was talking of purchasing. "indeed!" replied the other, frigidly. "do you think so? i must confess it is somewhat of a drawback to me." and from that time mrs. livingstone wore an injured air--the young mother's baby had been snubbed--grievously snubbed. there were times when mrs. livingstone was lonely. only one of her neighbors had called, and that one had not repeated the visit. perhaps the lady's report--together with that of the trunkman--was not conducive to further acquaintance. it would appear so. toward the last of the summer a wild plan entered mrs. livingstone's brain; and after some days of trembling consideration, she determined to carry it out. the morning mail bore a letter from her to the inimitable one through his publishers. she had learned that he was to be in boston, and she had written to beg him to come up to his old home and see if it was being cared for to his satisfaction. the moments dragged as though weighted with lead until the answer came. when at last it was in her hands, she twisted a hairpin under the flap of the envelope and tore out the letter with shaking fingers. it was from the inimitable one's private secretary. the inimitable one did not understand her letter--he was the owner of no house in vermont; there was doubtless some mistake. that was all. the communication was wholly enigmatic. the letter fluttered to the floor, and mrs. livingstone's dazed eyes rested on the gardener in the lawn below. in a moment she was at his side. "peter, isn't this house owned by a very famous man?" "indade it is, ma'am." "who is he?" she demanded shortly, holding her breath until that familiar name borne by the inimitable one passed the other's lips. "well, peter, is n't he the writer? what does he do for a living?" she faltered, still mystified. "do? he fights, ma'am. he 's the big prize-fighter that won--" he was talking to empty air. the woman had fled. when polly ann played santa claus the great idea and what came of it margaret brackett turned her head petulantly from side to side on the pillow. "i'm sure i don't see why this had to come to me now," she moaned. polly ann brackett, who had been hastily summoned to care for her stricken relative, patted the pillow hopefully. "sho! now, aunt margaret, don't take on so. just lie still and rest. you 're all beat out. that's what's the matter." the sick woman gave an impatient sigh. "but, polly ann, it's only the d. i ought not to be that--yet! it never comes until the th, and i 'm prepared for it then. sarah bird comes christmas day, you know." polly ann's jaw dropped. her eyes stared frankly. "sarah bird!" she cried. "you don't mean you engaged her beforehand--a _nurse_! that you knew you 'd need her!" "of course. i do every year. polly ann, don't stare so! as if christmas did n't use every one up--what with the shopping and all the planning and care it takes!" "but i thought christmas was a--a pleasure," argued polly ann feebly; "something to enjoy. not to--to get sick over." "enjoy--yes, though not to be taken lightly, understand," returned the elder woman with dignity. "it is no light thing to select and buy suitable, appropriate gifts. and now, with half of them to be yet tied up and labeled, here i am, flat on my back," she finished with a groan. "can't i do it? of course i can!" cried polly ann confidently. the sick woman turned with troubled eyes. "why, i suppose you'll have to do it," she sighed, "as long as i can't. part of them are done up, anyway; but there's john's family and mary and the children left. john's are in the middle drawer of the bureau in the attic hall, and mary's are in the big box near it. you'll know them right away when you see them. there's paper and strings and ribbons, and cards for the names, besides the big boxes to send them in. seems as if you ought to do it right, only--well, you know how utterly irresponsible and absent-minded you are sometimes." "nonsense!" scoffed polly ann. "as if i could n't do up a parcel of presents as well as you! and i'll prove it, too. i'll go right up now," she declared, rising to her feet and marching out of the room. in the attic hall polly ann found the presents easily. she knew which was for which, too; she knew margaret and her presents of old. she did not need the little bits of paper marked, "for mary," "for tom," "for john," "for julia," to tell her that the woolen gloves and thick socks went into mary's box, and the handsomely bound books and the fine lace-edged handkerchief into john's. mary, as all the bracketts knew, was the poor relation that had married shiftless joe hemenway, who had died after a time, leaving behind him a little joe and three younger girls and a boy. john, if possible even better known to the brackett family, was the millionaire congressman to whom no brackett ever failed to claim relationship with a proudly careless "he's a cousin of ours, you know, congressman brackett is." at once polly ann began her task. and then-- it was the french doll that did it. polly ann was sure of that, as she thought it over afterward. from the middle drawer where were john's presents the doll fell somehow into the box where were mary's. there the fluffy gold of the doll's hair rioted gloriously across a pair of black woolen socks, and the blue satin of its gown swept glistening folds of sumptuousness across a red flannel petticoat. one rose-tipped waxen hand, outflung, pointed, almost as if in scorn, to the corner of the box where lay another doll, a doll in a brown delaine dress, a doll whose every line from her worsted-capped head to her black-painted feet spelled durability and lack of charm. polly ann saw this, and sighed. she was thinking of mary's little crippled nellie for whom the brown delaine doll was designed; and she was remembering what that same nellie had said one day, when they had paused before a window wherein stood another just such a little satin-clad lady as this interloper from the middle bureau drawer. "oh, cousin polly, look--look!" nellie had breathed. "is n't she be-yu-tiful? oh, cousin polly, if--if i had--one--like that, i don't think i 'd mind even _these_--much," she choked, patting the crutches that supported her. polly ann had sighed then, and had almost sobbed aloud as she disdainfully eyed her own thin little purse, whose contents would scarcely have bought the gown that miss dolly wore. she sighed again now, as she picked up the doll before her, and gently smoothed into order the shining hair. if only this were for nellie!--but it was n't. it was for julia's roselle, roselle who already possessed a dozen french dolls, and would probably possess as many more before her doll days were over, while nellie-- with a swift movement polly ann dropped the doll back into the box, and picked up the other one. the next moment the brown delaine dress was rubbing elbows with a richly bound book and a duchesse lace collar in the middle bureau drawer. polly ann cocked her head to one side and debated; did she dare ask aunt margaret to make the change? with a slow shake of her head she owned that she did not. she knew her aunt and her aunt's convictions as to the ethics of present-giving too well. and, if she were tempted to doubt, there were the two sets of presents before her, both of which, even down to the hemp twine and brown paper in one and the red ribbons and white tissue-paper in the other, proclaimed their donor's belief as to the proper distribution of usefulness and beauty. the two dolls did look odd in their present environment. polly ann admitted that. reluctantly she picked them up, and was about to return each to her own place, when suddenly the great idea was born. with a little cry and a tense biting of her lip polly ann fell back before it. then excitedly she leaned forward, and examined with searching eyes the presents. she drew a long breath, and stood erect again. "well, why not?" she asked herself. aunt margaret had said she was utterly irresponsible and absent-minded. very well, then; she would be utterly irresponsible and absent-minded. she would change the labels and misdirect the boxes. john's should go to mary, and mary's to john. nellie should have that doll. incidentally nellie's mother and sisters and brother and grandmother should have, too, for once in their starved lives, a christmas present that did not shriek durability the moment the wrappings fell away. it was nothing but fun for polly ann after this. with unafraid hands she arranged the two sets of presents on the top of the bureau, and planned their disposal. mentally she reviewed the two families. in mary's home there were mary herself; joe, eighteen; jennie, sixteen; carrie, fourteen; tom, eleven; and nellie, six; besides grandma. in john's there were john, his wife, julia; their son paul, ten; and daughter roselle, four; besides john's younger sister barbara, eighteen, and his mother. it took a little planning to make the presents for six on the one hand do for seven on the other, and vice versa; but with a little skillful dividing and combining it was done at last to polly ann's huge satisfaction. then came the tying-up and the labeling. and here again polly ann's absent-mindedness got in its fine work; for the red ribbons and the white tissue-paper went into mary's box, which left, of course, only the brown paper and hemp twine for john's. "there!" sighed polly ann when the boxes themselves were at last tied up and addressed. "now we 'll see what we shall see!" but even polly ann, in spite of her bravely upheld chin, trembled a little as she turned toward the room where margaret brackett lay sick. it was a pity, as matters were, that polly ann could not have been a fly on the wall of mary's sitting-room at that moment, for mary's jennie was saying gloomily, "i suppose, mother, we'll have cousin margaret's christmas box as usual." "i suppose so," her mother answered. then with a determined cheerfulness came the assertion, "cousin margaret is always very kind and thoughtful, you know, jennie." there was a pause, broken at last by a mutinous "i don't think so, mother." "why, _jennie_!" "well, i don't. she may be kind, but she isn't--thoughtful." "why, my daughter!" remonstrated the shocked mother again. "i 'm ashamed of you!" "i know; it's awful, of course, but i can't help it," declared the girl. "if she really were thoughtful, she 'd think sometimes that we 'd like something for presents besides flannel things." "but they're so--sensible, jennie, for--us." "that's just what they are--sensible," retorted the girl bitterly. "but who wants sensible things always? we _have_ to have them the whole year through. seems as if at christmas we might have something--foolish." "jennie, jennie, what are you saying? and when cousin margaret is so good to us, too! besides, she does send us candy always, and--and that's foolish." "it would be if 't was nice candy, the kind we can't hope ever to buy ourselves. but it isn't. it's the cheap christmas candy, two pounds for a quarter, the kind we have to buy when we buy any. mother, it's just that; don't you see? cousin margaret thinks that's the only sort of thing that's fit for us! cheap, sensible things, the kind of things we have to buy. but that does n't mean that we would n't like something else, or that we have n't any taste, just because we have n't the means to gratify it," finished the girl chokingly as she hurried out of the room before her mother could reply. all this, however, polly ann did not hear, for polly ann was not a fly on mary's sitting-room wall. on christmas day sarah bird appeared, cheerfully ready to take charge of her yearly patient; and polly ann went home. in less than a week, however, polly ann was peremptorily sent for by the sick woman. polly ann had expected the summons and was prepared; yet she shook in her shoes when she met her kinswoman's wrathful eyes. "polly ann, _what_ did you do with those presents?" demanded margaret brackett abruptly. "p-presents?" polly ann tried to steady her voice. "yes, yes, the ones for mary and john's family." "why, i did them up and sent them off, to be sure. did n't they get 'em?" "get them!" groaned margaret brackett, "get them! polly ann, what did you do? you must have mixed them awfully somehow!" "mixed them?" in spite of her preparation for this very accusation polly ann was fencing for time. "yes, mixed them. look at that--and that--and that," cried the irate woman, thrusting under polly ann's nose one after another of the notes of thanks she had received the day before. they were from john and his family, and one by one polly ann picked them up and read them. john, who had not for years, probably, worn anything coarser than silk on his feet, expressed in a few stiff words his thanks for two pairs of black woolen socks. julia, famed for the dainty slenderness of her hands, expressed in even stiffer language her thanks for a pair of gray woolen gloves. she also begged to thank cousin margaret for the doll so kindly sent roselle and for the red mittens sent to paul. john's mother, always in the minds of those who knew her associated with perfumed silks and laces, wrote a chilly little note of thanks for a red flannel petticoat; while john's sister, barbara, worth a million in her own right, scrawled on gold-monogrammed paper her thanks for the dozen handkerchiefs that had been so kindly sent her in the christmas box. "and there were n't a dozen handkerchiefs, i tell you," groaned margaret, "except the cotton ones i sent to mary's two girls, jennie and carrie, six to each. think of it--cotton handkerchiefs to barbara marsh! and that red flannel petticoat, and those ridiculous gloves and socks! oh, polly ann, polly ann, how could you have done such a thing, and got everything so hopelessly mixed? there was n't a thing, not a single thing right but that doll for roselle." polly ann lifted her head suddenly. "have you heard from--mary?" she asked in a faint voice. "not yet. but i shall, of course. i suppose _they_ got john's things. imagine it! mary hemenway and a duchesse lace collar!" "oh, but mary would like that," interposed polly ann feverishly. "you know she's invited out a good deal in a quiet way, and a bit of nice lace does dress up a plain frock wonderfully." "nonsense! as if she knew or cared whether it was duchesse or--or imitation val! she 's not used to such things, polly ann. she would n't know what to do with them if she had them. while john and julia--dear, dear, what shall i do? think of it--a red flannel petticoat to madam marsh!" polly ann laughed. a sudden vision had come to her of madam marsh as she had seen her last at a family wedding clad in white lace and amethysts, and with an amethyst tiara in her beautifully dressed hair. margaret brackett frowned. "it's no laughing matter, polly ann," she said severely. "i shall write to both families and explain, of course. in fact, i have done that already to john and julia. but nothing, nothing can take away my mortification that such a thing should have occurred at all. and when i took so much pains in selecting those presents, to get suitable ones for both boxes. i can't forgive you, polly ann; i just can't. and, what's more, i don't see how in the world you did it. i am positive that i had each thing marked carefully, and--" she did not finish her sentence. sarah bird brought in a letter, and with a petulant exclamation margaret brackett tore it open. "it's from mary," she cried as soon as sarah bird had left the room; "and--goodness, look at the length of it! here, you read it, polly ann. it's lighter by the window." and she passed the letter to her niece. _dear cousin margaret_ [read polly ann aloud]: i wonder if i can possibly tell you what that christmas box was to us. i 'm going to try, anyway; but i don't believe, even then, that you'll quite understand it, for you never were just as we are, and you'd have to be to know what that box was to us. you see we can't buy nice things, really nice things, ever. there are always so many "have-to-gets" that there is never anything left for the "want-to-gets"; and so we had to do without--till your box came. and then--but just let me tell you what did happen when it did come. the expressman brought it christmas eve, and joe opened it at once. mother and i and all the children stood around watching him. you should have heard the "ohs!" and "ahs!" of delight when the pretty white packages all tied with red ribbons were brought to light. by the way, nellie has captured all those red ribbons, and her entire family of dolls is rejoicing in a merry christmas of their own in consequence. as for the presents themselves--i don't know where to begin or how to say it; but i'll begin with myself, and try to make you understand. that beautiful duchesse lace collar! i love it already, and i'm actually vain as a peacock over it. i had made over mother's black silk for myself this fall, and i did so want some nice lace for it! you've no idea how beautiful, really beautiful, the dress looks with that collar. i shan't cry now when i'm invited anywhere. it's a pity, and i'm ashamed that it is so; but clothes do make such a difference. mother is fairly reveling in that lovely silk and lace workbag. she has carried it with her all day all over the house, just to look at it, she says. she has always wanted some such thing, but never thought she ought to take the money to buy one. she and two or three other old ladies in the neighborhood have a way of exchanging afternoon visits with their work; and mother is as pleased as a child now, and is impatiently awaiting the next "meet" so she can show off her new treasure. yet, to see her with it, one would think she had always carried silk workbags, scented with lavender. joe is more than delighted with his handsome set of books. and really they do lighten our dull sitting-room wonderfully, and we are all proud of them. he is planning to read them aloud to us all this winter, and i am so glad. i am particularly glad, for we not only shall have the pleasure of hearing the stories themselves, but i shall have the satisfaction of knowing where my boy is evenings. joe is a good lad always, but he has been worrying me a little lately, for he seemed to like to be away so much. yet i could n't wonder, for i had so little to offer him at home for entertainment. now i have these books. carrie is wild over her necklace of pretty stones. she says they're "all the rage" at school among the girls, and the very latest thing out. dear child! she does so love pretty things, and of course i can't give them to her. it is the same with jennie, and she is equally pleased with that dainty lace-edged handkerchief. it is such a nice handkerchief, and jennie, like her mother, does so love nice things! tom was almost speechless with joy when he discovered that sumptuous knife. but he has n't been speechless since--not a bit of it! there is n't any one anywhere within the radius of a mile, i guess, to whom he has n't shown every blade and corkscrew and i don't-know-what-all that that wonderful knife can unfold. i've left nellie till the last, but not because she is the least. poor dear little girlie! my heart aches now that i realize how she has longed for a beautiful doll, one that could open and shut its eyes, say "papa" and "mamma," and one that was daintily dressed. i had no idea the little thing would be so overcome. she turned white, then red, and actually sobbed with joy when the doll was put into her arms, though since then she has been singing all over the house, and has seemed so happy. i 'm sure you will believe this when i tell you that i overheard her last night whisper into dolly's ear that now she did n't mind half so much not being like other girls who could run and play, because she had her to love and care for. and then the candy that was marked for all of us--and such candy! all their lives the children have longingly gazed at such candy through store windows, and dreamed what it might taste like; but to have it right in their hands--in their mouths! you should have heard their rapturous sighs of content as it disappeared. and now, dear cousin margaret, can you see a little what that christmas box has been to us? i can't bear to say, "thank you"; it seems so commonplace and inadequate. and yet there is n't anything else i can say. and we do thank you, each and every one of us. we thank you both for our own gift, and for all the others, for each one's gift is making all the others happy. do you see? oh, i hope you do see and that you do understand that we appreciate all the care and pains you must have taken to select just the present that each of us most longed for. lovingly and gratefully yours, mary. polly ann's voice quivered into silence. it had already broken once or twice, and it was very husky toward the last. for a moment no one spoke; then with an evident attempt at carelessness margaret said: "i guess, polly ann, i won't write to mary at all that there was any mistake. we 'll let it--pass." there was no answer. twice polly ann opened her lips, but no sound came. after a moment she got to her feet, and walked slowly across the room. at the door she turned abruptly. "aunt margaret," she panted, "i suppose i ought to tell you. there wa'n't any--mistake. i--i changed those presents on purpose." then she went out quickly and shut the door. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) what every child should know library good cheer stories every child should know edited by asa don dickinson editor of "the children's book of christmas stories," etc. [illustration: "when we rounded the last patch of scrub pines and came upon the long gray house fairly blazing with light ... the effect was stunning."] published by doubleday, doran & co., inc., for the parents' institute, inc. publishers of "the parents' magazine" vanderbilt avenue, new york copyright, , by doubleday, page & company acknowledgment the publishers desire to acknowledge the kindness of the century company, ginn & co., the j. l. hammett company, harper & brothers, the houghton, mifflin company, the j. b. lippincott company, the lothrop, lee & shepard company, the outlook company, the perry mason company, charles scribner's sons, and others, who have granted permission to reproduce herein selections from works bearing their copyright. contents (note.--the stories marked with a star (*) will be most enjoyed by younger children; those marked with a (dagger) are better suited to older children.) *the kingdom of the greedy. _by p. j. stahl_ thankful. _by mary e. wilkins freeman_ beetle ring's thanksgiving mascot. _by sheldon c. stoddard_ [dagger]mistress esteem elliott's molasses cake. _by kate upson clark_ the first thanksgiving. _by albert f. blaisdell and francis k. ball_ [dagger]thanksgiving at todd's asylum. _by winthrop packard_ how we kept thanksgiving at oldtown. _by harriet beecher stowe_ *wishbone valley. _by r. k. munkittrick_ patem's salmagundi. _by e. s. brooks_ miss november's dinner party. _by agnes carr_ *the visit. _by maud lindsay_ the story of ruth and naomi. _adapted from the bible_ bert's thanksgiving. _by j. t. trowbridge_ *a thanksgiving story. _by miss l. b. pingree_ [dagger]john inglefield's thanksgiving. _by nathaniel hawthorne_ how obadiah brought about a thanksgiving. _by emily hewitt leland_ the white turkey's wing. _by sophie swet_ *the thanksgiving goose. _by fannie wilder brown_ [dagger]an english dinner of thanksgiving. _by george eliot_ a novel postman. _by alice wheildon_ [dagger]ezra's thanksgivin' out west _by eugene field_ *chip's thanksgiving. _by annie hamilton donnell_ [dagger]the master of the harvest. _by mrs. alfred gatty_ *a thanksgiving dinner. _by edna payson brett_ two old boys. _by pauline shackleford colyar_ a thanksgiving dinner that flew away. _by hezekiah butterworth_ [dagger]mon-daw-min. _by h. r. schoolcraft_ a mystery in the kitchen. _by olive thorne miller_ *who ate the dolly's dinner? _by isabel gordon curtis_ [dagger]an old-fashioned thanksgiving. _by rose terry cooke_ and froze to death. by _c. a. stephens_ the children's book of thanksgiving stories the kingdom of the greedy by p. j. stahl. translated by laura w. johnson. this fairy tale of a gormandizing people contains no mention of thanksgiving day. yet its connection with our american festival is obvious. every one who likes fairy tales will enjoy reading it. the country of the greedy, well known in history, was ruled by a king who had much trouble. his subjects were well behaved, but they had one sad fault: they were too fond of pies and tarts. it was as disagreeable to them to swallow a spoonful of soup as if it were so much sea water, and it would take a policeman to make them open their mouths for a bit of meat, either boiled or roasted. this deplorable taste made the fortunes of the pastry cooks, but also of the apothecaries. families ruined themselves in pills and powders; camomile, rhubarb, and peppermint trebled in price, as well as other disagreeable remedies, such as castor ---- which i will not name. the king of the greedy sought long for the means of correcting this fatal passion for sweets, but even the faculty were puzzled. "your majesty," said the great court doctor, olibriers, at his last audience, "your people look like putty! they are incurable; their senseless love for good eating will bring them all to the grave." this view of things did not suit the king. he was wise, and saw very plainly that a monarch without subjects would be but a sorry king. happily, after this utter failure of the doctors, there came into the mind of his majesty a first-class idea: he telegraphed for mother mitchel, the most celebrated of all pastry cooks. mother mitchel soon arrived, with her black cat, fanfreluche, who accompanied her everywhere. he was an incomparable cat. he had not his equal as an adviser and a taster of tarts. mother mitchel having respectfully inquired what she and her cat could do for his majesty, the king demanded of the astonished pastry cook a tart as big as the capitol--bigger even, if possible, but no smaller! when the king uttered this astounding order, deep emotion was shown by the chamberlains, the pages, and lackeys. nothing but the respect due to his presence prevented them from crying "long live your majesty!" in his very ears. but the king had seen enough of the enthusiasm of the populace, and did not allow such sounds in the recesses of his palace. the king gave mother mitchel one month to carry out his gigantic project. "it is enough," she proudly replied, brandishing her crutch. then, taking leave of the king, she and her cat set out for their home. on the way mother mitchel arranged in her head the plan of the monument which was to immortalize her, and considered the means of executing it. as to its form and size, it was to be as exact a copy of the capitol as possible, since the king had willed it; but its outside crust should have a beauty all its own. the dome must be adorned with sugarplums of all colours, and surmounted by a splendid crown of macaroons, spun sugar, chocolate, and candied fruits. it was no small affair. mother mitchel did not like to lose her time. her plan of battle once formed, she recruited on her way all the little pastry cooks of the country, as well as all the tiny six-year-olds who had a sincere love for the noble callings of scullion and apprentice. there were plenty of these, as you may suppose, in the country of the greedy; mother mitchel had her pick of them. mother mitchel, with the help of her crutch and of fanfreluche, who miaowed loud enough to be heard twenty miles off, called upon all the millers of the land, and commanded them to bring together at a certain time as many sacks of fine flour as they could grind in a week. there were only windmills in that country; you may easily believe how they all began to go. b-r-r-r-r-r! what a noise they made! the clatter was so great that all the birds flew away to other climes, and even the clouds fled from the sky. at the call of mother mitchel all the farmers' wives were set to work; they rushed to the hencoops to collect the seven thousand fresh eggs that mother mitchel wanted for her great edifice. deep was the emotion of the fowls. the hens were inconsolable, and the unhappy creatures mourned upon the palings for the loss of all their hopes. the milkmaids were busy from morning till night in milking the cows. mother mitchel must have twenty thousand pails of milk. all the little calves were put on half rations. this great work was nothing to them, and they complained pitifully to their mothers. many of the cows protested with energy against this unreasonable tax, which made their young families so uncomfortable. there were pails upset, and even some milkmaids went head over heels. but these little accidents did not chill the enthusiasm of the labourers. and now mother mitchel called for a thousand pounds of the best butter. all the churns for twenty miles around began to work in the most lively manner. their dashers dashed without ceasing, keeping perfect time. the butter was tasted, rolled into pats, wrapped up, and put into baskets. such energy had never been known before. mother mitchel passed for a sorceress. it was all because of her cat, fanfreluche, with whom she had mysterious doings and pantomimes, and with whom she talked in her inspired moments, as if he were a real person. certainly, since the famous "puss in boots," there had never been an animal so extraordinary; and credulous folks suspected him of being a magician. some curious people had the courage to ask fanfreluche if this were true; but he had replied by bristling, and showing his teeth and claws so fiercely, that the conversation had ended there. sorceress or not, mother mitchel was always obeyed. no one else was ever served so punctually. on the appointed day all the millers arrived with their asses trotting in single file, each laden with a great sack of flour. mother mitchel, after having examined the quality of the flour, had every sack accurately weighed. this was head work and hard work, and took time; but mother mitchel was untiring, and her cat, also, for while the operation lasted he sat on the roof watching. it is only just to say that the millers of the greedy kingdom brought flour not only faultless but of full weight. they knew that mother mitchel was not joking when she said that others must be as exact with her as she was with them. perhaps also they were a little afraid of the cat, whose great green eyes were always shining upon them like two round lamps, and never lost sight of them for one moment. all the farmers' wives arrived in turn, with baskets of eggs upon their heads. they did not load their donkeys with them, for fear that in jogging along they would become omelettes on the way. mother mitchel received them with her usual gravity. she had the patience to look through every egg to see if it were fresh. she did not wish to run the risk of having young chickens in a tart that was destined for those who could not bear the taste of any meat however tender and delicate. the number of eggs was complete, and again mother mitchel and her cat had nothing to complain of. this greedy nation, though carried away by love of good eating, was strictly honest. it must be said that where nations are patriotic, desire for the common good makes them unselfish. mother mitchel's tart was to be the glory of the country, and each one was proud to contribute to such a great work. and now the milkmaids with their pots and pails of milk, and the buttermakers with their baskets filled with the rich yellow pats of butter, filed in long procession to the right and left of the cabin of mother mitchel. there was no need for her to examine so carefully the butter and the milk. she had such a delicate nose that if there had been a single pat of ancient butter or a pail of sour milk she would have pounced upon it instantly. but all was perfectly fresh. in that golden age they did not understand the art, now so well known, of making milk out of flour and water. real milk was necessary to make cheesecakes and ice cream and other delicious confections much adored in the greedy kingdom. if any one had made such a despicable discovery, he would have been chased from the country as a public nuisance. then came the grocers, with their aprons of coffee bags, and with the jolly, mischievous faces the rogues always have. each one clasped to his heart a sugar loaf nearly as large as himself, whose summit, without its paper cap, looked like new-fallen snow upon a pyramid. mother mitchel, with her crutch for a baton, saw them all placed in her storerooms upon shelves put up for the purpose. she had to be very strict, for some of the little fellows could hardly part from their merchandise, and many were indiscreet, with their tongues behind their great mountains of sugar. if they had been let alone, they would never have stopped till the sugar was all gone. but they had not thought of the implacable eye of old fanfreluche, who, posted upon a water spout, took note of all their misdeeds. from another quarter came a whole army of country people, rolling wheelbarrows and carrying huge baskets, all filled with cherries, plums, peaches, apples, and pears. all these fruits were so fresh, in such perfect condition, with their fair shining skins, that they looked like wax or painted marble, but their delicious perfume proved that they were real. some little people, hidden in the corners, took pains to find this out. between ourselves, mother mitchel made believe not to see them, and took the precaution of holding fanfreluche in her arms so that he could not spring upon them. the fruits were all put into bins, each kind by itself. and now the preparations were finished. there was no time to lose before setting to work. the spot which mother mitchel had chosen for her great edifice was a pretty hill on which a plateau formed a splendid site. this hill commanded the capital city, built upon the slope of another hill close by. after having beaten down the earth till it was as smooth as a floor, they spread over it loads of bread crumbs, brought from the baker's, and levelled it with rake and spade, as we do gravel in our garden walks. little birds, as greedy as themselves, came in flocks to the feast, but they might eat as they liked, it would never be missed, so thick was the carpet. it was a great chance for the bold little things. all the ingredients for the tart were now ready. upon order of mother mitchel they began to peel the apples and pears and to take out the pips. the weather was so pleasant that the girls sat out of doors, upon the ground, in long rows. the sun looked down upon them with a merry face. each of the little workers had a big earthen pan, and peeled incessantly the apples which the boys brought them. when the pans were full, they were carried away and others were brought. they had also to carry away the peels, or the girls would have been buried in them. never was there such a peeling before. not far away, the children were stoning the plums, cherries, and peaches. this work, being the easiest, was given to the youngest and most inexperienced hands, which were all first carefully washed, for mother mitchel, though not very particular about her own toilet, was very neat in her cooking. the schoolhouse, long unused (for in the country of the greedy they had forgotten everything), was arranged for this second class of workers, and the cat was their inspector. he walked round and round, growling if he saw the fruit popping into any of the little mouths. if they had dared, how they would have pelted him with plum stones! but no one risked it. fanfreluche was not to be trifled with. in those days powdered sugar had not been invented, and to grate it all was no small affair. it was the work that the grocers used to dislike the most; both lungs and arms were soon tired. but mother mitchel was there to sustain them with her unequalled energy. she chose the labourers from the most robust of the boys. with mallet and knife she broke the cones into round pieces, and they grated them till they were too small to hold. the bits were put into baskets to be pounded. one would never have expected to find all the thousand pounds of sugar again. but a new miracle was wrought by mother mitchel. it was all there! it was then the turn of the ambitious scullions to enter the lists and break the seven thousand eggs for mother mitchel. it was not hard to break them--any fool could do that; but to separate adroitly the yolks and the whites demands some talent, and, above all, great care. we dare not say that there were no accidents here, no eggs too well scrambled, no baskets upset. but the experience of mother mitchel had counted upon such things, and it may truly be said that there were never so many eggs broken at once, or ever could be again. to make an omelette of them would have taken a saucepan as large as a skating pond, and the fattest cook that ever lived could not hold the handle of such a saucepan. but this was not all. now that the yolks and whites were once divided, they must each be beaten separately in wooden bowls, to give them the necessary lightness. the egg beaters were marshalled into two brigades, the yellow and the white. every one preferred the white, for it was much more amusing to make those snowy masses that rose up so high than to beat the yolks, which knew no better than to mix together like so much sauce. mother mitchel, with her usual wisdom, had avoided this difficulty by casting lots. thus, those who were not on the white side had no reason to complain of oppression. and truly, when all was done, the whites and the yellows were equally tired. all had cramps in their hands. now began the real labour of mother mitchel. till now she had been the commander-in-chief--the head only; now she put her own finger in the pie. first, she had to make sweetmeats and jam out of all the immense quantity of fruit she had stored. for this, as she could only do one kind at a time, she had ten kettles, each as big as a dinner table. during forty-eight hours the cooking went on; a dozen scullions blew the fire and put on the fuel. mother mitchel, with a spoon that four modern cooks could hardly lift, never ceased stirring and trying the boiling fruit. three expert tasters, chosen from the most dainty, had orders to report progress every half hour. it is unnecessary to state that all the sweetmeats were perfectly successful, or that they were of exquisite consistency, colour, and perfume. with mother mitchel there was no such word as _fail_. when each kind of sweetmeat was finished, she skimmed it, and put it away to cool in enormous bowls before potting. she did not use for this the usual little glass or earthen jars, but great stone ones, like those in the "forty thieves." not only did these take less time to fill, but they were safe from the children. the scum and the scrapings were something, to be sure. but there was little toto, who thought this was not enough. he would have jumped into one of the bowls if they had not held him. mother mitchel, who thought of everything, had ordered two hundred great kneading troughs, wishing that all the utensils of this great work should be perfectly new. these two hundred troughs, like her other materials, were all delivered punctually and in good order. the pastry cooks rolled up their sleeves and began to knead the dough with cries of "hi! hi!" that could be heard for miles. it was odd to see this army of bakers in serried ranks, all making the same gestures at once, like well-disciplined soldiers, stooping and rising together in time, so that a foreign ambassador wrote to his court that he wished his people could load and fire as well as these could knead. such praise a people never forgets. when each troughful of paste was approved it was moulded with care into the form of bricks, and with the aid of the engineer-in-chief, a young genius who had gained the first prize in the school of architecture, the majestic edifice was begun. mother mitchel herself drew the plan; in following her directions, the young engineer showed himself modest beyond all praise. he had the good sense to understand that the architecture of tarts and pies had rules of its own, and that therefore the experience of mother mitchel was worth all the scientific theories in the world. the inside of the monument was divided into as many compartments as there were kinds of fruits. the walls were no less than four feet thick. when they were finished, twenty-four ladders were set up, and twenty-four experienced cooks ascended them. these first-class artists were each of them armed with an enormous cooking spoon. behind them, on the lower rounds of the ladders, followed the kitchen boys, carrying on their heads pots and pans filled to the brim with jam and sweetmeats, each sort ready to be poured into its destined compartment. this colossal labour was accomplished in one day, and with wonderful exactness. when the sweetmeats were used to the last drop, when the great spoons had done all their work, the twenty-four cooks descended to earth again. the intrepid mother mitchel, who had never quitted the spot, now ascended, followed by the noble fanfreluche, and dipped her finger into each of the compartments, to assure herself that everything was right. this part of her duty was not disagreeable, and many of the scullions would have liked to perform it. but they might have lingered too long over the enchanting task. as for mother mitchel, she had been too well used to sweets to be excited now. she only wished to do her duty and to insure success. all went on well. mother mitchel had given her approbation. nothing was needed now but to crown the sublime and delicious edifice by placing upon it the crust--that is, the roof, or dome. this delicate operation was confided to the engineer-in-chief who now showed his superior genius. the dome, made beforehand of a single piece, was raised in the air by means of twelve balloons, whose force of ascension had been carefully calculated. first it was directed, by ropes, exactly over the top of the tart; then at the word of command it gently descended upon the right spot. it was not a quarter of an inch out of place. this was a great triumph for mother mitchel and her able assistant. but all was not over. how should this colossal tart be cooked? that was the question that agitated all the people of the greedy country, who came in crowds--lords and commons--to gaze at the wonderful spectacle. some of the envious or ill-tempered declared it would be impossible to cook the edifice which mother mitchel had built; and the doctors were, no one knows why, the saddest of all. mother mitchel, smiling at the general bewilderment, mounted the summit of the tart; she waved her crutch in the air, and while her cat miaowed in his sweetest voice, suddenly there issued from the woods a vast number of masons, drawing wagons of well-baked bricks, which they had prepared in secret. this sight silenced the ill-wishers and filled the hearts of the greedy with hope. in two days an enormous furnace was built around and above the colossal tart, which found itself shut up in an immense earthen pot. thirty huge mouths, which were connected with thousands of winding pipes for conducting heat all over the building, were soon choked with fuel, by the help of two hundred charcoal burners, who, obeying a private signal, came forth in long array from the forest, each carrying his sack of coal. behind them stood mother mitchel with a box of matches, ready to fire each oven as it was filled. of course the kindlings had not been forgotten, and was all soon in a blaze. when the fire was lighted in the thirty ovens, when they saw the clouds of smoke rolling above the dome, that announced that the cooking had begun, the joy of the people was boundless. poets improvised odes, and musicians sung verses without end, in honour of the superb prince who had been inspired to feed his people in so dainty a manner, when other rulers could not give them enough even of dry bread. the names of mother mitchel and of the illustrious engineer were not forgotten in this great glorification. next to his majesty, they were certainly the first of mankind, and their names were worthy of going down with his to the remotest posterity. all the envious ones were thunderstruck. they tried to console themselves by saying that the work was not yet finished, and that an accident might happen at the last moment. but they did not really believe a word of this. notwithstanding all their efforts to look cheerful, it had to be acknowledged that the cooking was possible. their last resource was to declare the tart a bad one, but that would be biting off their own noses. as for declining to eat it, envy could never go so far as that in the country of the greedy. after two days, the unerring nose of mother mitchel discovered that the tart was cooked to perfection. the whole country was perfumed with its delicious aroma. nothing more remained but to take down the furnaces. mother mitchel made her official announcement to his majesty, who was delighted, and complimented her upon her punctuality. one day was still wanting to complete the month. during this time the people gave their eager help to the engineer in the demolition, wishing to have a hand in the great national work and to hasten the blessed moment. in the twinkling of an eye the thing was done. the bricks were taken down one by one, counted carefully, and carried into the forest again, to serve for another occasion. the tart, unveiled, appeared at last in all its majesty and splendour. the dome was gilded, and reflected the rays of the sun in the most dazzling manner. the wildest excitement and rapture ran through the land of the greedy. each one sniffed with open nostrils the appetizing perfume. their mouths watered, their eyes filled with tears, they embraced, pressed each other's hands, and indulged in touching pantomimes. then the people of town and country, united by one rapturous feeling, joined hands, and danced in a ring around the grand confection. no one dared to touch the tart before the arrival of his majesty. meanwhile, something must be done to allay the universal impatience, and they resolved to show mother mitchel the gratitude with which all hearts were filled. she was crowned with the laurel of _conquerors_, which is also the laurel of _sauce_, thus serving a double purpose. then they placed her, with her crutch and her cat, upon a sort of throne, and carried her all round her vast work. before her marched all the musicians of the town, dancing, drumming, fifing, and tooting upon all instruments, while behind her pressed an enthusiastic crowd, who rent the air with their plaudits and filled it with a shower of caps. her fame was complete, and a noble pride shone on her countenance. the royal procession arrived. a grand stairway had been built, so that the king and his ministers could mount to the summit of this monumental tart. thence the king, amid a deep silence, thus addressed his people: "my children," said he, "you adore tarts. you despise all other food. if you could, you would even eat tarts in your sleep. very well. eat as much as you like. here is one big enough to satisfy you. but know this, that while there remains a single crumb of this august tart, from the height of which i am proud to look down on you, all other food is forbidden you on pain of death. while you are here, i have ordered all the pantries to be emptied, and all the butchers, bakers, pork and milk dealers, and fishmongers to shut up their shops. why leave them open? why indeed? have you not here at discretion what you love best, and enough to last you ever, _ever_ so long? devote yourselves to it with all your hearts. i do not wish you to be bored with the sight of any other food. "greedy ones! behold your tart!" what enthusiastic applause, what frantic hurrahs rent the air, in answer to this eloquent speech from the throne! "long live the king, mother mitchel, and her cat! long live the tart! down with soup! down with bread! to the bottom of the sea with all beefsteaks, mutton chops, and roasts!" such cries came from every lip. old men gently stroked their chops, children patted their little stomachs, the crowd licked its thousand lips with eager joy. even the babies danced in their nurses' arms, so precocious was the passion for tarts in this singular country. grave professors, skipping like kids, declaimed latin verses in honour of his majesty and mother mitchel, and the shyest young girls opened their mouths like the beaks of little birds. as for the doctors, they felt a joy beyond expression. they had reflected. they understood. but--my friends!-- at last the signal was given. a detachment of the engineer corps arrived, armed with pick and cutlass, and marched in good order to the assault. a breach was soon opened, and the distribution began. the king smiled at the opening in the tart; though vast, it hardly showed more than a mouse hole in the monstrous wall. the king stroked his beard grandly. "all goes well," said he, "for him who knows how to wait." who can tell how long the feast would have lasted if the king had not given his command that it should cease? once more they expressed their gratitude with cries so stifled that they resembled grunts, and then rushed to the river. never had a nation been so besmeared. some were daubed to the eyes, others had their ears and hair all sticky. as for the little ones, they were marmalade from head to foot. when they had finished their toilets, the river ran all red and yellow and was sweetened for several hours, to the great surprise of all the fishes. before returning home, the people presented themselves before the king to receive his commands. "children!" said he, "the feast will begin again exactly at six o'clock. give time to wash the dishes and change the tablecloths, and you may once more give yourselves over to pleasure. you shall feast twice a day as long as the tart lasts. do not forget. yes! if there is not enough in this one, i will even order another from mother mitchel; for you know that great woman is indefatigable. your happiness is my only aim." (marks of universal joy and emotion.) "you understand? noon, and six o'clock! there is no need for me to say be punctual! go, then, my children--be happy!" the second feast was as gay as the first, and as long. a pleasant walk in the suburbs--first exercise--then a nap, had refreshed their appetites and unlimbered their jaws. but the king fancied that the breach made in the tart was a little smaller than that of the morning. "'tis well!" said he, "'tis well! wait till to-morrow, my friends; yes, till day after to-morrow, and _next week_!" the next day the feast still went on gayly; yet at the evening meal the king noticed some empty seats. "why is this?" said he, with pretended indifference, to the court physician. "your majesty," said the great olibriers, "a few weak stomachs; that is all." on the next day there were larger empty spaces. the enthusiasm visibly abated. the eighth day the crowd had diminished one half; the ninth, three quarters; the tenth day, of the thousand who came at first, only two hundred remained; on the eleventh day only one hundred; and on the twelfth--alas! who would have thought it?--a single one answered to the call. truly he was big enough. his body resembled a hogshead, his mouth an oven, and his lips--we dare not say what. he was known in the town by the name of patapouf. they dug out a fresh lump for him from the middle of the tart. it quickly vanished in his vast interior, and he retired with great dignity, proud to maintain the honour of his name and the glory of the greedy kingdom. but the next day, even he, the very last, appeared no more. the unfortunate patapouf had succumbed, and, like all the other inhabitants of the country, was in a very bad way. in short, it was soon known that the whole town had suffered agonies that night from too much tart. let us draw a veil over those hours of torture. mother mitchel was in despair. those ministers who had not guessed the secret dared not open their lips. all the city was one vast hospital. no one was seen in the streets but doctors and apothecaries' boys, running from house to house in frantic haste. it was dreadful! doctor olibriers was nearly knocked out. as for the king, he held his tongue and shut himself up in his palace, but a secret joy shone in his eyes, to the wonder of every one. he waited three days without a word. the third day, the king said to his ministers: "let us go now and see how my poor people are doing, and feel their pulse a little." the good king went to every house, without forgetting a single one. he visited small and great, rich and poor. "oh, oh! your majesty," said all, "the tart was good, but may we never see it again! plague on that tart! better were dry bread. your majesty, for mercy's sake, a little dry bread! oh, a morsel of dry bread, how good it would be!" "no, indeed," replied the king. "_there is more of that tart!_" "what! your majesty, _must_ we eat it all?" "you _must_!" sternly replied the king; "you _must_! by the immortal beefsteaks! not one of you shall have a slice of bread, and not a loaf shall be baked in the kingdom while there remains a crumb of that excellent tart!" "what misery!" thought these poor people. "that tart forever!" the sufferers were in despair. there was only one cry through all the town: "ow! ow! ow!" for even the strongest and most courageous were in horrible agonies. they twisted, they writhed, they lay down, they got up. always the inexorable colic. the dogs were not happier than their masters; even they had too much tart. the spiteful tart looked in at all the windows. built upon a height, it commanded the town. the mere sight of it made everybody ill, and its former admirers had nothing but curses for it now. unhappily, nothing they could say or do made it any smaller; still formidable, it was a frightful joke for those miserable mortals. most of them buried their heads in their pillows, drew their nightcaps over their eyes, and lay in bed all day to shut out the sight of it. but this would not do; they knew, they felt it was there. it was a nightmare, a horrible burden, a torturing anxiety. in the midst of this terrible consternation the king remained inexorable during eight days. his heart bled for his people, but the lesson must sink deep if it were to bear fruit in future. when their pains were cured, little by little, through fasting alone, and his subjects pronounced these trembling words, "we are hungry!" the king sent them trays laden with--the inevitable tart. "ah!" cried they, with anguish, "the tart again! always the tart, and nothing but the tart! better were death!" a few, who were almost famished, shut their eyes, and tried to eat a bit of the detested food; but it was all in vain--they could not swallow a mouthful. at length came the happy day when the king, thinking their punishment had been severe enough and could never be forgotten, believed them at length cured of their greediness. that day he ordered mother mitchel to make in one of her colossal pots a super-excellent soup of which a bowl was sent to every family. they received it with as much rapture as the hebrews did the manna in the desert. they would gladly have had twice as much, but after their long fast it would not have been prudent. it was a proof that they had learned something already, that they understood this. the next day, more soup. this time the king allowed slices of bread in it. how this good soup comforted all the town! the next day there was a little more bread in it and a little soup meat. then for a few days the kind prince gave them roast beef and vegetables. the cure was complete. the joy over this new diet was as great as ever had been felt for the tart. it promised to last longer. they were sure to sleep soundly, and to wake refreshed. it was pleasant to see in every house tables surrounded with happy, rosy faces, and laden with good nourishing food. the greedy people never fell back into their old ways. their once puffed-out, sallow faces shone with health; they became, not fat, but muscular, ruddy, and solid. the butchers and bakers reopened their shops; the pastry cooks and confectioners shut theirs. the country of the greedy was turned upside down, and if it kept its name, it was only from habit. as for the tart, it was forgotten. to-day, in that marvellous country, there cannot be found a paper of sugarplums or a basket of cakes. it is charming to see the red lips and the beautiful teeth of the people. if they have still a king, he may well be proud to be their ruler. does this story teach that tarts and pies should never be eaten? no; but there is reason in all things. the doctors alone did not profit by this great revolution. they could not afford to drink wine any longer in a land where indigestion had become unknown. the apothecaries were no less unhappy, spiders spun webs over their windows, and their horrible remedies were no longer of use. ask no more about mother mitchel. she was ridiculed without measure by those who had adored her. to complete her misfortune, she lost her cat. alas for mother mitchel! the king received the reward of his wisdom. his grateful people called him neither charles the bold, nor peter the terrible, nor louis the great, but always by the noble name of prosper i, the reasonable. thankful[ ] by mary e. wilkins freeman. this tale is evidence that mrs. freeman understands the children of new england as well as she knows their parents. there is a doll in the story, but boys will not mind this as there are also two turkey-gobblers and a pewter dish full of revolutionary bullets. submit thompson sat on the stone wall; sarah adams, an erect, prim little figure, ankle-deep in dry grass, stood beside it, holding thankful. thankful was about ten inches long, made of the finest linen, with little rosy cheeks, and a fine little wig of flax. she wore a blue wool frock and a red cloak. sarah held her close. she even drew a fold of her own blue homespun blanket around her to shield her from the november wind. the sky was low and gray; the wind blew from the northeast, and had the breath of snow in it. submit on the wall drew her quilted petticoats close down over her feet, and huddled herself into a small space, but her face gleamed keen and resolute out of the depths of a great red hood that belonged to her mother. her eyes were fixed upon a turkey-gobbler ruffling and bobbing around the back door of the adams house. the two gambrel-roofed thompson and adams houses were built as close together as if the little village of bridgewater were a city. acres of land stretched behind them and at the other sides, but they stood close to the road, and close to each other. the narrow space between them was divided by a stone wall which was submit's and sarah's trysting-place. they met there every day and exchanged confidences. they loved each other like sisters--neither of them had an own sister--but to-day a spirit of rivalry had arisen. [footnote : from _harper's young people_, november , .] the tough dry blackberry vines on the wall twisted around submit; she looked, with her circle of red petticoat, like some strange late flower blooming out on the wall. "i know he don't, sarah adams," said she. "father said he'd weigh twenty pounds," returned sarah, in a small, weak voice, which still had persistency in it. "i don't believe he will. our thanksgiving turkey is twice as big. you know he is, sarah adams." "no, i don't, submit thompson." "yes, you do." sarah lowered her chin, and shook her head with a decision that was beyond words. she was a thin, delicate-looking little girl, her small blue-clad figure bent before the wind, but there was resolution in her high forehead and her sharp chin. submit nodded violently. sarah shook her head again. she hugged thankful, and shook her head, with her eyes still staring defiantly into submit's hood. submit's black eyes in the depths of it were like two sparks. she nodded vehemently; the gesture was not enough for her; she nodded and spoke together. "sarah adams," said she, "what will you give me if our turkey is bigger than your turkey?" "it ain't." "what will you give me if it is?" sarah stared at submit. "i don't know what you mean, submit thompson," said she, with a stately and puzzled air. "well, i'll tell you. if your turkey weighs more than ours i'll give you--i'll give you my little work-box with the picture on the top, and if our turkey weighs more than yours you give me--what will you give me, sarah adams?" sarah hung her flaxen head with a troubled air. "i don't know," said she. "i don't believe i've got anything mother would be willing to have me give away." "there's thankful. your mother wouldn't care if you gave her away." sarah started, and hugged thankful closer. "yes, my mother would care, too," said she. "don't you know my aunt rose from boston made her and gave her to me?" sarah's beautiful young aunt rose from boston was the special admiration of both the little girls. submit was ordinarily impressed by her name, but now she took it coolly. "what if she did?" she returned. "she can make another. it's just made out of a piece of old linen, anyhow. my work-box is real handsome; but you can do just as you are a mind to." "do you mean i can have the work-box to keep?" inquired sarah. "course i do, if your turkey's bigger." sarah hesitated. "our turkey is bigger anyhow," she murmured. "don't you think i ought to ask mother, submit?" she inquired suddenly. "no! what for? i don't see anything to ask your mother for. she won't care anything about that rag doll." "ain't you going to ask your mother about the work-box?" "no," replied submit stoutly. "it's mine; my grandmother gave it to me." sarah reflected. "i _know_ our turkey is the biggest," she said, looking lovingly at thankful, as if to justify herself to her. "well, i don't care," she added, finally. "will you?" "yes." "when's yours going to be killed?" "this afternoon." "so's ours. then we'll find out." sarah tucked thankful closer under her shawl. "i know our turkey is biggest," said she. she looked very sober, although her voice was defiant. just then the great turkey came swinging through the yard. he held up his head proudly and gobbled. his every feather stood out in the wind. he seemed enormous--a perfect giant among turkeys. "_look_ at him!" said sarah, edging a little closer to the wall; she was rather afraid of him. "he ain't half so big as ours," returned submit, stoutly; but her heart sank. the thompson turkey did look very large. "submit! submit!" called a voice from the thompson house. submit slowly got down from the wall. "his feathers are a good deal thicker than ours," she said, defiantly, to sarah. "submit," called the voice, "come right home! i want you to pare apples for the pies. be quick!" "yes, marm," submit answered back, in a shrill voice; "i'm coming!" then she went across the yard and into the kitchen door of the thompson house, like a red robin into a nest. submit had been taught to obey her mother promptly. mrs. thompson was a decided woman. sarah looked after submit, then she gathered thankful closer, and also went into the house. her mother, as well as mrs. thompson, was preparing for thanksgiving. the great kitchen was all of a pleasant litter with pie plates and cake pans and mixing bowls, and full of warm, spicy odours. the oven in the chimney was all heated and ready for a batch of apple and pumpkin pies. mrs. adams was busy sliding them in, but she stopped to look at sarah and thankful. sarah was her only child. "why, what makes you look so sober?" said she. "nothing," replied sarah. she had taken off her blanket, and sat in one of the straight-backed kitchen chairs, holding thankful. "you look dreadful sober," said her mother. "are you tired?" "no, marm." "i'm afraid you've got cold standing out there in the wind. do you feel chilly?" "no, marm. mother, how much do you suppose our turkey weighs?" "i believe father said he'd weigh about twenty pounds. you are sure you don't feel chilly?" "no, marm. mother, do you suppose our turkey weighs more than submit's?" "how do you suppose i can tell? i ain't set eyes on their turkey lately. if you feel well, you'd better sit up to the table and stone that bowl of raisins. put your dolly away, and get your apron." but sarah stoned raisins with thankful in her lap, hidden under her apron. she was so full of anxiety that she could not bear to put her away. suppose the thompson turkey should be larger, and she should lose thankful--thankful that her beautiful aunt rose had made for her? submit, over in the thompson house, had sat down at once to her apple paring. she had not gone into the best room to look at the work-box whose possession she had hazarded. it stood in there on the table, made of yellow satiny wood, with a sliding lid ornamented with a beautiful little picture. submit had a certain pride in it, but her fear of losing it was not equal to her hope of possessing thankful. submit had never had a doll, except a few plebeian ones, manufactured secretly out of corncobs, whom it took more imagination than she possessed to admire. gradually all emulation over the turkeys was lost in the naughty covetousness of her little friend and neighbour's doll. submit felt shocked and guilty, but she sat there paring the baldwin apples, and thinking to herself: "if our turkey is only bigger, if it only is, then--i shall have thankful." her mouth was pursed up and her eyes snapped. she did not talk at all, but pared very fast. her mother looked at her. "if you don't take care, you'll cut your fingers," said she. "you are in too much of a hurry. i suppose you want to get out and gossip with sarah again at the wall, but i can't let you waste any more time to-day. there, i told you you would!" submit had cut her thumb quite severely. she choked a little when her mother tied it up, and put on some balm of gilead, which made it smart worse. "don't cry!" said her mother. "you'll have to bear more than a cut thumb if you live." [illustration: "how much do you suppose our turkey weighs?"] and submit did not let the tears fall. she came from a brave race. her great-grandfather had fought in the revolution; his sword and regimentals were packed in the fine carved chest in the best room. over the kitchen shelf hung an old musket with which her great-grandmother, guarding her home and children, had shot an indian. in a little closet beside the chimney was an old pewter dish full of homemade revolutionary bullets, which submit and her brothers had for playthings. a little girl who played with revolutionary bullets ought not to cry over a cut thumb. submit finished paring the apples after her thumb was tied up, although she was rather awkward about it. then she pounded spices in the mortar, and picked over cranberries. her mother kept her busy every minute until dinnertime. when submit's father and her two brothers, thomas and jonas, had come in, she began on the subject nearest her heart. "father," said she, "how much do you think our thanksgiving turkey will weigh?" mr. thompson was a deliberate man. he looked at her a minute before replying. "seventeen or eighteen pounds," replied he. "oh, father! don't you think he will weigh twenty?" mr. thompson shook his head. "he don't begin to weigh so much as the adams' turkey," said jonas. "their turkey weighs twenty pounds." "oh, thomas! do you think their turkey weighs more than ours?" cried submit. thomas was her elder brother; he had a sober, judicial air like his father. "their turkey weighs considerable more than ours," said he. submit's face fell. "you are not showing a right spirit," said her mother, severely. "why should you care if the adams' turkey does weigh more? i am ashamed of you!" submit said no more. she ate her dinner soberly. afterward she wiped dishes while her mother washed. all the time she was listening. her father and brothers had gone out; presently she started. "oh, mother, they're killing the turkey!" said she. "well, don't stop while the dishes are hot, if they are," returned her mother. submit wiped obediently, but as soon as the dishes were set away, she stole out in the barn where her father and brothers were picking the turkey. "father, when are you going to weigh him?" she asked timidly. "not till to-night," said her father. "submit!" called her mother. submit went in and swept the kitchen floor. it was an hour after that, when her mother was in the south room, getting it ready for her grandparents, who were coming home to thanksgiving--they had been on a visit to their youngest son--that submit crept slyly into the pantry. the turkey lay there on the broad shelf before the window. submit looked at him. she thought he was small. "he was 'most all feathers," she whispered, ruefully. she stood looking disconsolately at the turkey. suddenly her eyes flashed and a red flush came over her face. it was as if satan, coming into that godly new england home three days before thanksgiving, had whispered in her ear. presently submit stole softly back into the kitchen, set a chair before the chimney cupboard, climbed up, and got the pewter dish full of revolutionary bullets. then she stole back to the pantry and emptied the bullets into the turkey's crop. then she got a needle and thread from her mother's basket, sewed up the crop carefully, and set the empty dish back in the cupboard. she had just stepped down out of the chair when her brother jonas came in. "submit," said he, "let's have one game of odd or even with the bullets." "i am too busy," said submit. "i've got to spin my stint." "just one game. mother won't care." "no; i can't." submit flew to her spinning wheel in the corner. jonas, still remonstrating, strolled into the pantry. "i don't believe mother wants you in there," submit said anxiously. "see here, submit," jonas called out in an eager voice, "i'll get the steelyards, and we'll weigh the turkey. we can do it as well as anybody." submit left her spinning wheel. she was quite pale with trepidation when jonas and she adjusted the turkey in the steelyards. what if those bullets should rattle out? but they did not. "he weighs twenty pounds and a quarter," announced jonas, with a gasp, after peering anxiously at the figures. "he's the biggest turkey that was ever raised in these parts." jonas exulted a great deal, but submit did not say much. as soon as jonas had laid the turkey back on the shelf and gone out, she watched her chance and removed the bullets, replacing them in the pewter dish. when mr. thompson and thomas came home at twilight there was a deal of talk over the turkey. "the adams' turkey doesn't weigh but nineteen pounds," jonas announced. "sarah was out there when they weighed him, and she 'most cried." "i think sarah and submit and all of you are very foolish about it," said mrs. thompson severely. "what difference does it make if one weighs a pound or two more than the other, if there is enough to go round?" "submit looks as if she was sorry ours weighed the most now," said jonas. "my thumb aches," said submit. "go and get the balm of gilead bottle, and put some more on," ordered her mother. that night when she went to bed she could not say her prayers. when she woke in the morning it was with a strange, terrified feeling, as if she had climbed a wall into some unknown dreadful land. she wondered if sarah would bring thankful over; she dreaded to see her coming, but she did not come. submit herself did not stir out of the house all that day or the next, and sarah did not bring thankful until next morning. they were all out in the kitchen about an hour before dinner. grandfather thompson sat in his old armchair at one corner of the fireplace, grandmother thompson was knitting, and jonas and submit were cracking butternuts. submit was a little happier this morning. she thought sarah would never bring thankful, and so she had not done so much harm by cheating in the weight of the turkey. there was a tug at the latch of the kitchen door; it was pushed open slowly and painfully, and sarah entered with thankful in her arms. she said not a word to anybody, but her little face was full of woe. she went straight to submit, and laid thankful in her lap; then she turned and fled with a great sob. the door slammed after her. all the thompsons stopped and looked at submit. "submit, what does this mean?" her father asked. submit looked at him, trembling. "speak," said he. "submit, mind your father," said mrs. thompson. "what did she bring you the doll baby for?" asked grandmother thompson. "sarah--was going to give me thankful if--our turkey weighed most, and i was going to--give her my work-box if hers weighed most," said submit jerkily. her lips felt stiff. her father looked very sober and stern. he turned to his father. when grandfather thompson was at home, every one deferred to him. even at eighty he was the recognized head of the house. he was a wonderful old man, tall and soldierly, and full of a grave dignity. he looked at submit, and she shrank. "do you know," said he, "that you have been conducting yourself like unto the brawlers in the taverns and ale-houses?" "yes, sir," murmured submit, although she did not know what he meant. "no godly maid who heeds her elders will take part in any such foolish and sinful wager," her grandfather continued. submit arose, hugging thankful convulsively. she glanced wildly at her great-grandmother's musket over the shelf. the same spirit that had aimed it at the indian possessed her, and she spoke out quite clearly: "our turkey didn't weigh the most," said she. "i put the revolutionary bullets in his crop." there was silence. submit's heart beat so hard that thankful quivered. "go upstairs to your chamber, submit," said her mother, "and you need not come down to dinner. jonas, take that doll and carry it over to the adams' house." submit crept miserably out of the room, and jonas carried thankful across the yard to sarah. submit crouched beside her little square window set with tiny panes of glass, and watched him. she did not cry. she was very miserable, but confession had awakened a salutary smart in her soul, like the balm of gilead on her cut thumb. she was not so unhappy as she had been. she wondered if her father would whip her, and she made up her mind not to cry if he did. after jonas came back she still crouched at the window. exactly opposite in the adams' house was another little square window, and that lighted sarah's chamber. all of a sudden sarah's face appeared there. the two little girls stared pitifully at each other. presently sarah raised her window, and put a stick under it; then submit did the same. they put their faces out, and looked at each other a minute before speaking. sarah's face was streaming with tears. "what you crying for?" called submit softly. "father sent me up here 'cause it is sinful to--make bets, and aunt rose has come, and i can't have any--thanksgiving dinner," wailed sarah. "i'm wickeder than you," said submit. "i put the revolutionary bullets in the turkey to make it weigh more than yours. yours weighed the most. if mother thinks it's right, i'll give you the work-box." "i don't--want it," sobbed sarah. "i'm dreadful sorry you've got to stay up there, and can't have any dinner, submit." answering tears sprang to submit's eyes. "i'm dreadful sorry you've got to stay up there, and can't have any dinner," she sobbed back. there was a touch on her shoulder. she looked around and there stood the grandmother. she was trying to look severe, but she was beaming kindly on her. her fat, fair old face was as gentle as the mercy that tempers justice; her horn spectacles and her knitting needles and the gold beads on her neck all shone in the sunlight. "you had better come downstairs, child," said she. "dinner's 'most ready, and mebbe you can help your mother. your father isn't going to whip you this time, because you told the truth about it, but you mustn't ever do such a dreadful wicked thing again." "no, i won't," sobbed submit. she looked across, and there beside sarah's face in the window was another beautiful smiling one. it had pink cheeks and sweet black eyes and black curls, among which stood a high tortoise-shell comb. "oh, submit!" sarah called out, joyfully, "aunt rose says i can go down to dinner!" "grandmother says i can!" called back submit. the beautiful smiling face opposite leaned close to sarah's for a minute. "oh, submit!" cried sarah, "aunt rose says she will make you a doll baby like thankful, if your mother's willing!" "i guess she'll be willing if she's a good girl," called grandmother thompson. submit looked across a second in speechless radiance. then the faces vanished from the two little windows, and submit and sarah went down to their thanksgiving dinners. beetle ring's thanksgiving mascot[ ] by sheldon c. stoddard. beetle ring had the reputation of being the toughest lumber camp on the river. the boys were certainly rough, and rather hard drinkers, but their hearts were in the right place, after all. six months of idleness following a long run of fever, a lost position, and consequent discouragement had brought poverty and wretchedness to joe bennett. the lumber camp on the featherstone, where he had been at work, had broken up and gone, and an old shack, deserted by some hunter, and now standing alone in the great woods, was the only home he could provide for his little family. it had answered its purpose as a makeshift in the warm weather, but now, in late november, and with the terrible northern winter coming swiftly on, it was small wonder the young lumberman had been discouraged as he tried to forecast the future. his strength had returned, however, and lately something of his old courage, for he had found work. it was fifteen miles away, to be sure, and in "beetle ring" lumber camp, the camp that bore the reputation of being the roughest on the featherstone, but it was work. [footnote : from the _youth's companion_, november , .] he was earning something, and might hope soon to move his family into a habitable house and civilization. but his position at beetle ring was not an enviable one. the men took scant pains to conceal their dislike for the young fellow who steadfastly refused to "chip in" when the camp jug was sent to the skylark, the nearest saloon, some miles down the river, and who invariably declined to join in the camp's numerous sprees. but bennett worked on quietly. and in the meantime to the old shack in the woods the baby had come--in the bleak november weather. night was settling down over the woods. an old half-breed woman was tending the fire in the one room of the shack, and on the wretched bed lay a fair-faced woman, the young wife and mother, who looked wistfully out at the bleak woods, white with the first snow, then turned her wan, pale face toward the tiny bundle at her side. "your pappy will come to-night, baby," she said, softly. "it's saturday, and your pappy will come to-night, sure." she drew the covers more closely, and tucked them carefully about the small figure. "mend the fire, lisette, please. it's cold. and, lisette, please watch out down the road. sometimes joe comes early saturdays." the old woman shook her head and muttered over the little pile of wood, but she fed the fire, and then turned and looked down the long white trail. "no joe yet," she said, with a sympathetic glance toward the bed. she looked at the thick gray clouds, and added, "heap snow soon." but the night came down and the evening passed, while the women waited anxiously. it was near midnight when the wife's face lighted up suddenly at a sound outside, and directly there was a pounding, uncertain step on the threshold. the door opened and bennett came in clumsily. the woman's little glad cry of welcome was changed to one of apprehension at her husband's appearance. the resolute swing and bearing of the lumberman--that had returned as he regained his strength--were gone. he clumped across the room unsteadily on a pair of rude crutches, his left foot swathed in bandages--a big, ungainly bundle. "what is it, joe?" the wife asked anxiously. "just more of my precious luck, that's all, nannie." he threw off the old box coat and heavy cap, brushed the melting snow from his hair and beard, and without waiting to warm his chilled hands at the fire, hobbled to the bed and bent over the woman and the tiny bundle. "are you all right, nan?" he asked anxiously. "all right, joe; but i've been so worried!" "and the baby, nan?" the wife gently pushed back the covers and proudly brought to view a tiny pink and puckered face. "fine, joe. she's just as fine, isn't she?" a proud, happy light flickered for a moment in the man's eyes as he stooped to kiss the tiny face; then he shut his teeth hard and swallowed suddenly. "what is it, joe?" his wife asked, looking at the rudely bandaged foot. "cut it--nigh half off, and hurt the bone. it'll be weeks before i can do a stroke of work again. it means--i don't know what, and i daren't think what, nannie. the cook sewed it up." he glowered at the injured member savagely. his wife's face grew paler still, but she only asked tenderly, "how did you ever get here, joe?" "rode one of pose breem's hosses--his red roan." "fifteen miles on horseback with that foot? i should have thought it would have killed you, joe." "i had to come, nan," said the lumberman. "i didn't know how you were getting on, and i had to come." "i didn't suppose they'd let you have a horse, any of 'em, now sleighing's come." "they wouldn't--if i'd asked 'em. they don't seem to like me very well, and i didn't ask." his wife's big, wistful eyes were turned upon him in quick alarm. "i'm scared, joe, if you took a horse without asking. what'll they think? where is it, joe?" "don't ye worry, nan. i've sent the horse back by pikepole pete. he'll have him back before morning--pose won't miss him till then--and i wrote a note explaining. pose will be mad some, but he'll get over it." the young lumberman listened uneasily to the storm, which was increasing, looked at his wife's pale face a moment, and added: "i had to come, nan. i just had to." but the woman was only half reassured. "if anything should happen," she said, "if he shouldn't get it back, they'd think you--you stole it, and--" "there, there, nan!" broke in her husband, "don't be crossing bridges. pete'll take the horse back. i've done the fellow lots of favours, and he won't go back on me. don't worry, girl!" he moved the bandaged foot and winced, but not from the pain of the wound. the hard look grew deeper on his face. "i'm down on my luck, nan," he said, hopelessly. "there's no use trying. everything's against me, everything--following me like grim death. and grim death," he jerked the words out harshly, "is like to be the end of it, here in this old shack that's not fit to winter hogs in, let alone humans. there's not wood enough cut to last a week. you'll freeze, nan, you and the baby, and i'm--just nothing." he took two silver dollars from his pocket, and said, almost savagely, "there's what we've got to winter on, and me crippled." but his wife put her hand on his softly. "don't you give up so, joe," she said. and presently she added: "next thursday's thanksgiving. we've seen hard times, and we may see harder, but i never knew thanksgiving to come yet without something to be thankful for--never." outside the storm continued, fine snow sifting down rapidly. "pikepole pete" found stiff work facing it, and bent low over the red roan's neck. "blue blazes!" he muttered. "bennett's a good fellow all right, and he's hurt; but if he hadn't nigh saved my life twice he could get this critter back himself fer all of me!" he glanced at the dark woods and drew up suddenly. "the road forks here, and turner's is yonder--less than a mile. i'll hitch in his barn a spell and go on later," and he took the turner fork. but at turner's pete found two or three congenial spirits--and a jug; and a few hours later the easy-going fellow was deep in a tipsy sleep that would last for hours. the following sunday morning came bright and clear upon freshly fallen snow that softened all the ruder outlines of town and field and woods. beetle ring camp lay wrapped in fleecy whiteness. the camp was late astir, for sunday was beetle ring's day--not of rest, but of carousal. two men had started out rather early--the camp's jug delegation to the skylark. presently the men began to straggle out to the snug row of sheds where the horses were kept. posey breem yawned lazily as he threw open the door of his particular stall, then suddenly brought himself together with a jerk and stared fixedly. "what ails you now, pose? seen a ghost?" "skid" thomson stopped with the big measure of feed which he was carrying. "no, i've seen no ghost," said breem slowly, still staring. "look here, skid!" thomson looked into the stall, and nearly dropped the measure. "by george, pose!" he said. "by--george!" the news flew over the camp like wildfire. posey breem's red roan, the best horse in the camp, had been stolen! the burly lumbermen came hurrying from all directions. there was no doubt about it--the horse was gone, and the snow had covered every trace. there was absolutely no clue to follow. silently and sullenly the men filed in to breakfast. in a lumberman's eyes hardly a crime could exceed that of horse stealing. "what i want to know is," said breem, as he glanced sharply round the long room of the camp, "what's become of that yellow-haired jay--bennett?" "by george!" said skid thomson, "that's right! where is the critter?" "skipped!" said bill bates, sententiously, after a quick search had been made. "it's all plain enough now. i never liked the close-fisted critter." "nor i, either!" growled skid. "never chipped in with the boys, but was laying low just the same." "you won't catch him, either," said bates. "they're sharp--that kind. the critter knew 'twould snow and hide his tracks." "and i'd just sewed up his blamed foot!" muttered the cook in disgust. "maybe we'll catch him. up to fat pine two years ago," began breem, reminiscently, "big donovan had a horse stole. they caught the fellow." "yes, i remember," said skid thomson. "i was there. we caught him up north." the men nodded understandingly and approvingly. "wuth a hundred and fifty dollars, the roan was," said breem. beetle ring camp passed an uneasy day, the "jug" for once receiving scant attention. late in the afternoon "trapper john," an old half-breed who hunted and trapped about the woods, stopped at the camp to get warm. "didn't see anybody with a horse last night or this morning, eh, john?" asked posey breem. "um, yes," responded the old trapper, quickly. "saw um horse las' night--man ride--big foot--so." old john held out his arms in exaggerated illustration. beetle ring rose to its feet as one man. "what colour was the horse, john?" asked breem softly. "huh! can't see good after dark, but think um roan." breem looked slowly round the silent camp, and beetle ring grimly made ready for business. it was evening when the men stopped a few rods below the shack. a light shone out from a window, lighting up a little space in the sombre woods. "the fellow's got pals prob'bly," said posey breem. "you wait here while i do a little scouting." breem crept cautiously into the circle of light, and glancing through the uncurtained window, saw his man--with his "pals." he saw upon the miserable bed a woman with a thin, pale face and sad, wistful eyes, eyes that yet lighted up with a beautiful pride as they rested upon the man, who sat close by, holding a tiny bundle in his arms. the man shifted his position a little, so that the light fell upon the bundle, and then the watcher outside saw the sleeping face of a baby. there was a rumour in the camp that posey breem had not always been the man that he was--that a woman had once blessed his life. but since they had carried the young mother away, with her dead baby on her breast, to place the two in one deep grave together, he had gone steadily downward. with hungry eyes breem gazed at the scene in the poor little house, his thoughts flying backward over the years. a sudden sharp, impatient whistle roused him, and he strode hastily back to the waiting men. "well, pose?" interrogated skid impatiently. "he's there, all right," said breem, in a peculiar tone. "i ain't overmuch given to advising prowling round folks' houses, but you fellows just look in yonder." he jerked his head toward the shack. and a line of big, rough-looking men filed into the little illumined space, to come back presently silent and subdued. "now let's go home," said breem, turning his horse toward camp. "and your horse, pose?" questioned bates. "burn the horse!" said breem quickly. "d'ye think the like of yonder's a horse thief? i ain't worrying 'bout the horse." and the men rode back to camp silently. the next morning, when breem swung open the door of the stall, he was not surprised to find the red roan standing quietly by the side of his mate. a bit of crumpled paper was pinned to the blanket. breem read: i rode your horse. i had to. i'll surely make it right. bennett. "course he had to!" growled the lumberman, and he passed the paper round. "oncommon peart baby," said skid, at last. "dreadful cold shack, though!" muttered bates, conveying a quarter of a griddlecake to his mouth. "that's just it," said pose, scowling. "just let a stiff nip of winter come, and the woman yonder and the little critter, they'd freeze, that's what they'd do, in that old rattletrap." the men looked at one another in solemn assent. "and i've been thinking," continued breem, "since bennett there belonged to the camp, and since we kind of misused the fellow for being stingy--for which we ought to have been smashed with logs--that we have a kind of a claim on 'em, as 'twere, and they on us. and we must get 'em out of that yonder before they freeze plumb solid." he stopped inquiringly. "right as right," assented several. "and i've been thinking," said bates suddenly, "about that storeroom of ours. it's snug and warm, and there's a lot of room in it, and we can put a stove into it and--" but the rest of bates's suggestion was drowned in a round of applause. "and _i've_ been thinking, just a little," put in skid thomson, "and if i've figured correct, next thursday's thanksgiving--don't know as i've thought of it in ten years--and if we stir round sharp we can get things ready by then, and--well, 'twouldn't hurt beetle ring to celebrate for once--" but skid was also interrupted by a cheer. "and it's my firm belief," reflected bates with an air of profound conviction, "that that baby of bennett's was designed special and, as you might say, providential, for to be beetle ring's mascot. fat pine and horseshoe have 'em--mascots--to bring luck, and i've noticed beetle ring ain't had the luck lately it should have." bates paused, and the camp meditated in silent delight. thanksgiving morning was a cold one, but clear. more snow had fallen, and the deep, feathery whiteness stretched away until lost in the dark background of the pines and spruces. a wavering line of smoke rose over the roof of the little old shack in the woods. bennett was winding rags round the armpieces of the rough crutches. he had dragged in some short limbs the day before for fuel, but in so doing had broken open the wound, which gave him excruciating pain. "joe," said his wife, suddenly, "where are you going?" "i'm going to try for help, nan. we're out of nigh everything, and my foot no better." "you can't do it, joe. you--you'll die, if you try, joe, alone in the woods. oh, joe!" the look of hope that had never wholly left the woman's eyes was slowly fading out. "we'll all die if i don't try, nannie. i'm--" "huh!" suddenly exclaimed the old woman, peering out of the little window. "heap men, heap horses! look, see 'em come!" bennett turned hastily, and saw a long line of stalwart men and sturdy horses threshing resolutely through the deep snow and heading directly for the shack. he looked keenly at the men, and his face paled a little, but he said steadily, "it's the beetle ring men, nan." his wife gave a sharp cry. "it's the horse, joe! it's the horse! they're after you, joe, sure!" she caught her husband's arm. the men were now filling up the little space before the shack. directly there came a sounding knock. bennett opened the door to admit the burly frame of posey breem. he said quietly: "i'm here all right, pose, and i took your horse, but--" "burn the hoss!" said breem explosively. "that's all right. shake, pard!" he held out a brawny hand. bennett "shook" wonderingly. "wife, pard?" asked breem, gently, nodding toward the bed. bennett hastily introduced him. "kid, pard?" breem pointed a stubby finger at the little bundle. bennett nodded. the lumberman grinned delightedly, then coughed a little, and began awkwardly: "pard, th' boys over at beetle ring heard--as you might say, accidental"--breem coughed into his big hand--"about your folks over here, your wife _and_--the baby. they were powerful interested, specially about the baby. why, pard, some of the boys hain't seen a baby in ten years, and we thought as you belonged to the camp, maybe you and your wife would allow that the camp had a sort of claim on the little critter yonder." he eyed the tiny bundle wistfully. "and another thing that hit the boys, pard," he went on. "up at fat pine they got what they call a mascot, bein' a tame b'ar; an' up at horseshoe they got a mascot, bein' a goat. lots of camps have 'em--fetches luck. and the boys are sure that this baby of yours was designed special to be beetle ring's mascot. now, pard, beetle ring, as you know, ain't what you'd call a sunday-school, but the boys they'll behave. they fixed up that storeroom to beat all, nice bed, big stove, and lots of wood, and so on, and we've got a cow for the woman and baby. say, we want you powerful. got a sleigh fixed, hemlock boughs and a cover of robes and blankets, and skid'll drive careful. he's a master at drivin', skid is. you'll come, won't you? the boys are waitin'." big tears were in the woman's eyes as she turned toward her husband. "oh, joe," she said, and choked suddenly; but she pressed the baby tightly to her breast. "i knew 'twould come thanksgiving." "there, pard," said breem, after blowing his nose explosively, "you just see to wrappin' up the woman and the kid, and me and skid, being as you're hurt, you know, 'll tote 'em out to the sleigh." the young mother was soon placed carefully in the sleigh, the old woman following. but when skid thomson appeared in the door of the old shack, bearing a tiny form muffled up with wondrous care, the whole of beetle ring shouted. breem led up a spare horse for bennett's use. the latter stopped short, with a curious expression on his face. the horse was the red roan. but breem only said, his keen eyes twinkling: "under such circumstances as these, pard, you're welcome to all the hosses in beetle ring." with steady, practiced hand skid thomson guided his powerful team through the deep snow, over the rough forest road; and sometimes brawny arms carried the sleigh bodily over the roughest places. * * * * * at the close of the day an anxious consultation took place in the big main room of beetle ring, and presently two men appeared outside. they walked slowly toward what had been the camp's storeroom, but halted before the door hesitatingly. "you go in ahead, skid, and ask 'em," said breem, earnestly, to his companion. "no, go ahead yourself, pose. i'd be sure to calk a hoss or split a runner, or somethin'. go on!" breem knocked, and both went in. "all right, pard?" "right as right, pose," said joe bennett. "wife all right?" breem turned toward the bed, and mrs. bennett smiled up at him with happy eyes, and with a bit of colour already showing in her pale face. breem smiled back broadly. then he asked, "_and_, pard, the baby?" "peart as peart, pose." breem waited a little, twirling his cap, but receiving a sharp thump from thomson, went on: "the boys, pard, are anxious about the little critter. they're kind of hankering, pard, and, mum, if you are willin', and ain't 'fraid to trust her with us, why, we'd be mighty glad to tote her--just for a few minutes--over to camp. the boys are stiddy, all of 'em, stiddy as churches. they hain't soaked a mite to-day, mum, and they ain't goin' to; they've hove the jug into a snowdrift, and they'd take it kind, mum--if you are willin'." the woman, still smiling happily, was already wrapping up the baby. breem held up a warning finger when he returned a little later, and again smiled delightedly. "went to sleep a-totin'--if you'll believe it, the burned little critter!" he said, softly. "and," he added, "the boys, pard, are mighty pleased; and, mum, they thank you kindly. they say, the boys do, there ain't such a mascot as theirs in five hundred miles; they see luck comin', chunks of it, pard, already." and the big fellow went out and closed the door gently. mistress esteem elliott's molasses cake[ ] the story of a postponed thanksgiving[ ] by kate upson clark. older boys and girls who are familiar with "the courtship of miles standish" will enjoy the colonial flavour of this tale of . "obed!" called mistress achsah ely from her front porch, "step thee over to squire belding's, quick! here's a teacup! ask mistress belding for the loan of some molasses. nothing but molasses and hot water helps the baby when he is having such a turn of colic. beseems me he will have a fit! make haste, obed!" [footnote : from _wideawake_, november, , lothrop, lee & shepard company.] [footnote : the main facts in this story are strictly historical.] at that very moment squire belding's little daughter hitty was travelling toward mistress ely's for the purpose of borrowing molasses wherewith to sweeten a ginger cake. hitty and obed, who were of an age, met, compared notes, and then returned to their respective homes. shortly afterward both of them darted forth again, bound on the same errands as before, only in different directions. mr. chapin, the storekeeper, hadn't "set eyes on any molasses for a week. the river's frozen over so mean and solid," he said, "there's no knowing when there'll be any molasses in town." there had been very peculiar weather in colchester during this month of october, . first, on the th (old style), an unprecedently early date, had come a "terrible cold snap," lasting three days. this was followed by two days of phenomenal mildness. the river had frozen over during the "cold snap," and the ice had melted during the warm days, until, on the th, it was breaking up and preparing to go out to sea. in the night of the th had descended a frigid blast, colder than the original one. this had arrested the broken ice, piled it up in all sorts of fantastic forms, and congealed it till it looked like a rough alaskan glacier. after the cold wind had come a heavy snowstorm. all colchester lay under three feet of snow. footpaths and roads were broken out somewhat in the immediate village, but no farther. it was most unusual to have the river closed so early in the season, and consequently the winter supplies, which were secured from new london and norwich, had not been laid in. even mr. chapin, the storekeeper, was but poorly supplied with staples of which he ordinarily kept an abundance on hand. therefore when obed and hitty had made the tour of the neighbourhood they found but one family, that of deacon esteem elliott, the richest man in the place, which had any molasses. mistress elliott, in spite of her wealth, was said to be "none too free with her stuff," and she was not minded to lend any molasses under the circumstances, for "a trifling foolish" cake. obed's representation of the distress of the ely baby, however, appealed even to her, and she lent him a large spoonful of the precious liquid. that afternoon there was as much visiting about among the colchester housewives as the drifts permitted. such a state of things had never been known since the town was settled. no molasses! and thanksgiving appointed for the first thursday in november! pray what would thanksgiving amount to, they inquired, with no pumpkin pies, no baked beans, no molasses cake, no proper sweetening for the rum so freely used in those days? mistress esteem elliott was even more troubled than the rest of colchester, for was not her buxom daughter, and only child, prudence ann, to be married on thanksgiving day to the son of a great magnate in the neighbouring town of hebron? and was it not the intention to invite all of the aristocracy of both towns to be present at the marriage feast? mistress elliott accordingly pursued her way upon this tuesday afternoon, october , , over to mistress achsah ely's. there she found mistress belding, who, remembering mistress elliott's refusal to lend her molasses, was naturally somewhat chill in her manner. mistress elliott had scarcely pulled off her homespun leggings (made with stout and ample feet) and pulled out her knitting work, when mistress camberly, the parson's wife, a lady of robust habit and voluble tongue, came in. "and what are we going to do, mistress ely?" she burst out, as soon as the door was opened at her knock. "not a drop of molasses to be had for love nor money, and thanksgiving day set for the th of november!" "mistress elliott has a-plenty of molasses," affirmed mistress belding, with a haughty look at her unaccommodating neighbour. "i'd have you to know, mistress betty belding," retorted mistress elliott, "that i have a bare quart or so in my jug, and, so far as i can learn, that is all that the whole town of colchester has got to depend upon till the roads or the river can be broken to norwich." mistress ely well understood this little passage-at-arms, for obed had told her the whole story; but as her baby had been cured by mistress elliott's molasses, she did not think it proper to interfere in the matter. neither did the good parson's wife, although she could not comprehend the rights of the case. she simply repeated her first question: "what are we going to do about it, i should like to know?" "i wonder if thanksgiving day could not be put off a week," suggested mistress belding, who had a good head, and was even reported to give such advice to her husband that he always thought best to heed it. "such a thing was never heard of!" cried mistress elliott. "but there's no law against it," insisted mistress belding boldly. "by a week from the set day there will surely be some means of getting about the country, and then we can have a thanksgiving that's worth the setting down to." after a long talk the good women separated in some doubt, but as squire belding and mr. ely were two of the three selectmen, they were soon acquainted with the drift of the afternoon's discussion. the result of it all is thus chronicled in the town records of colchester: "at a legal town-meeting held in colchester, october , , it was voted that whereas there was a thanksgiving appointed to be held on the first thursday in november, and our present circumstances being such that it cannot with convenience be attended on that day, it is therefore voted and agreed by the inhabitants as aforesaid (concluding the thing will not be otherwise than well resented) that the second thursday of november aforesaid shall be set aside for that service." this proceeding was, on the whole, as the selectmen had hoped that it would be, "well resented" among the colchester people, but there was one household in which there was rebellion at the mandate. in the great sanded kitchen of deacon esteem elliott pretty, spoilt prudence ann was fairly raging over it. "i had set my heart on being married on thanksgiving day," she sobbed, "and here it won't be thanksgiving day at all! and as for putting off a wedding, everybody knows there is no surer way of bringing ill luck down than that! i say i won't have it put off! but we can't have any party with no molasses in town! oh, dear! i might as well be married in the back kitchen with a linsey gown on, as if i were the daughter of old betty, the pie woman! there!" then the proud girl would break into fresh sobs, and vow vengeance upon the selectmen of colchester. she even sent her father to expostulate with them, but it was of no use. they had known all along that the elliotts did not want the festival day put off, but nobody in colchester minded very much if the elliotts were a little crossed. prudence ann would not face the reality till after the sabbath was past. on that day the expectant bridegroom managed to break his way through the drifts from hebron, and he was truly grieved, as he should have been, at the very unhappy state of mind of his betrothed. he avowed himself, however, in a way which augured well for the young people's future, ready to do just what prudence ann and her family decided was best. on monday morning mistress elliott sat down with her unreasonable daughter and had a serious talk with her. "now, prudence ann," she began, "you must give up crying and fretting. if you are going to be married on thursday, we have got a great deal of work to do between now and then. if you are going to wait till next week, i want to know it. of course you can't have a large party, if you choose to be married on the th, but we will ask john's folks and aunt susanna and uncle martin and parson camberley and his wife. we can bake enough for them with what's in the house. if you wait another week, you can probably have a better party--and now you have it all in a nutshell." prudence ann was hysterical even yet, but at last her terror of a postponed wedding overcame every other consideration. the day was set for the th, and the few guests were bidden accordingly. on the morning of the wedding, on a neat shelf in the back kitchen of the elliott residence, various delicacies were resting, which had been baked for the banquet. mistress elliott's molasses had sufficed to make a vast cake and several pumpkin pies. these, hot from the oven, had been placed in the coolness of the back kitchen until they should be ready for eating. it so happened that miss hitty belding's sharp eyes, as she passed mistress elliott's back door, bound on an errand to the house of the neighbour living just beyond, fell upon the rich golden brown of this wonderful cake. as such toothsome dainties were rare in colchester at just this time, it is not strange that her childish soul coveted it, for hitty was but ten years old. as she walked on she met obed ely. "i tell you what, obed," said miss hitty, "you ought to see the great molasses cake which mistress elliott has made for prudence ann's wedding. it is in her back kitchen. i saw it right by the door. mean old thing! she wouldn't lend my mother any molasses to make _us_ a cake. i wish i had hers!" "so do i!" rejoined obed, with watering lips. "i'm going to peek in and see it." obed went and "peeked," while hitty sauntered slowly on. the contemplation of the cake under the circumstances was too much for even so well-brought-up a boy as obed. without stopping to really think what he was doing, he unwound from his neck his great woollen "comforter," wrapped it hastily around the cake, and was walking with it beside hitty in the lonely, drifted country road five minutes later. the hearts of the two little conspirators--for they felt guilty enough--beat very hard, but they could not help thinking how good that cake would taste. a certain goodsir canty's cornhouse stood near them in a clump of trees beside the road, and as the door was open they crept in, gulped down great "chunks" of cake, distributed vast slices of what was left about their persons, obed taking by far the lion's share, and then they parted, vowing eternal secrecy. nobody had seen them, and something which happened just after they had left mistress elliott's back kitchen directed suspicion to an entirely different quarter. not two minutes after obed's "comforter" had been thrown around the great cake a beautiful calf, the pride of mistress elliott's heart, and which was usually kept tied in the barn just beyond the back kitchen, somehow unfastened her rope and came strolling along past the open back door. the odour of the pumpkin pies naturally interested her, and she proceeded to lick up the delicious creamy filling of one after another with great zest. just as she was finishing the very last one of the four or five which had stood there, mistress elliott appeared upon the scene, to find her precious dainties faded like the baseless fabric of a vision, leaving behind them only a few broken bits of pie crust. a series of "short, sharp shocks" (as described in "the mikado") then rent the air, summoning prudence ann and delcy, the maid, to the scene of the calamity. let us draw a veil over the succeeding ten minutes. at the end of that time prudence ann lay upon the sitting-room lounge (or "settle," as they called it then) passing from one fainting fit into another, and delcy was out in search of the doctor and such family friends as were likely to be of service in this unexpected dilemma. it was, of course, supposed that the calf had devoured the whole of the mighty cake as well as the pies. it was lucky for obed and hitty that the poor beast could not speak. as it was, nobody so much as thought of accusing them of the theft, though there were plenty of crumbs in their pockets, while the death of the innocent heifer was loudly demanded by the angry prudence ann. it was only by artifice and diplomacy that mistress elliott was able to preserve the life of her favourite, which, if it had really eaten the cake, must surely have perished. the wedding finally came off on the th, though there was a pouting bride, and nuts, apples, and cider were said to be the chief refreshments. prudence ann, however, probably secured the "good luck" for which she was so anxious, for there is no record nor tradition to the contrary in all colchester. nothing would probably ever have been known of the real fate of the famous cake if the tale had not been told by mistress hitty in her old age to her grandchildren, with appropriate warnings to them never to commit similar misdemeanours themselves. little obed ely, the active agent in the theft, died not long after it. his tombstone, very black and crumbled, stands in one of the old burying grounds of the town, but nothing is carved upon it as to the cause of his early death. the story of the colchester molasses famine, and the consequent postponement of their thanksgiving, naturally spread throughout all the surrounding towns. it was said that in one of these a party of roguish boys loaded an old cannon with molasses and fired it in the direction of colchester. how they did this has not been stated, and some irreverent disbelievers in the more uncommon of our grandfathers' stories have profanely declared it a myth. the first thanksgiving[ ] by albert f. blaisdell and francis k. ball. a story of the time long ago when the pilgrims of plymouth invited the indian chief massasoit and his followers to share their feast. all through the first summer and the early part of autumn the pilgrims were busy and happy. they had planted and cared for their first fields of corn. they had found wild strawberries in the meadows, raspberries on the hillsides, and wild grapes in the woods. [footnote : from "short stories from american history," ginn & co.] in the forest just back of the village wild turkeys and deer were easily shot. in the shallow waters of the bay there was plenty of fish, clams, and lobsters. the summer had been warm, with a good deal of rain and much sunshine; and so when the autumn came there was a fine crop of corn. "let us gather the fruits of our first labours and rejoice together," said governor bradford. "yes," said elder brewster, "let us take a day upon which we may thank god for all our blessings, and invite to it our indian friends who have been so kind to us." the pilgrims said that one day was not enough; so they planned to have a celebration for a whole week. this took place most likely in october. the great indian chief, massasoit, came with ninety of his bravest warriors, all gayly dressed in deerskins, feathers, and foxtails, with their faces smeared with red, white, and yellow paint. as a sign of rank, massasoit wore round his neck a string of bones and a bag of tobacco. in his belt he carried a long knife. his face was painted red, and his hair was so daubed with oil that governor bradford said he "looked greasily." now there were only eleven buildings in the whole of plymouth village, four log storehouses and seven little log dwelling-houses; so the indian guests ate and slept out of doors. this was no matter, for it was one of those warm weeks in the season we call indian summer. to supply meat for the occasion four men had already been sent out to hunt wild turkeys. they killed enough in one day to last the whole company almost a week. massasoit helped the feast along by sending some of his best hunters into the woods. they killed five deer, which they gave to their paleface friends, that all might have enough to eat. under the trees were built long, rude tables on which were piled baked clams, broiled fish, roast turkey, and deer meat. the young pilgrim women helped serve the food to the hungry redskins. let us remember two of the fair girls who waited on the tables. one was mary chilton, who leaped from the boat at plymouth rock; the other was mary allerton. she lived for seventy-eight years after this first thanksgiving, and of those who came over in the _mayflower_ she was the last to die. what a merry time everybody had during that week! it may be they joked governor bradford about stepping into a deer trap set by the indians and being jerked up by the leg. how the women must have laughed as they told about the first monday morning at cape cod, when they all went ashore to wash their clothes! it must have been a big washing, for there had been no chance to do it at sea, so stormy had been the long voyage of sixty-three days. they little thought that monday would afterward be kept as washday. then there was young john howland, who in mid-ocean fell overboard but was quick enough to catch hold of a trailing rope. perhaps after dinner he invited elizabeth tilley, whom he afterward married, to sail over to clarke's island and return by moonlight. with them, it may be, went john alden and priscilla mullins, whose love story is so sweetly told by longfellow. one proud mother, we may be sure, showed her bright-eyed boy, peregrine white. and so the fun went on. in the daytime the young men ran races, played games, and had a shooting match. every night the indians sang and danced for their friends; and to make things still more lively they gave every now and then a shrill war whoop that made the woods echo in the still night air. the indians had already learned to love and fear captain miles standish. some of them called him "boiling water" because he was easily made angry. others called him "captain shrimp," on account of his small size. every morning the shrewd captain put on his armour and paraded his little company of a dozen or more soldiers; and when he fired off the cannon on burial hill the indians must have felt that the english were men of might thus to harness up thunder and lightning. during this week of fun and frolic it was a wonder if young jack billington did not play some prank on the indians. he was the boy who fired off his father's gun one day, close to a keg of gunpowder, in the crowded cabin of the _mayflower_. the third day came. massasoit had been well treated, and no doubt would have liked to stay longer, but he had said he could stay only three days. so the pipe of peace was silently passed around. then, taking their presents of glass beads and trinkets, the indian king and his warriors said farewell to their english friends and began their long tramp through the woods to their wigwams on mount hope bay. on the last day of this thanksgiving party the pilgrims had a service of prayer and praise. elder brewster preached the first thanksgiving sermon. after thanking god for all his goodness, he did not forget the many loved ones sleeping on the hillside. he spoke of noble john carver, the first governor, who had died of worry and overwork. nor was rose standish forgotten, the lovely young wife of captain miles standish, whose death was caused by cold and lack of good food. and then there was gentle dorothy, wife of governor bradford, who had fallen overboard from the _mayflower_ in provincetown harbour while her husband was coasting along the bleak shore in search of a place for a home. the first thanksgiving took place nearly three hundred years ago. since that time, almost without interruption, thanksgiving has been kept by the people of new england as the great family festival of the year. at this time children and grandchildren return to the old home, the long table is spread, and brothers and sisters, separated often by many miles, again sit side by side. to-day thanksgiving is observed in nearly all the states of the union, a season of sweet and blessed memories. thanksgiving at todd's asylum[ ] by winthrop packard. many a chuckle lies in wait for the reader in the pages of this story. and the humour is of the sweet, mellow sort that sometimes brings moisture to the eyes as well as laughter to the lips. people said that if it had not been for that annuity eph todd would have been at the poor farm himself instead of setting up a rival to it; but there _was_ the annuity, and that was the beginning of todd's asylum. [footnote : from the _outlook_, november , .] no matter who or what you were, if you were in hard luck, todd's asylum was open to you. the no. district schoolhouse clock was a sample. for thirty years it had smiled from the wall upon successive generations of scholars, until, one day, bowed with years and infirmities, it had ceased to tick. it had been taken gently down, laid out on a desk in state for a day or two, and finally was in funeral procession to the rubbish heap when eph todd appeared. "you're not going to throw that good old clock away?" eph had asked of the committeeman who acted as bearer. "guess i'll have to," replied the other. "i've wound it up tight, put 'most a pint of kerosene in it, and shook it till i'm dizzy, and it won't tick a bit. guess the old clock's done for." "now see here," said eph; "you just let me have a try at it. let me take it home a spell." "oh, for that matter i'll give it to you," the committeeman replied. "we've bought another for the schoolhouse." a day or two after the old clock ticked away as soberly as ever on the wall of the todd kitchen. "took it home and boiled it in potash," eph used to say; "and there it is, just as good as it was thirty years ago." this was true, with restrictions, for enough enamel was gone from the face to make the exact location of the hour an uncertain thing; and there were days, when the wind was in the east, when the hour hand needed periodical assistance. "it wasn't much of a job," as eph said, "to reach up once an hour and send the hand along one space, and aunt tildy had to have something to look forward to." aunt tildy was the first inmate at todd's, and if eph had possessed no other recommendation to eternal beatitude, surely aunt tildy's prayers had been sufficient. she passed his house on her way to the poor farm on the very day that news of the legacy arrived, and eph had stopped the carriage and begged the overseer to leave her with him. "are you sure you can take care of her?" asked the overseer, doubtfully. "sure?" echoed eph with delight. "of course i'm sure. ain't i got four hundred dollars a year for the rest of my natural born days?" "he's a good fellow, eph todd," mused the overseer as he drove away, "but i never heard of his having any money." next day the news of the legacy was common property, and aunt tildy had been an inmate at todd's ever since. her gratitude knew no bounds, and she really managed to keep the house after a fashion, her chief care being the clock. then there was the heaven-born inventor. he had dissipated his substance in inventing an incubator that worked with wonderful success till the day the chickens were to come out, when it took fire and burned up, taking with it chickens, barn, house, and furniture, leaving the heaven-born inventor standing in the field, thinly clad, and with nothing left in the world but another incubator. with this he had shown up promptly at todd's, and there he had dwelt thenceforth, using a pretty fair portion of the annuity in further incubator experiments. with excellent sagacity, for him, eph had obliged the heaven-born inventor to keep his machine in a little shed behind the barn, so that when this one burned up there was time to get the horse and cow out before the barn burned, and the village fire department managed to save the house. repairing this loss made quite a hole in the annuity, and all the heaven-born inventor had to show for it was miltiades. he had put a single turkey's egg in with a previous hatch, and though he had raised nary chicken, and it was contrary to all rhyme and reason, the turkey's egg had hatched and the chick had grown up to be miltiades. miltiades was a big gobbler now, and had a right to be named ishmael, for his hand was against all men. he took care of himself, was never shut up nor handled, and led a wild, nomadic life. last of all came fisherman jones. he was old now and couldn't see very well, unable to go to the brook or pond to fish, but he still started out daily with the fine new rod and reel which the annuity had bought for him, and would sit out in the sun, joint his rod together, and fish in the dry pasture with perfect contentment. you would not think fisherman jones of much use, but it was he who caught miltiades and made the thanksgiving dinner possible. the new barn had exhausted the revenues completely, and there would be no more income until january st; but one must have a turkey for thanksgiving, and there was miltiades. to catch miltiades became the household problem, and the heaven-born inventor set wonderful traps for him, which caught almost everything but miltiades, who easily avoided them. eph used to go out daily before breakfast and chase miltiades, but he might as well have chased a government position. the turkey scorned him, and grew only wilder and tougher, till he had a lean and hungry look that would have shamed cassius. the day before thanksgiving it looked as if there would be no turkey dinner at todd's, but here fisherman jones stepped into the breach. it was a beautiful indian-summer day, and he hobbled out into the field for an afternoon's fishing. here he sat on a log, and began to make casts in the open. nearby, under a savin bush, lurked miltiades, and viewed these actions with the scorn of long familiarity. by and by fisherman jones kicked up a loose bit of bark, and disclosed beneath it a fine fat white grub, of the sort which blossoms into june beetles with the coming of spring. he was not so blind but that he saw this, and with a chuckle at the thoughts it called up, he baited his hook with it. a moment after, eph todd, coming out of the new barn, heard the click of a reel, and was astonished to see fisherman jones standing almost erect, his eyes blazing with the old-time fire, his rod bent, his reel buzzing, while at the end of a good forty feet of line was miltiades rushing in frantic strides for the woods. "good land!" said eph; "it's the turkey! snub him," he yelled. "don't let him get all the line on you! he's hooked! snub him! snub him!" the whir of the reel deadened now, and the stride of miltiades was perceptibly lessened and then became but a vigorous up-and-down hop, while the tense line sang in the gentle autumn breeze. "eph todd!" gasped fisherman jones, "this is the whoppingest old bass i ever hooked onto yet. beeswax, how he does pull!" and with the words fisherman jones went backward over the log, waving the pole and a pair of stiff legs in air. the turkey had suddenly slackened the line. "give him the butt! give him the butt!" roared eph, rushing up. even where he lay the fisherman blood in fisherman jones responded to this stirring appeal, and as the rod bent in a tense half circle a race began such as no elderly fisherman was ever the centre of before. round and round went miltiades, with the white grub in his crop, and the line above it gripped tightly in his strong beak; and round and round went eph todd, his outstretched arms waving like the turkey's wings, and his big boots denting the soft pasture turf with the vigour of his gallop. in the centre fisherman jones, too nearsighted to see what he had hooked, had risen on one knee, and revolved with the coursing bird, his soul wrapped in one idea: to keep the butt of his rod aimed at the whirling game. "hang to him! reel him in! we'll get him!" shouted eph; and, with the word, he caught his toe and vanished into the prickly depths of the savin bush, just as the heaven-born inventor came over the hill. it would be interesting to know just what scheme the heaven-born inventor would have put in motion for the capture of miltiades, but just then he stepped into one of his own extraordinary traps, set for the turkey of course, and, with one foot held fast, began to flounder about with cries of rage and dismay. this brought eph's head above the fringe of savin bush again, and now he beheld a wonderful sight. fisherman jones was again on his feet, staring in wild surprise at miltiades, whom he sighted for the first time, within ten feet of him. there was no pressure on the reel, and miltiades was swallowing the line in big gulps, evidently determined to have not only the white grub, but all that went with it. fisherman jones's cry of dismay was almost as bitter as that of the heaven-born inventor, who still writhed in his own trap. "oh, eph! eph!" he whimpered, "he's eating up my tackle! he's eating up my tackle!" "never mind!" shouted eph. "don't be afraid! i reckon he'll stop when he gets to the pole!" those of us who knew miltiades at his best have doubts as to this, but, fortunately, it was not put to the test. eph scrambled out of his bush, and, taking up the chase once more, soon brought it to an end, for fisherman jones, his nerve completely gone, could only stand and mumble sadly to himself, "he's eating up my tackle! he's eating up my tackle!" and the line, wrapping about his motionless form, led eph and the turkey in a brief spiral which ended in the conjunction of the three. it was not until the turkey was decapitated that eph remembered the heaven-born inventor and hastened to his rescue. he was still in the trap, but he was quite content, for he was figuring out a plan for an automatic release from the same, something which should hold the captive so long and then let him go in the interests of humanity. he found the trap from the captive's point of view very interesting and instructive. the tenacity of miltiades's make-up was further shown by the difficulty eph and fisherman jones had in separating him from his feathers that evening; and aunt tildy was so interested in the project of the heaven-born inventor to raise featherless turkeys that she forgot the yeast cake she had put to soak until it had been boiling merrily for some time. everything seemed to go wrong-end-to, and they all sat up so late that mrs. simpkins, across the way, was led to observe that "either some one was dead over at todd's or else they were having a family party"; and in a certain sense she was right both ways. the crowning misadventure came next morning. eph started for the village with his mind full of commissions from aunt tildy, some of which he was sure to forget, and in a great hurry lest he forget them all. he threw the harness hastily upon dobbin, hitched him into the wagon which had stood out on the soft ground overnight, and with an eager "get up, there!" gave him a slap with the reins. next moment there was a ripping sound, and the heaven-born inventor came to the door just in time to see the horse going out of the yard on a run, with eph following, still clinging to the reins, and taking strides much like those of baron munchausen's courier. "here, here!" called the inventor, "you've forgot the wagon. come back, eph! you've forgot the wagon!" "jeddediah jodkins!" said eph, as he swung an eccentric curve about the gatepost; "do you--whoa!--suppose i'm such a--whoa! whoa!--fool that i don't know that i'm not riding--whoa! in a--whoa! whoa!--wagon?" and with this eph vanished up street in the wake of the galloping horse, still clinging valiantly to the reins. "i believe he did forget that wagon," said the heaven-born inventor; "he's perfectly capable of it." but when he reached the barn he saw the trouble. the ground had frozen hard overnight, and the wagon wheels sunken in it were held as in a vise. eph had started the horse suddenly, and the obedient animal had walked right out of the shafts, harness and all. a half hour later eph was back with dobbin, unharmed but a trifle weary. it took an hour more and all aunt tildy's hot water to thaw out the wheels, and when it was done eph was so confused that he drove to the village and back and forgot every one of his commissions. and in the midst of all this the clock stopped. that settled the matter for aunt tildy. she neglected the pudding, she forgot the pies, and she let the turkey bake and bake in the overheated oven while she fretted about that clock; and when it was finally set going, after long and careful investigation by eph, and frantic but successful attempts on the part of aunt tildy to keep the heaven-born inventor from ruining it forever, it was the dinner hour. poor aunt tildy! that dinner was the crowning sorrow of her life. the vegetables were cooked to rags, the pies were charcoal shells, and the pudding had not been made. as for miltiades, he was ten times tougher than in life, and eph's carving knife slipped from his form without making a dent. aunt tildy wept at this, and fisherman jones and the inventor looked blank enough, but there was no sorrow in the countenance of eph. he cheered aunt tildy, and he cracked jokes that made even fisherman jones laugh. "why, bless you!" he said, "ever since i was a boy i've been looking for a chance to make a thanksgiving dinner out of bread and milk. and now i've got it. why, i wouldn't have missed this for anything!" and there came a knock at the door. even eph looked a trifle blank at this. if it should be company! "come in!" he called. the door was pushed aside and a big, steaming platter entered. it was upheld by a small boy, who stammered diffidently, "my moth-moth-mother thaid she wanted you to try thum of her nith turkey." "well, well!" said eph; "aunt tildy has cooked a turkey for us to-day, and she's a main good cook"--eph did not appear to see the signs the heaven-born inventor was making to him--"but i've heard that your mother does things pretty well, too. we're greatly obliged." and eph put the steaming platter on the table. "she thays you c-c-can thend the platter home to-morrow," stammered the boy, and stammering himself out, he ran into another. the other held high a big dish of plum pudding, from which a spicy aroma filled the room. again the heaven-born inventor made signs to eph. "our folks told me to ask if you wouldn't try this plum pudding," said the newcomer. "they made an extra one, and the cousins we expected didn't come, so we can spare it just as well as not." it seemed as if eph hesitated a moment, and the inventor's face became a panorama. then he took the boy by the hand, and there was an odd shake in his voice as he said: "i'm greatly obliged to you. we all are. something happened to our plum pudding, and we didn't have any. tell your ma we send our thanks." there was a sound of voices greeting in the hallway, and two young girls entered, each laden with a basket. "oh, mr. todd," they both said at once, "we couldn't wait to knock. we want you to try some of our thanksgiving. it was mother's birthday, and we cooked extra for that, and we've got so much. we can't get all ours onto the table. she'll feel real hurt if you don't." somehow eph couldn't say a word, but there was nothing the matter with the heaven-born inventor. his speech of delighted acceptance was such a good one that before he was half done the girls had loaded the table with good things, and, with smiles and nods and "good-byes," slipped out as rapidly and as gayly as they had come in. it was like a gust of wind from a summer garden. the table, but now so bare, fairly sagged and steamed with offerings of thanksgiving. somehow the steam got into eph's eyes and made them wet, till all he could do was to say whimsically: "there goes my last chance at a bread-and-milk thanksgiving." but now aunt tildy had the floor, with her faded face all alight. "eph todd," she said, "you needn't look so flustrated. it's nothing more than you deserve and not half so much either. ain't you the kindest man yourself that ever lived? ain't you always doing something for everybody, and helping every one of these neighbours in all sorts of ways? i'd like to know what the whole place would do without you! and now, just because they remember you on thanksgiving day, you look like--" the steam had got into aunt tildy's eyes now, and she sat down again just as there came another knock at the door, a timid sort of knock this time. the heaven-born inventor's face widened in beatified smiles of expectation at this, but eph looked him sternly in the eye. "jeddediah jodkins!" he said; "if that is any more people bringing things to eat to this house, they'll have to go away. we can't have it. we've got enough here now to feed a--a boarding school." the heaven-born inventor sprang eagerly to his feet. "don't you do it, eph," he said, "don't you do it. i've just thought of a way to can it." a thinly clad man and woman stood at the door which eph opened. both looked pale and tired, and the woman shivered. "can you tell me where i can get work," asked the man, doggedly, "so that i can earn a little something to eat? we are not beggars"--he flushed a little through his pallor--"but i have had no work lately, and we have eaten nothing since yesterday. we are looking--" the man stopped, and well he might, for eph was dancing wildly about the two, and hustling them into the house. "come in!" he shouted. "come in! come in! you're the folks we are waiting for! eat? why, goodness gra-cious! we've got so much to eat we don't know what to do with it." he had them in chairs in a moment and was piling steaming roast turkey on their plates. "there!" he said, "don't you say another word till you have filled up on that. folks"--and he returned to the others--"here's two friends that have come to stay a week with us and help eat turkey. fall to! this is going to be the pleasantest thanksgiving we've had yet." and thus two new inmates were added to todd's asylum. how we kept thanksgiving at oldtown[ ] by harriet beecher stowe. the old-time new england thanksgiving has been described many times, but never better then by the author of "uncle tom's cabin" in her less successful but more artistic novel, "oldtown folks," from which book the following narrative has been adapted. when the apples were all gathered and the cider was all made, and the yellow pumpkins were rolled in from many a hill in billows of gold, and the corn was husked, and the labours of the season were done, and the warm, late days of indian summer came in, dreamy and calm and still, with just frost enough to crisp the ground of a morning, but with warm trances of benignant, sunny hours at noon, there came over the community a sort of genial repose of spirit--a sense of something accomplished, and of a new golden mark made in advance on the calendar of life--and the deacon began to say to the minister, of a sunday, "i suppose it's about time for the thanksgiving proclamation." [footnote : adapted from "oldtown folks," houghton, mifflin co.] conversation at this time began to turn on high and solemn culinary mysteries and receipts of wondrous power and virtue. new modes of elaborating squash pies and quince tarts were now ofttimes carefully discussed at the evening firesides by aunt lois and aunt keziah, and notes seriously compared with the experiences of certain other aunties of high repute in such matters. i noticed that on these occasions their voices often fell into mysterious whispers, and that receipts of especial power and sanctity were communicated in tones so low as entirely to escape the vulgar ear. i still remember the solemn shake of the head with which my aunt lois conveyed to miss mehitable rossiter the critical properties of _mace_, in relation to its powers of producing in corn fritters a suggestive resemblance to oysters. as ours was an oyster-getting district, and as that charming bivalve was perfectly easy to come at, the interest of such an imitation can be accounted for only by the fondness of the human mind for works of art. for as much as a week beforehand, "we children" were employed in chopping mince for pies to a most wearisome fineness, and in pounding cinnamon, all-spice, and cloves in a great lignum-vitæ mortar; and the sound of this pounding and chopping reëchoed through all the rafters of the old house with a hearty and vigorous cheer most refreshing to our spirits. in those days there were none of the thousand ameliorations of the labours of housekeeping which have since arisen--no ground and prepared spices and sweet herbs; everything came into our hands in the rough, and in bulk, and the reducing of it into a state for use was deemed one of the appropriate labours of childhood. even the very salt that we used in cooking was rock salt, which we were required to wash and dry and pound and sift before it became fit for use. at other times of the year we sometimes murmured at these labours, but those that were supposed to usher in the great thanksgiving festival were always entered into with enthusiasm. there were signs of richness all around us--stoning of raisins, cutting of citron, slicing of candied orange peel. yet all these were only dawnings and intimations of what was coming during the week of real preparation, after the governor's proclamation had been read. the glories of that proclamation! we knew beforehand the sunday it was to be read, and walked to church with alacrity, filled with gorgeous and vague expectations. the cheering anticipation sustained us through what seemed to us the long waste of the sermon and prayers; and when at last the auspicious moment approached--when the last quaver of the last hymn had died out--the whole house rippled with a general movement of complacency, and a satisfied smile of pleased expectation might be seen gleaming on the faces of all the young people, like a ray of sunshine through a garden of flowers. thanksgiving now was dawning! we children poked one another, and fairly giggled with unreproved delight as we listened to the crackle of the slowly unfolding document. that great sheet of paper impressed us as something supernatural, by reason of its mighty size and by the broad seal of the state affixed thereto; and when the minister read therefrom, "by his excellency, the governor of the commonwealth of massachusetts, a proclamation," our mirth was with difficulty repressed by admonitory glances from our sympathetic elders. then, after a solemn enumeration of the benefits which the commonwealth had that year received at the hands of divine providence, came at last the naming of the eventful day, and, at the end of all, the imposing heraldic words, "god save the commonwealth of massachusetts." and then, as the congregation broke up and dispersed, all went their several ways with schemes of mirth and feasting in their heads. and now came on the week in earnest. in the very watches of the night preceding monday morning a preternatural stir below stairs and the thunder of the pounding barrel announced that the washing was to be got out of the way before daylight, so as to give "ample scope and room enough" for the more pleasing duties of the season. the making of _pies_ at this period assumed vast proportions that verged upon the sublime. pies were made by forties and fifties and hundreds, and made of everything on the earth and under the earth. the pie is an english institution, which, planted on american soil, forthwith ran rampant and burst forth into an untold variety of genera and species. not merely the old traditional mince pie, but a thousand strictly american seedlings from that main stock, evinced the power of american housewives to adapt old institutions to new uses. pumpkin pies, cranberry pies, huckleberry pies, cherry pies, green-currant pies, peach, pear, and plum pies, custard pies, apple pies, marlborough-pudding pies--pies with top crusts and pies without--pies adorned with all sorts of fanciful flutings and architectural strips laid across and around, and otherwise varied, attested the boundless fertility of the feminine mind when once let loose in a given direction. fancy the heat and vigour of the great pan formation, when aunt lois and aunt keziah, and my mother and grandmother, all in ecstasies of creative inspiration, ran, bustled, and hurried--mixing, rolling, tasting, consulting--alternately setting us children to work when anything could be made of us, and then chasing us all out of the kitchen when our misinformed childhood ventured to take too many liberties with sacred mysteries. then out we would all fly at the kitchen door, like sparks from a blacksmith's window. on these occasions, as there was a great looseness in the police department over us children, we usually found a ready refuge at miss mehitable's with tina,[ ] who, confident of the strength of her position with polly, invited us into the kitchen, and with the air of a mistress led us around to view the proceedings there. [footnote : tina was miss mehitable's adopted child; polly her faithful old maid-servant.] a genius for entertaining was one of tina's principal characteristics; and she did not fail to make free with raisins, or citrons, or whatever came to hand, in a spirit of hospitality at which polly seriously demurred. that worthy woman occasionally felt the inconvenience of the state of subjugation to which the little elf had somehow or other reduced her, and sometimes rattled her chains fiercely, scolding with a vigour which rather alarmed us, but which tina minded not a whit. confident of her own powers, she would, in the very midst of her wrath, mimic her to her face with such irresistible drollery as to cause the torrent of reproof to end in a dissonant laugh, accompanied by a submissive cry for quarter. "i declare, tina percival," she said to her one day, "you're saucy enough to physic a horn bug! i never did see the beater of you! if miss mehitable don't keep you in better order, i don't see what's to become of any of us!" "why, what did 'come of you before i came?" was the undismayed reply. "you know, polly, you and aunty both were just as lonesome as you could be till i came here, and you never had such pleasant times in your life as you've had since i've been here. you're a couple of old beauties, both of you, and know just how to get along with me. but come, boys, let's take our raisins and go up into the garret and play thanksgiving." in the corner of the great kitchen, during all these days, the jolly old oven roared and crackled in great volcanic billows of flame, snapping and gurgling as if the old fellow entered with joyful sympathy into the frolic of the hour; and then, his great heart being once warmed up, he brooded over successive generations of pies and cakes, which went in raw and came out cooked, till butteries and dressers and shelves and pantries were literally crowded with a jostling abundance. a great cold northern chamber, where the sun never shone, and where in winter the snow sifted in at the window cracks, and ice and frost reigned with undisputed sway, was fitted up to be the storehouse of these surplus treasures. there, frozen solid, and thus well preserved in their icy fetters, they formed a great repository for all the winter months; and the pies baked at thanksgiving often came out fresh and good with the violets of april. during this eventful preparation week all the female part of my grandmother's household, as i have before remarked, were at a height above any ordinary state of mind; they moved about the house rapt in a species of prophetic frenzy. it seemed to be considered a necessary feature of such festivals that everybody should be in a hurry, and everything in the house should be turned bottom upwards with enthusiasm--so at least we children understood it, and we certainly did our part to keep the ball rolling. at this period the constitutional activity of uncle fliakim increased to a degree that might fairly be called preternatural. thanksgiving time was the time for errands of mercy and beneficence through the country; and uncle fliakim's immortal old rubber horse and rattling wagon were on the full jump in tours of investigation into everybody's affairs in the region around. on returning, he would fly through our kitchen like the wind, leaving open the doors, upsetting whatever came in his way--now a pan of milk, and now a basin of mince--talking rapidly, and forgetting only the point in every case that gave it significance, or enabled any one to put it to any sort of use. when aunt lois checked his benevolent effusions by putting the test questions of practical efficiency, uncle fliakim always remembered that he'd "forgotten to inquire about that," and skipping through the kitchen, and springing into his old wagon, would rattle off again on a full tilt to correct and amend his investigations. moreover, my grandmother's kitchen at this time began to be haunted by those occasional hangers-on and retainers, of uncertain fortunes, whom a full experience of her bountiful habits led to expect something at her hand at this time of the year. all the poor, loafing tribes, indian and half-indian, who at other times wandered, selling baskets and other light wares, were sure to come back to oldtown a little before thanksgiving time, and report themselves in my grandmother's kitchen. the great hogshead of cider in the cellar, which my grandfather called the indian hogshead, was on tap at all hours of the day; and many a mugful did i draw and dispense to the tribes that basked in the sunshine at our door. aunt lois never had a hearty conviction of the propriety of these arrangements; but my grandmother, who had a prodigious verbal memory, bore down upon her with such strings of quotations from the old testament that she was utterly routed. "now," says my aunt lois, "i s'pose we've got to have betty poganut and sally wonsamug, and old obscue and his wife, and the whole tribe down, roosting around our doors till we give 'em something. that's just mother's way; she always keeps a whole generation at her heels." "how many times must i tell you, lois, to read your bible?" was my grandmother's rejoinder; and loud over the sound of pounding and chopping in the kitchen could be heard the voice of her quotations: "if there be among you a poor man in any of the gates of the land which the lord thy god giveth thee, thou shalt not harden thy heart, nor shut thy hand, from thy poor brother. thou shalt surely give him; and thy heart shall not be grieved when thou givest to him, because that for this thing the lord thy god shall bless thee in all thy works; for the poor shall never cease from out of the land." these words seemed to resound like a sort of heraldic proclamation to call around us all that softly shiftless class, who, for some reason or other, are never to be found with anything in hand at the moment that it is wanted. "there, to be sure," said aunt lois, one day when our preparations were in full blast; "there comes sam lawson down the hill, limpsy as ever; now he'll have his doleful story to tell, and mother'll give him one of the turkeys." and so, of course, it fell out. sam came in with his usual air of plaintive assurance, and seated himself a contemplative spectator in the chimney corner, regardless of the looks and signs of unwelcome on the part of aunt lois. "lordy massy, how prosperous everything does seem here!" he said in musing tones, over his inevitable mug of cider; "so different from what 'tis t' our house. there's hepsey, she's all in a stew, an' i've just been an' got her thirty-seven cents' wuth o' nutmegs, yet she says she's sure she don't see how she's to keep thanksgiving, an' she's down on me about it, just as ef 'twas my fault. yeh see, last winter our old gobbler got froze. you know, mis' badger, that 'ere cold night we hed last winter. wal, i was off with jake marshall that night; ye see, jake, he had to take old general dearborn's corpse into boston, to the family vault, and jake, he kind o' hated to go alone; 'twas a drefful cold time, and he ses to me,' sam, you jes' go 'long with me'; so i was sort o' sorry for him, and i kind o' thought i'd go 'long. wal, come 'long to josh bissel's tahvern, there at the halfway house, you know, 'twas so swingeing cold we stopped to take a little suthin' warmin', an' we sort o' sot an' sot over the fire, till, fust we knew, we kind o' got asleep; an' when we woke up we found we'd left the old general hitched up t' th' post pretty much all night. wal, didn't hurt him none, poor man; 'twas allers a favourite spot o' his'n. but, takin' one thing with another, i didn't get home till about noon next day, an' i tell you, hepsey she was right down on me. she said the baby was sick, and there hadn't been no wood split, nor the barn fastened up, nor nuthin'. lordy massy, i didn't mean no harm; i thought there was wood enough, and i thought likely hepsey'd git out an' fasten up the barn. but hepsey, she was in one o' her contrary streaks, an' she wouldn't do a thing; an' when i went out to look, why, sure 'nuff, there was our old tom-turkey froze as stiff as a stake--his claws jist a stickin' right straight up like this." here sam struck an expressive attitude, and looked so much like a frozen turkey as to give a pathetic reality to the picture. "well, now, sam, why need you be off on things that's none of your business?" said my grandmother. "i've talked to you plainly about that a great many times, sam," she continued, in tones of severe admonition. "hepsey is a hard-working woman, but she can't be expected to see to everything, and you oughter 'ave been at home that night to fasten up your own barn and look after your own creeturs." sam took the rebuke all the more meekly as he perceived the stiff black legs of a turkey poking out from under my grandmother's apron while she was delivering it. to be exhorted and told of his shortcomings, and then furnished with a turkey at thanksgiving, was a yearly part of his family program. in time he departed, not only with the turkey, but with us boys in procession after him, bearing a mince and a pumpkin pie for hepsey's children. "poor things!" my grandmother remarked; "they ought to have something good to eat thanksgiving day; 'tain't their fault that they've got a shiftless father." sam, in his turn, moralized to us children, as we walked beside him: "a body'd think that hepsey'd learn to trust in providence," he said, "but she don't. she allers has a thanksgiving dinner pervided; but that 'ere woman ain't grateful for it, by no manner o' means. now she'll be jest as cross as she can be, 'cause this 'ere ain't _our_ turkey, and these 'ere ain't our pies. folks doos lose so much that hes sech dispositions." a multitude of similar dispensations during the course of the week materially reduced the great pile of chickens and turkeys which black cæsar's efforts in slaughtering, picking, and dressing kept daily supplied.... * * * * * great as the preparations were for the dinner, everything was so contrived that not a soul in the house should be kept from the morning service of thanksgiving in the church, and from listening to the thanksgiving sermon, in which the minister was expected to express his views freely concerning the politics of the country and the state of things in society generally, in a somewhat more secular vein of thought than was deemed exactly appropriate to the lord's day. but it is to be confessed that, when the good man got carried away by the enthusiasm of his subject to extend these exercises beyond a certain length, anxious glances, exchanged between good wives, sometimes indicated a weakness of the flesh, having a tender reference to the turkeys and chickens and chicken pies which might possibly be overdoing in the ovens at home. but your old brick oven was a true puritan institution, and backed up the devotional habits of good housewives by the capital care which he took of whatever was committed to his capacious bosom. a truly well-bred oven would have been ashamed of himself all his days and blushed redder than his own fires, if a god-fearing house matron, away at the temple of the lord, should come home and find her pie crust either burned or underdone by his over or under zeal; so the old fellow generally managed to bring things out exactly right. when sermons and prayers were all over, we children rushed home to see the great feast of the year spread. what chitterings and chatterings there were all over the house, as all the aunties and uncles and cousins came pouring in, taking off their things, looking at one another's bonnets and dresses, and mingling their comments on the morning sermon with various opinions on the new millinery outfits, and with bits of home news and kindly neighbourhood gossip. uncle bill, whom the cambridge college authorities released, as they did all the other youngsters of the land, for thanksgiving day, made a breezy stir among them all, especially with the young cousins of the feminine gender. the best room on this occasion was thrown wide open, and its habitual coldness had been warmed by the burning down of a great stack of hickory logs, which had been heaped up unsparingly since morning. it takes some hours to get a room warm where a family never sits, and which therefore has not in its walls one particle of the genial vitality which comes from the indwelling of human beings. but on thanksgiving day, at least, every year this marvel was effected in our best room. although all servile labour and vain recreation on this day were by law forbidden, according to the terms of the proclamation, it was not held to be a violation of the precept that all the nice old aunties should bring their knitting work and sit gently trotting their needles around the fire; nor that uncle bill should start a full-fledged romp among the girls and children, while the dinner was being set on the long table in the neighbouring kitchen. certain of the good elderly female relatives, of serious and discreet demeanour, assisted at this operation. but who shall do justice to the dinner, and describe the turkey, and chickens, and chicken pies, with all that endless variety of vegetables which the american soil and climate have contributed to the table, and which, without regard to the french doctrine of courses, were all piled together in jovial abundance upon the smoking board? there was much carving and laughing and talking and eating, and all showed that cheerful ability to despatch the provisions which was the ruling spirit of the hour. after the meat came the plum puddings, and then the endless array of pies, till human nature was actually bewildered and overpowered by the tempting variety; and even we children turned from the profusion offered to us, and wondered what was the matter that we could eat no more. when all was over, my grandfather rose at the head of the table, and a fine venerable picture he made as he stood there, his silver hair flowing in curls down each side of his clear, calm face, while, in conformity to the old puritan custom, he called their attention to a recital of the mercies of god in his dealings with their family. it was a sort of family history, going over and touching upon the various events which had happened. he spoke of my father's death, and gave a tribute to his memory; and closed all with the application of a time-honoured text, expressing the hope that as years passed by we might "so number our days as to apply our hearts unto wisdom"; and then he gave out that psalm which in those days might be called the national hymn of the puritans. "let children hear the mighty deeds which god performed of old, which in our younger years we saw, and which our fathers told. "he bids us make his glories known, his works of power and grace. and we'll convey his wonders down through every rising race. "our lips shall tell them to our sons, and they again to theirs; that generations yet unborn may teach them to their heirs. "thus shall they learn in god alone their hope securely stands; that they may ne'er forget his works, but practise his commands." this we all united in singing to the venerable tune of st. martin's, an air which, the reader will perceive, by its multiplicity of quavers and inflections gave the greatest possible scope to the cracked and trembling voices of the ancients, who united in it with even more zeal than the younger part of the community. uncle fliakim sheril, furbished up in a new crisp black suit, and with his spindleshanks trimly incased in the smoothest of black silk stockings, looking for all the world just like an alert and spirited black cricket, outdid himself on this occasion in singing _counter_, in that high, weird voice that he must have learned from the wintry winds that usually piped around the corners of the old house. but any one who looked at him, as he sat with his eyes closed, beating time with head and hand, and, in short, with every limb of his body, must have perceived the exquisite satisfaction which he derived from this mode of expressing himself. i much regret to be obliged to state that my graceless uncle bill, taking advantage of the fact that the eyes of all his elders were devotionally closed, stationing himself a little in the rear of my uncle fliakim, performed an exact imitation of his _counter_ with such a killing facility that all the younger part of the audience were nearly dead with suppressed laughter. aunt lois, who never shut her eyes a moment on any occasion, discerned this from a distant part of the room, and in vain endeavoured to stop it by vigorously shaking her head at the offender. she might as well have shaken it at a bobolink tilting on a clover top. in fact, uncle bill was aunt lois's weak point, and the corners of her own mouth were observed to twitch in such a suspicious manner that the whole moral force of her admonition was destroyed. and now, the dinner being cleared away, we youngsters, already excited to a tumult of laughter, tumbled into the best room, under the supervision of uncle bill, to relieve ourselves with a game of "blindman's bluff," while the elderly women washed up the dishes and got the house in order, and the men folks went out to the barn to look at the cattle, and walked over the farm and talked of the crops. in the evening the house was all open and lighted with the best of tallow candles, which aunt lois herself had made with especial care for this illumination. it was understood that we were to have a dance, and black cæsar, full of turkey and pumpkin pie, and giggling in the very jollity of his heart, had that afternoon rosined his bow, and tuned his fiddle, and practised jigs and virginia reels, in a way that made us children think him a perfect orpheus.... you may imagine the astounding wassail among the young people.... my uncle bill related the story of "the wry-mouth family," with such twists and contortions and killing extremes of the ludicrous as perfectly overcame even the minister; and he was to be seen, at one period of the evening, with a face purple with laughter and the tears actually rolling down over his well-formed cheeks, while some of the more excitable young people almost fell in trances and rolled on the floor in the extreme of their merriment. in fact, the assemblage was becoming so tumultuous, that the scrape of cæsar's violin and the forming of sets for a dance seemed necessary to restore the peace.... uncle bill would insist on leading out aunt lois, and the bright colour rising to her thin cheeks brought back a fluttering image of what might have been beauty in some fresh, early day. ellery davenport insisted upon leading forth miss deborah kittery, notwithstanding her oft-repeated refusals and earnest protestations to the contrary. as to uncle fliakim, he jumped and frisked and gyrated among the single sisters and maiden aunts, whirling them into the dance as if he had been the little black gentleman himself. with that true spirit of christian charity which marked all his actions, he invariably chose out the homeliest and most neglected, and thus worthy aunt keziah, dear old soul, was for a time made quite prominent by his attentions.... grandmother's face was radiant with satisfaction, as the wave of joyousness crept up higher and higher round her, till the elders, who stood keeping time with their heads and feet, began to tell one another how they had danced with their sweethearts in good old days gone by, and the elder women began to blush and bridle, and boast of steps that they could take in their youth, till the music finally subdued them, and into the dance they went. "well, well!" quoth my grandmother; "they're all at it so hearty i don't see why i shouldn't try it myself." and into the virginia reel she went, amid screams of laughter from all the younger members of the company. but i assure you my grandmother was not a woman to be laughed at; for whatever she once set on foot she "put through" with a sturdy energy befitting a daughter of the puritans. "why shouldn't i dance?" she said, when she arrived red and resplendent at the bottom of the set. "didn't mr. despondency and miss muchafraid and mr. readytohalt all dance together in the 'pilgrim's progress?'" and the minister in his ample flowing wig, and my lady in her stiff brocade, gave to my grandmother a solemn twinkle of approbation. as nine o'clock struck, the whole scene dissolved and melted; for what well-regulated village would think of carrying festivities beyond that hour? and so ended our thanksgiving at oldtown. wishbone valley[ ] by r. k. munkittrick. a thanksgiving ghost story about a boy who dined not wisely but too well. the thanksgiving feast had just ended, and only donald and his little sister grace remained at the table, looking drowsily at the plum-pudding that they couldn't finish, but which they disliked to leave on their plates. [footnote : from _harper's young people_, november , .] when the plates had been removed, and the plum-pudding taken to the kitchen and placed beside the well-carved gobbler, donald and grace were too tired to rise from their chairs to have their faces washed. they seemed lost in a roseate repose, until grace finally thought of the wishbone that they intended to break after dinner. "come, now, donald," she said, "let's break the old gobbler's wishbone." "all right," replied donald, opening his eyes slowly, and unwrapping the draperies of his sweet plum-pudding dreams from about him, "let's do it now." so he held up the wishbone, and grace took hold of the other end of it with a merry laugh. "here, you must not take hold so far from the end, because i have a fine wish to make, and want to get the big half if possible." "so have i a nice wish to make," replied grace, with a sigh, "and i also want the big end." and so they argued for a few minutes, until their mother entered the room and told them that if they could not stop quarrelling over the wishbone she would take it from them and throw it into the fire. so they lost no time in taking it by the ends and snapping it asunder. "hurrah!" exclaimed donald, observing grace's expression of disappointment. "i've got it!" "well, i've made a wish, too," said grace. "but it won't come true," replied donald, "because you have the little end." and then donald thought he would go out in the air and play, because his great dinner made him feel very uncomfortable. when he was out in the barnyard it was just growing dusk, and donald, through his half-closed eyes, observed a gobbler strutting about. to his great surprise the gobbler approached him instead of running away. "i thought we had you for dinner to-day," said donald. "you did," replied the gobbler coldly, "and you had a fine old time, didn't you?" "yes," said donald, "you made a splendid dinner, and you ought to be pleased to think you made us all so happy. your second joints were very sweet and juicy, and your drumsticks were like sticks of candy." "and you broke my poor old wishbone with your little sister, didn't you?" "i did." "and what did you wish?" asked the gobbler. "you mustn't ask me that," replied donald, "because, you know, if i tell you the wish i made it would not come true." "but it was my wishbone," persisted the gobbler, "and i think i ought to know something about it." "you have rights, i suppose, and your argument is not without force," replied donald, with calm dignity. the gobbler was puzzled at so lofty a reply, and not understanding it, said: "i am only the ghost, or spirit, of the gobbler you ate to-day, but still i remember how one day last summer you threw a pan of water on me, and alluded to my wattles as a red necktie, and called me 'old harvard,' now, come along!" "where?" asked donald. "to wishbone valley, where you will see the spirits of my ancestors eaten by your family." it was now dusk, and donald didn't like the idea of going to such a place. he was a brave, courageous boy, on most occasions, but the idea of going to wishbone valley when the stars were appearing filled him with a dread that he didn't like to acknowledge even to the ghost of a gobbler. "i can't go with you now, mr. gobbler," he said, "because i have a lot of lessons to study for next monday; wait until to-morrow, and i will gladly go with you." "come along," replied the gobbler, with a provoked air, "and let your lessons go until to-morrow, when you will have plenty of light." thereupon the gobbler extended his wing and took donald by the hand, and started on a trot. "not so fast," protested donald. "why not?" demanded the gobbler in surprise. "because," replied donald, with a groan, "i have just had my dinner, and i'm too full of you to run." so the gobbler kindly and considerately slackened his pace to a walk, and the two proceeded out of the barnyard and across a wide meadow to a little valley surrounded by a dense thicket. the moon was just rising and the thicket was silvered by its light, while the dry leaves rustled weirdly in the cold crisp air. "this," said the gobbler, "is wishbone valley. look and see." donald strained his eyes, and, sure enough, there were wishbones sticking out of the ground in every direction. he thought they looked like little croquet hoops, but he made no comments, for fear of offending the old gobbler. but he felt that he must say something to make the gobbler think that he was not frightened, so he remarked, in an offhand way: "let's break one and make a wish." the ghost of the old gobbler frowned, drew himself up, and uttered a ghostly whistle that seemed to cut the air. as he did so, the ghosts of the other turkeys long since eaten popped out of the thickets with a great flapping of wings, and each one perched upon a wishbone and gazed upon poor donald, who was so frightened that his collar flew into a standing position, while he stood upon his toes, with his knees knocking together at a great rate. every turkey fixed its eyes upon the trembling boy, who was beside himself with fear. "what shall we do with him, grandpapa?" asked the gobbler of an ancient bird that could scarcely contain itself and remain on its wishbone. "i cannot think of anything terrible enough, willie," replied the grandparent. "it almost makes my ghost-ship boil when i think of the way in which he used to amuse himself by making me a target for his bean shooter. often when i was asleep in the button-ball he would fetch me one on the side of the head that would give me an earache for a week. but now it is our turn." here the other turkeys broke into a wild chorus of approval. "take his bean shooter from his pocket," suggested another bird, "and let's have a shot at him." donald was compelled to hand out his bean shooter, and the grandparent took it, lay on his back, and with the handle of the bean shooter in one claw and the missile end in the other began to send pebbles at donald at a great rate. he could hear them whistling past his ears, but could not see them to dodge. fortunately none struck him, and when the turkeys felt that they had had fun enough of that kind at his expense the bean shooter was returned to him. "now, then," said the gobbler's aunt fanny, "he once gave me a string of yellow beads for corn." "what shall we do to him for that?" asked the gobbler. "make him eat a lot of yellow beads," said the chorus. "but we have no beads," said the gobbler sadly. "then let's poke him with a stick," suggested the gobbler's granduncle sylvester; "he used to do that to us." so they all took up their wishbones and poked donald until he was sore. sometimes they would hit him in a ticklish spot, and throw him into such a fit of laughter that they thought he was enjoying it all and chaffing them. so they stuck their wishbones into the ground, and took their positions on them once more, to take a needed rest, for the poor ghosts were greatly exhausted. there was one quiet turkey who had taken no part in the proceedings. "why don't you suggest something?" demanded uncle sylvester. "because," replied the quiet turkey, "donald never did anything to me, and i must treat him accordingly. i was raised and killed a long way from here, and canned. donald's father bought me at a store. to be a ghost in good standing i should be on the farm where i was killed, and really i don't know why i should be here." "then you should be an impartial judge," said aunt fanny. "now what shall we do with him?" "tell them to let me go home," protested donald, "and i'll agree never to molest or eat turkey again; i will give them all the angleworms i can dig every day, and on thanksgiving day i'll ask my father to have roast beef." "i think," replied the impartial canned ghost, "that as all boys delight in chasing turkeys with sticks, it would be eminently just and proper for us, with the exception of myself, to chase this boy and beat him with our' wishbones, to let him learn by experience that which he could scarcely learn by observation." "what could i do but eat turkey when it was put on the table?" protested donald. "but you could help chasing us around with sticks," sang the chorus. they thereupon descended from the wishbones upon which they had been perching, and flying after him, they darted the wishbones, which they held in their beaks, into his back and neck as hard as they could. donald ran up and down wishbone valley, calling upon them to stop, and declaring that if turkey should ever be put upon the table again he would eat nothing but the stuffing. when donald found that the wishbones were sticking into his neck like so many hornet stings, he made up his mind that he would run for the house. finally the wishbone tattoo stopped, and when he looked around, the gobbler, who was twenty feet away, said: "when a thanksgiving turkey dies, his ghost comes down here to wishbone valley to join his ancestors, and it never after leaves the valley. you will now know why every spring the turkeys steal down here to hatch their little ones. as you are now over the boundary line you are safe." "thank you," said donald gratefully. "good-bye," sang all the ghosts in chorus. there was then a great ghostly flapping and whistling, and the turkeys and wishbones all vanished from sight. donald ran home as fast as his trembling legs could carry him, and he fancied that the surviving turkeys on the place made fun of him as he passed on his way. when he reached the house he was very happy, but made no allusion to his experience in wishbone valley, for fear of being laughed at. "come, donald," said his mother, shortly after his arrival, "it is almost bedtime; you had better eat that drumstick and retire." "i think i have had turkey enough for to-day," replied donald, with a shudder, "and if it is just the same, i would rather have a nice thick piece of pumpkin pie." so the girl placed a large piece of pie before him; and while he was eating with the keen appetite given him by the crisp air of wishbone valley, he heard a great clattering of hoofs coming down the road. these sounds did not stop until the express wagon drew up in front of the house, and the driver brought in a large package for donald. "hurrah!" shouted donald, in boundless glee. "uncle arthur has sent me a nice bicycle! wasn't it good of him?" "didn't you wish for a bicycle to-day, when you got the big end of the wishbone?" asked his little sister grace. "what makes you think so?" asked donald, with a laugh. "oh, i knew it all the time; and my wish came true, too." "how could your wish come true?" asked donald, with a puzzled look, "when you got the little half of the wishbone?" "i don't know," replied grace, "but my wish did come true." "and what did you wish?" "why," said grace, running up and kissing her little brother affectionately, "i wished your wish would come true, of course." patem's salmagundi[ ] by e. s. brooks. new york boys, especially, will enjoy this tale of the doings of a group of dutch schoolboys in old new amsterdam. little patem onderdonk meant mischief. there was a snap in his eyes and a look on his face that were certain proof of this. i am bound to say, however, that there was nothing new or strange in this, for little patem onderdonk generally did mean mischief. whenever any one's cow was found astray beyond the limits, or any one's bark gutter laid askew so that the roof-water dripped on the passer's head, or whenever the dominie's dog ran howling down the heeren graaft with a battered pypken cover tied to his suffering tail, the goode vrouws in the neighbourhood did not stop to wonder who could have done it; they simply raised both hands in a sort of injured resignation and exclaimed: "_ach so_; what's gone of patem's elishamet's patem?" so you see little patem onderdonk was generally at the bottom of whatever mischief was afoot in those last dutch days of new amsterdam on the island of manhattan. [footnote : from "storied holidays," lothrop, lee & shepard company.] but this time he was conjuring a more serious bit of mischief than even he usually attempted. this was plain from the appearance of the startled but deeply interested faces of the half-dozen boys gathered around him on the bridge. "but i say, patem," queried young teuny vanderbreets, who was always ready to second any of patem's plans, "how can we come it over the dominie as you would have us?" "so then, teuny," cried patem, in his highest key of contempt, "did your wits blow away with your hat out of heer snediker's nut tree yesterday? do not you know that the heer governor is at royal odds with dominie curtius because the skinflint old dominie will not pay the taxes due the town? why, lad, the heer governor will back us up!" "and why will he not pay the taxes, patem?" asked jan hooglant, the tanner's son. "because he's a skinflint, i tell you," asserted patem, "though i do believe he says that he was brought here from holland as one of the company's men, and ought not therefore pay taxes to the company. that's what i did hear them say at the stadt huys this morning, and heer vanderveer, the schepen, said there, too, that dominie curtius was not worth one of the five hundred guilders which he doth receive for our teaching. and sure, if the burgomaster and schepens will have none of the old dominie, why then no more will we who know how stupid are his lessons, and how his switch doth sting. so, hoy, lads, let's turn him out." and with that little patem onderdonk gave teuny vanderbreets' broad back a sounding slap with his battered horn book and crying, "come on, lads," headed his mutinous companions on a race for the rickety little schoolhouse near the fort. it was hard lines for dominie curtius all that day at school. the boys had never been so unruly; the girls never so inattentive. rebellion seemed in the air, and the dominie, never a patient or gentle-mannered man, grew harsher and more exacting as the session advanced. his reign as master of the latin school of new amsterdam had not been a successful one, and his dispute with the town officers as to his payment of taxes had so angered him that, as patem declared, "he seemed moved to avenge himself upon the town's children." this being the state of affairs, dominie curtius's mood this day was not a pleasant one, and the school exercises had more to do with the whipping horse and the birch twigs than with the horn book and the latin conjugations. the boys, i regret to say, were hardened to this, because of much practice, but when the dominie, enraged at some fresh breach of rigid discipline, glared savagely over his big spectacles and then swooped down upon pretty little antje adrianse who had done nothing whatever, the whole school broke into open rebellion. horn books, and every possible missile that the boys had at hand, went flying at the master's head, and the young rebels, led on by patem and teuny, charged down upon the unprepared dominie, rescued trembling little antje from his clutch, and then one and all rushed pell-mell from the school with shouts of triumph and derision. but when the first flush of their victory was over, the boys realized that they had done a very daring and risky thing. it was no small matter in those days of stern authority and strict home government for girls and boys to resist the commands of their elders; and to run away from school was one of the greatest of crimes. so they all looked at patem in much anxiety. "well," cried several of the boys almost in a breath, "and now what shall we do, patem? you have us in a pretty fix." patem waved his hand like a young napoleon. "_ach_! ye are all cowards," he cried shrilly. "what will we _do_? why, then we will but do as if we were burgomasters and schepens--as we will be some day. we will to the heer governor straight, and lay our demands before him." well, well; this _was_ bold talk! the heer governor! not a boy in all new amsterdam but would sooner face a gray wolf in the sapokanican woods than the heer governor stuyvesant. "so then, patem onderdonk," they cried, "you may do it yourself, for, good faith, we will not." "why," said jan hooglant, "why, patem, the heer governor will have us rated soundly over the ears for daring such a thing; and we will all catch more of it when we get home. demand of the heer governor indeed! why, boy, you must be crazy!" but patem was not crazy. he was simply determined; and at last, by threats and arguments and coaxing words, he gradually won over a half-dozen of the boldest spirits to his side and, without more ado, started with them to interview the heer governor. but, quickly as they acted, the schoolmaster was still more prompt in action. defeated and deserted by his scholars, dominie curtius had raged about the schoolroom for a while, spluttering angrily in mingled dutch and polish, and then, clapping his broad black hat upon his head, marched straight to the fort to lay his grievance before the heer governor. the heer petrus stuyvesant, director general for the dutch west india company in their colony of new netherlands, walked up and down the governor's chamber in the fort at new amsterdam woefully perplexed. the heer governor was not a patient man, and a combination of annoyances was hedging him about and making his government of his island province anything but pleasant work. the "malignant english" of the massachusetts and hartford colonies were pressing their claim to the ownership of the new netherlands, just as, to the south, the settlers on lord de la ware's patent were also doing; the "people called quakers," whom the heer governor had publicly whipped for heresy and sent a-packing, were spreading their "pernicious doctrine" through long island and other outer edges of the colony, and the indians around esopus, the little settlement which the province had planted midway on the hudson between new amsterdam and beaverwyck (now albany), were growing restless and defiant. thump, thump, thump, across the floor went the wooden leg with its silver bands, and with every thump the heer governor grew still more puzzled and angered. for the heer governor could not bear to have things go wrong. suddenly, with scant ceremony and but the apology of a request for admittance, there came into the heer governor's presence the dominie doctor alexander carolus curtius, master of the latin school. "here is a pretty pass, heer governor!" he cried excitedly. "my pupils of the latin school have turned upon me in revolt and have deserted me in a body." "_ach_; then you are rightly served for a craven and a miser, sir!" burst out the angry governor, turning savagely upon the surprised schoolmaster. this was a most unexpected reception for doctor and dominie curtius. but, as it happened, the heer governor stuyvesant was just now particularly vexed with the objectionable dominie. at much trouble and after much solicitation on his part the heer governor had prevailed upon his superiors and the proprietors of the province, the dutch west india company, to send from holland a schoolmaster or "rector" for the children of their town of new amsterdam, and the company had sent over dominie curtius. the heer governor had entertained great hopes of what the new schoolmaster was to do, and now to find him a subject of complaint from both the parents of the scholars and the officials of the town made the hasty governor doubly dissatisfied. the dominie's intrusion, therefore, at just this stage of all his perplexities gave the heer governor a most convenient person on whom to vent his bad feelings. "yes, sirrah, a craven and a miser!" continued the angry governor, stamping upon the floor with both wooden leg and massive cane. "you, who can neither govern our children nor pay your just dues to the town, can be no fit master for our youth. no words, sirrah, no words," he added, as the poor dominie tried to put in a word in his defence, "no words, sir; you are discharged from further labour in this province. i will see that one who can ride wisely and pay his just dues shall be placed here in your stead." protests and appeals, explanations and arguments, were of no avail. when the heer governor stuyvesant said a thing, he meant it, and it was useless for any one to hope for a change. the unpopular dominie curtius must go--and go he did. but, as he left, the delegation of boys, headed by young patem onderdonk, came into the fort and sought to interview the heer governor. the sentry at the door would have sent them off without further ado, but, hearing their noise, the heer governor came to the door. "so, so, young rapscallions," he cried, "you, too, must needs disturb the peace and push yourself forward into public quarrels! get you gone! i will have none of your words. is it not enough that i must needs send the schoolmaster a-packing, without being worried by graceless young varlets as you?" "and hath the dominie curtius gone indeed, heer governor?" patem dared to ask. "hath he, hath he, boy?" echoed the governor, turning upon his audacious young questioner with uplifted cane. "said i not so, and will you dare doubt my word, rascal? begone from the fort, all of you, ere i do put you all in limbo, or send word to your good folk to give you the floggings you do no doubt all so richly deserve." discretion is the better part of valour, and the boyish delegation hastily withdrew. but when once they were safely out of hearing of the heer governor, beyond the land gate at the broad way, they took breath and indulged in a succession of boyish shouts. "and that doth mean no school, too!" cried young patem onderdonk, flinging his cap in air. "huzzoy for that, lads; huzzoy for that!" and the "huzzoys" came with right good-will from every boy of the group. within less than a week the whole complexion of affairs in that little island city was entirely changed. both the massachusetts and the maryland claimants ceased, for a time at least, their unfounded demands. a treaty at hartford settled the disputed question of boundary-lines, and the maryland governor declared "that he had not intended to meddle with the government of manhattan." added to this, sewackenamo, chief of the esopus indians, came to the fort at new amsterdam and "gave the right hand of friendship" to the heer governor, and by the interchange of presents a treaty of peace was ratified. so, one by one, the troubles of the heer governor melted away, his brow became clear and, "partaking of the universal satisfaction," so says the historian, "he proclaimed a day of general thanksgiving." thanksgiving in the colonies was a matter of almost yearly occurrence. since the first thanksgiving day on american shores, when, in , the massachusetts colony, at the request of governor bradford, rejoiced, "after a special manner after we had gathered the fruit of our labours," the observance of days of thanksgiving for mercies and benefits had been frequent. but the day itself dates still further back. the states of holland after establishing their freedom from spain had, in the year , celebrated their deliverance from tyranny "by thanksgiving and hearty prayers," and had thus really first instituted the custom of an official thanksgiving. and the dutch colonists in america followed the customs of the fatherland quite as piously and fervently as did the english colonists. so, when the proclamation of the heer governor stuyvesant for a day of thanksgiving was made known, in this year of mercies, , all the townfolk of new amsterdam made ready to keep it. but young people are often apt to think that the world moves for them alone. the boys of this little dutch town at the mouth of the hudson were no different from other boys, and cared less for treaties and indians and boundary questions than for their own matters. they, therefore, concluded that the heer governor had proclaimed a thanksgiving because, as young patem onderdonk declared, "he had gotten well rid of dominie curtius and would have no more schoolmasters in the colony." "and so, lads," cried the exuberant young knickerbocker, "let us wisely celebrate the thanksgiving. i will even ask the mother to make for me a rare salmagundi which we lads, who were so rated by the heer governor, will ourselves give to him as our thanksgiving offering, for the heer governor, so folk do say, doth rarely like the salmagundi." now the salmagundi was (to some palates) a most appetizing mixture, compounded of salted mackerel, or sometimes of chopped meat, seasoned with oil and vinegar, pepper and raw onions--not an altogether attractive dish to read of, but welcome to and dearly loved by many an old knickerbocker even up to a recent date. its name, too, as most of you bright boys and girls doubtless know, furnished the title for one of the works of washington irving, best loved of all the knickerbockers. thanksgiving day came around, and so did patem's salmagundi, as highly seasoned and appetizing a one as the goode vrouw onderdonk could make. the lengthy prayers and lengthier sermon of good dominie megapolensis in the fort church were over and the thanksgiving dinners were very nearly ready when up to the heer governor's house came a half-dozen boys, with patem onderdonk at their head bearing a neatly covered dish. patem had well considered and formed in his mind what he deemed just the speech of presentation to please the heer governor, but when the time came to face that awful personage his valour and his eloquence alike began to ooze away. and, it must be confessed, the heer governor stuyvesant did not understand boys, nor did he particularly favour them. he was hasty and overbearing though high-minded, loyal, and brave, but he never could "get on" with the ways and pranks of boys. and as for the boys themselves, when once they stood in the presence of the greatest dignitary in the province, patem's ready tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth, and he hummed and hawed and hesitated until the worthy heer governor lost patience and broke in: "well, well, boys; what is the stir? speak quick if at all, for when a man's dinner waiteth he hath scant time for stammering boys." then patem spoke up. "heer governor," he said, "the boys hereabout, remembering your goodness in sending away our most pestilential master, the dominie curtius, and in proclaiming a thanksgiving for his departure and for the ending of our schooling--" "what, what, boy!" cried the heer governor, "art crazy then, or would you seek to make sport of me, your governor? thanksgiving for the breaking up of school! out on you for a set of malapert young knaves! do you think the world goeth but for your pleasures alone? why, this is ribald talk! i made no thanksgiving for your convenience, rascals, but because that the lord in his grace hath relieved the town from danger--" "of which, heer governor," broke in the most impolitic patem, "we did think the dominie curtius and his school were part. and so we have brought to you this salmagundi as our thanksgiving offering to you for thus freeing us of a pest and a sorrow--" "how now, how now, sirrah!" again came the interruption from the scandalized heer governor when he could recover from his surprise, "do you then dare to call your schooling a pest and a sorrow? why, you graceless young varlets, i do not seek to free you from schooling. i do even now seek to bring you speedily the teaching you do so much stand in need of. even now, within the week forthcoming, the good dominie luyck, the tutor of mine own household, will see to the training and teaching of this town, and so i will warrant to the flogging, too, of all you sad young rapscallions who even now by this your wicked talk do show your need both of teaching and of flogging." and then, forgetful of the boys' thanksgiving offering and in high displeasure at what he deemed their wilful and deliberate ignorance, the heer governor turned the delegation into the street and hastened back to his waiting dinner. "_ach, so_," cried young teuny vanderbreets, as the disgusted and disconsolate six gathered in the roadway and looked at one another ruefully. "here is a fine mix-up--a regular salmagundi, patem onderdonk, and no question. and you did say that this thanksgiving was all our work. out upon you, say i! here are we to be saddled with a worse master than before. hermanus smeeman did tell me that nick stuyvesant did tell him that dominie luyck is a most hard and worry-ful master." there was a universal groan of disappointment and disgust, and then patem said philosophically: "well, lads, what's done is done and what is to be will be. let us eat the salmagundi anyhow and cry, 'confusion to dominie luyck.'" and they did eat it, then and there, for indigestion had no terror to those lads of hardy stomachs. but as for the toast of "confusion to dominie luyck," that came to naught. for dominie aegidius luyck proved a most efficient and skilful teacher. under his rule the latin school of new amsterdam became famous throughout the colonies, so that scholars came to it for instruction from beaverwyck and south river and even from distant virginia. so the thanksgiving of the boys of new amsterdam became a day of mourning, and patem's influence as a leader and an oracle suffered sadly for a while. five years after, on a sad monday morning in september, , the little city was lost to the dutch west india company and, spite of the efforts and protests of its sturdy governor, the red, white, and blue banner of the netherlands gave place to the flag of england. and when that day came the young fellows who then saw the defeat and disappointment of the heer governor stuyvesant were not so certain that patem onderdonk was wrong when he claimed that it was all a just and righteous judgment on the heer governor for his refusal of the boys' request for no school, and for his treatment of them on that sad thanksgiving day when he so harshly rebuked their display of gratitude and lost forever his chance to partake of patem's salmagundi. mrs. november's dinner party[ ] by agnes carr. an amusing allegorical fantasy. all the most interesting days, grandchildren of mother year, came to mrs. november's dinner party, to honour the birthday of her daughter, thanksgiving. the widow november was very busy indeed this year. what with elections and harvest homes, her hands were full to overflowing; for she takes great interest in politics, besides being a social body, without whom no apple bee or corn husking is complete. [footnote : from _harper's young people_, november , .] still, worn out as she was, when her thirty sons and daughters clustered round, and begged that they might have their usual family dinner on thanksgiving day, she could not find it in her hospitable heart to refuse, and immediately invitations were sent to her eleven brothers and sisters, old father time, and mother year, to come with all their families and celebrate the great american holiday. then what a busy time ensued! what a slaughter of unhappy barnyard families--turkeys, ducks, and chickens! what a chopping of apples and boiling of doughnuts! what a picking of raisins and rolling of pie crust, until every nook and corner of the immense storeroom was stocked with "savoury mince and toothsome pumpkin pies," while so great was the confusion that even the stolid red-hued servant, indian summer, lost his head, and smoked so continually he always appeared surrounded by a blue mist, as he piled logs upon the great bonfires in the yard, until they lighted up the whole country for miles around. but at length all was ready; the happy day had come, and all the little novembers, in their best "bib and tucker," were seated in a row, awaiting the arrival of their uncles, aunts, and cousins, while their mother, in russet-brown silk trimmed with misty lace, looked them over, straightening guy fawkes's collar, tying thanksgiving's neck ribbon, and settling a dispute between two little presidential candidates as to which should sit at the head of the table. soon a merry clashing of bells, blowing of horns, and mingling of voices were heard outside, sleighs and carriages dashed up to the door, and in came, "just in season," grandpa time, with grandma year leaning on his arm, followed by all their children and grandchildren, and were warmly welcomed by the hostess and her family. "oh, how glad i am we could all come to-day!" said mr. january, in his crisp, clear tones, throwing off his great fur coat, and rushing to the blazing fire. "there is nothing like the happy returns of these days." "nothing, indeed," simpered mrs. february, the poetess. "if i had had time i should have composed some verses for the occasion; but my son valentine has brought a sugar heart, with a sweet sentiment on it, to his cousin thanksgiving. i, too, have taken the liberty of bringing a sort of adopted child of mine, young leap year, who makes us a visit every four years." "he is very welcome, i am sure," said mrs. november, patting leap year kindly on the head. "and, sister march, how have you been since we last met?" "oh! we have had the north, south, east, and west winds all at our house, and they have kept things breezy, i assure you. but i really feared we should not get here to-day; for when we came to dress i found nearly everything we had was lent; so that must account for our shabby appearance." "he! he! he!" tittered little april fool. "what a sell!" and he shook until the bells on his cap rang; at which his father ceased for a moment showering kisses on his nieces and nephews, and boxed his ears for his rudeness. "oh, aunt may! do tell us a story," clamoured the younger children, and dragging her into a corner she was soon deep in such a moving tale that they were all melted to tears, especially the little aprils, who cry very easily. meanwhile, mrs. june, assisted by her youngest daughter, a "sweet girl graduate," just from school, was engaged in decking the apartment with roses and lilies and other fragrant flowers that she had brought from her extensive gardens and conservatories, until the room was a perfect bower of sweetness and beauty; while mr. july draped the walls with flags and banners, lighted the candles, and showed off the tricks of his pet eagle, yankee doodle, to the great delight of the little ones. madam august, who suffers a great deal with the heat, found a seat on a comfortable sofa, as far from the fire as possible, and waved a huge feather fan back and forth, while her thirty-one boys and girls, led by the two oldest, holiday and vacation, ran riot through the long rooms, picking at their aunt june's flowers, and playing all sorts of pranks, regardless of tumbled hair and torn clothes, while they shouted, "hurrah for fun!" and behaved like a pack of wild colts let loose in a green pasture, until their uncle september called them, together with his own children, into the library, and persuaded them to read some of the books with which the shelves were filled, or play quietly with the game of authors and the dissected maps. "for," said mr. september to mrs. october, "i think sister august lets her children romp too much. i always like improving games for mine, although i have great trouble to make equinox toe the line as he should." "that is because you are a schoolmaster," laughed mrs. october, shaking her head, adorned with a wreath of gayly tinted leaves; "but where is my baby?" at that moment a cry was heard without, and indian summer came running in to say that little all hallows had fallen into a tub of water while trying to catch an apple that was floating on top, and mrs. october, rushing off to the kitchen, returned with her youngest in a very wet and dripping condition, and screaming at the top of his lusty little lungs, and could only be consoled by a handful of chestnuts, which his nurse, miss frost, cracked open for him. the little novembers, meanwhile, were having a charming time with their favourite cousins, the decembers, who were always so gay and jolly, and had such a delightful papa. he came with his pockets stuffed full of toys and sugarplums, which he drew out from time to time, and gave to his best-loved child, merry christmas, to distribute amongst the children, who gathered eagerly around their little cousin, saying: "christmas comes but once a year, but when she comes she brings good cheer." at which merry laughed gayly, and tossed her golden curls, in which were twined sprays of holly and clusters of brilliant scarlet berries. at last the great folding-doors were thrown open. indian summer announced that dinner was served, and a long procession of old and young being quickly formed, led by mrs. november and her daughter thanksgiving, whose birthday it was, they filed into the spacious dining-room, where stood the long table groaning beneath its weight of good things, while four servants ran continually in and out bringing more substantials and delicacies to grace the board and please the appetite. winter staggered beneath great trenchers of meat and poultry, pies and puddings; spring brought the earliest and freshest vegetables; summer, the richest creams and ices; while autumn served the guests with fruit, and poured the sparkling wine. all were gay and jolly, and many a joke was cracked as the contents of each plate and dish melted away like snow before the sun; and the great fires roared in the wide chimneys as though singing a glad thanksgiving song. new year drank everybody's health, and wished them "many happy returns of the day," while twelfth night ate so much cake he made himself quite ill, and had to be put to bed. valentine sent mottoes to all the little girls, and praised their bright eyes and glossy curls. "for," said his mother, "he is a sad flatterer, and not nearly so truthful, i am sorry to say, as his brother, george washington, who never told a lie." at which grandfather time gave george a quarter, and said he should always remember what a good boy he was. after dinner the fun increased, all trying to do something for the general amusement. mrs. march persuaded her son, st. patrick, to dance an irish jig, which he did to the tune of the "wearing of the green," which his brothers, windy and gusty, blew and whistled on their fingers. easter sang a beautiful song, the little mays "tripped the light fantastic toe" in a pretty fancy dance, while the junes sat by so smiling and sweet it was a pleasure to look at them. independence, the fourth child of mr. july, who is a bold little fellow, and a fine speaker, gave them an oration he had learned at school; and the augusts suggested games of tag and blindman's buff, which they all enjoyed heartily. mr. september tried to read an instructive story aloud, but was interrupted by equinox, april fool, and little all hallows, who pinned streamers to his coat tails, covered him with flour, and would not let him get through a line; at which mrs. october hugged her tricksy baby, and laughed until she cried, and mr. september retired in disgust. "that is almost too bad," said mrs. november, as she shook the popper vigorously in which the corn was popping and snapping merrily; "but, thanksgiving, you must not forget to thank your cousins for all they have done to honour your birthday." at which the demure little maiden went round to each one, and returned her thanks in such a charming way it was quite captivating. grandmother year at last began to nod over her teacup in the chimney corner. "it is growing late," said grandpa time. "but we must have a virginia reel before we go," said mr. december. "oh, yes, yes!" cried all the children. merry christmas played a lively air on the piano, and old and young took their positions on the polished floor with grandpa and grandma at the head. midsummer danced with happy new year, june's commencement with august's holiday, leap year with may day, and all "went merry as a marriage bell." the fun was at its height when suddenly the clock in the corner struck twelve. grandma year motioned all to stop, and grandfather time, bowing his head, said softly, "hark! my children, thanksgiving day is ended." the visit[ ] a story of the children of the tower by maud lindsay. the children went back to spend thanksgiving at grandfather's farm. they got into some trouble and were afraid that they would miss their dinner. early one morning grandmother grey got up, opened the windows and doors of the farmhouse, and soon everybody on the place was stirring. the cook hurried breakfast, and no sooner was it over than grandfather grey went out to the barn and hitched the two horses to the wagon. [footnote : from "more mother stories," milton bradley company.] "get up, robin and dobbin!" he said, as he drove through the big gate. "if you knew who were coming back in this wagon you would not be stepping so slowly." the old horses pricked up their ears when they heard this, and trotted away as fast as they could down the country road until they came to town. just as they got to the railway station the train came whizzing in. "all off!" cried the conductor, as the train stopped; and out came a group of children who were, every one of them, grandfather and grandmother grey's grandchildren. they had come to spend thanksgiving day on the farm. there was john, who was named for grandfather and looked just like him, and the twins, teddie and pat, who looked like nobody but each other; their papa was grandfather's oldest son. then there was louisa, who had a baby sister at home, and then mary virginia martin, who was her mamma's only child. "i tell you," said grandfather, as he helped them into the wagon, "your grandmother will be glad to see you!" and so she was. she was watching at the window for them when they drove up, and when the children spied her they could scarcely wait for grandfather to stop the wagon before they scrambled out. "dear me, dear me!" said grandmother, as they all tried to kiss her at the same time, "how you have grown." "i am in the first grade," said john, hugging her with all his might. "so am i," cried louisa. "we are going to be," chimed in the twins; and then they all talked at once, till grandmother could not hear herself speak. then, after they had told her all about their mammas and papas, and homes, and cats and dogs, they wanted to go and say "how do you do" to everything on the place. "take care of yourselves," called grandmother, "for i don't want to send any broken bones home to your mothers." "i can take care of myself," said john. "so can we," said the rest; and off they ran. first they went to the kitchen where mammy 'ria was getting ready to cook the thanksgiving dinner; then out to the barnyard, where there were two new red calves, and five little puppies belonging to juno, the dog, for them to see. then they climbed the barnyard fence and made haste to the pasture where grandfather kept his woolly sheep. "baa-a!" said the sheep when they saw the children; but then, they always said that, no matter what happened. there were cows in this pasture, too, and mary virginia was afraid of them, even though she knew that they were the mothers of the calves she had seen in the barnyard. "silly mary virginia!" said john, and mary virginia began to cry. "don't cry," said louisa. "let's go to the hickory-nut tree." this pleased them all, and they hurried off; but on the way they came to the big shed where grandfather kept his plows and reaper and threshing machine and all his garden tools. the shed had a long, wide roof, and there was a ladder leaning against it. when john saw that, he thought he must go up on the roof; and then, of course, the twins went, too. then louisa and mary virginia wanted to go, and although john insisted that girls could not climb, they managed to scramble up the ladder to where the boys were. and there they all sat in a row on the roof. "grandmother doesn't know how well we can take care of ourselves," said john. "but i am such a big boy that i can do anything. i can ride a bicycle and go on errands--" "so can i," said louisa. "we can ride on the trolley!" cried the twins. "mamma and i go anywhere by ourselves," said mary virginia. "moo!" said something down below; and when they looked, there was one of the cows rubbing her head against the ladder. "don't be afraid, mary virginia," said louisa. "cows can't climb ladders." "don't be afraid, mary virginia," said john. "i'll drive her away." so he kicked his feet against the shed roof and called, "go away! go away!" the twins kicked their feet, too, and called, "go away! go away!" and somebody, i don't know who, kicked the ladder and it fell down and lay in the dry grass. and the cow walked peacefully on, thinking about her little calf. "there, now!" exclaimed louisa, "how shall we ever get down?" "oh, that's nothing," said john. "all i'll have to do is to stand up on the roof and call grandfather. just watch me do it." so he stood up and called, "grandfather! grandfather! grandfather!" till he was tired; but no grandfather answered. then the twins called, "grandfather! grandmother!" "baa," said the sheep, as if beginning to think that somebody ought to answer all that calling. then they all called together: "grandfather! grandfather! grandfather!" and when nobody heard that, they began to feel frightened and lonely. "i want to go home to my mother! i wish i hadn't come!" wailed mary virginia. "it's thanksgiving dinner time, too," said john, "and there's turkey for dinner, for i saw it in the oven." "pie, too," said louisa. "dear, dear!" cried the twins. and then they all called together once more, but this time with such a weak little cry that not even the sheep heard it. the sun grew warmer and the shadows straighter as they sat there, and grandmother's house seemed miles away when john stood up to look at it. "they've eaten dinner by this time, i know," he said as he sat down again; "and grandfather and grandmother have forgotten all about us." but grandfather and grandmother had not forgotten them, for just about then grandmother was saying to grandfather: "you had better see where the children are, for thanksgiving dinner will soon be ready and i know that they are hungry." so grandfather went out to look for them. he did not find them in the kitchen nor the barnyard, so he called, "johnnie! johnnie!" and when nobody answered he made haste to the pasture. the children saw him coming, and long before he had reached the gate they began to call with all their might. this time grandfather answered, "i'm coming!" and i cannot tell you how glad they were. in another minute he had set the ladder up again and they all came down. mary virginia came first because she was the youngest girl, and john came last because he was the biggest boy. grandfather put his arms around each one as he helped them down, and carried mary virginia home on his back. when they got to the house dinner was just ready. the turkey was brown, the potatoes were sweet, the sauce was so spicy, the biscuits were beat, the great pumpkin pie was as yellow as gold, and the apples were red as the roses, i'm told. it was such a good dinner that i had to tell you about it in rhyme! and i'm sure you'll agree, with the children and me, that there's never a visit so pleasant to pay as a visit to grandma on thanksgiving day. the story of ruth and naomi[ ] adapted from the bible, by c. s. bailey and c. m. lewis. ruth's story is one of the most beautiful ones to be found in the old book. as a tale of the harvest, it deserves to be included in this collection. now it came to pass, many hundreds of years ago, that there was a good woman named naomi who lived in the land of the moabites. she had once been very rich and happy, but now her husband was dead and her two sons also, and she had left only orpah and ruth, the wives of her sons. there was a famine in the land. naomi could find no grain in the fields to beat into flour. she and orpah and ruth were lonely and sad and very hungry. [footnote : from "for the children's hour," milton bradley company.] but naomi heard there was a land where the lord had visited his people and given them bread; so she went forth from the place where she was, and her two daughters with her, to the land called judah. it was a long, hard way to go. there were rough roads to travel and steep hills to climb. their feet grew so weary they could scarcely walk, and at last naomi said: "go, return each to your father's house. the lord deal kindly with you as you have dealt with me. the lord grant you that you may find rest." then she kissed them, and orpah kissed her and left her, but ruth would not leave naomi. and naomi said to ruth: "behold, thy sister is gone back unto her own people; return thou!" but ruth clung to naomi more closely, as she said: "entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, there will i go; and where thou lodgest, there will i lodge. thy people shall be my people, and thy god my god." when naomi saw that ruth loved her so much, she forgot how tired and hungry she was, and the two journeyed on together until they came to bethlehem in judah in the beginning of the barley harvest. there was no famine in bethlehem. the fields were full of waving grain, and busy servants were reaping it and gathering it up to bind into sheaves. above all were the fields of the rich man, boaz, shining with barley and corn. naomi and ruth came to the edge of the fields and watched the busy reapers. they saw that after each sheaf was bound, and each pile of corn was stacked, a little grain fell, unnoticed, to the ground. ruth said to naomi: "let me go to the field and glean the ears of corn after them." and naomi said to her, "go, my daughter." and she went, and came and gleaned in the field after the reapers. and boaz came from bethlehem, and said to his reapers: "whose damsel is this?" for he saw how very beautiful ruth was, and how busily she was gleaning. the reapers said: "it is the damsel that came back with naomi out of the land of the moabites." and ruth ran up to boaz, crying: "i pray you, let me glean and gather after the reapers among the sheaves." and boaz, who was good and kind, said to ruth: "hearest thou not, my daughter? go not to glean in any other field, but abide here." then ruth bowed herself to the ground, and said: "why have i found such favour in thine eyes, seeing i am a stranger?" and boaz answered her: "it hath been showed me all that thou hast done to thy mother." so, all day, ruth gleaned in boaz's fields. at noon she ate bread and parched corn with the others. boaz commanded his reapers to let fall large handfuls of grain, as they worked, for ruth to gather, and at night she took it all home to naomi. "where hast thou gleaned to-day?" asked naomi, when she saw the food that ruth had brought to her. "the man's name with whom i wrought to-day is boaz," said ruth. and naomi said: "blessed be he of the lord--the man is near of kin unto us." so ruth gleaned daily, and at the end of the barley harvest the good man boaz took ruth and naomi to live with him in his own house forever. bert's thanksgiving[ ] by j. t. trowbridge. bert is a manly, generous, warm-hearted fellow. other boys will like to read how good luck began to come his way on a certain memorable thanksgiving day. at noon, on a dreary november day, a lonesome little fellow, looking very red about the ears and very blue about the mouth, stood kicking his heels at the door of a cheap eating house in boston, and offering a solitary copy of a morning paper for sale to the people passing. [footnote : from "young joe," lothrop, lee & shepard company.] but there were really not many people passing, for it was thanksgiving day, and the shops were shut, and everybody who had a home to go to and a dinner to eat seemed to have gone home to eat that dinner, while bert hampton, the newsboy, stood trying in vain to sell the last "extry" left on his hands by the dull business of the morning. an old man, with a face that looked pinched, and who was dressed in a seedy black coat and a much-battered stovepipe hat, stopped at the same doorway, and, with one hand on the latch, appeared to hesitate between hunger and a sense of poverty before going in. it was possible, however, that he was considering whether he could afford himself the indulgence of a morning paper (seeing it was thanksgiving day); so, at least, bert thought, and accosted him accordingly. "buy a paper, sir? all about the fire in east boston, and arrest of safe-burglars in springfield. only two cents!" the little old man looked at the boy with keen gray eyes, which seemed to light up the pinched and skinny face, and answered in a shrill voice that whistled through white front teeth: "you ought to come down in your price this time of day. you can't expect to sell a morning paper at twelve o'clock for full price." "well, give me a cent then," said bert. "that's less'n cost; but never mind; i'm bound to sell out anyhow." "you look cold," said the old man. "cold?" replied bert; "i'm froze. and i want my dinner. and i'm going to have a big dinner, too, seeing it's thanksgiving day." "ah! lucky for you, my boy!" said the old man. "you've a home to go to, and friends, too, i hope?" "no, _sir_; nary home, and nary friend; only my mother"--bert hesitated, and grew serious; then suddenly changed his tone--"and hop houghton. i told him to meet me here, and we'd have a first-rate thanksgiving dinner together; for it's no fun to be eatin' alone thanksgiving day! it sets a feller thinking of everything, if he ever had a home and then hain't got a home any more." "it's more lonesome not to eat at all," said the old man, his gray eyes twinkling. "and what can a boy like you have to think of? here, i guess i can find one cent for you, though there's nothing in the paper, i know." the old man spoke with some feeling, his fingers trembled, and somehow he dropped two cents instead of one into bert's hand. "here! you've made a mistake!" cried bert. "a bargain's a bargain. you've given me a cent too much." "no, i didn't. i never give anybody a cent too much." "but, see here!" and bert showed the two cents, offering to return one. "no matter," said the old man, "it will be so much less for _my_ dinner, that's all." bert had instinctively pocketed the pennies when, on a moment's reflection, his sympathies were excited. "poor old man!" he thought; "he's seen better days i guess. perhaps he's no home. a boy like me can stand it, but i guess it must be hard for _him_. he _meant_ to give me the odd cent all the while; and i don't believe he has had a decent dinner for many a day." all this, which i have been obliged to write out slowly in words, went through bert's mind like a flash. he was a generous little fellow, and any kindness shown him, no matter how trifling, made his heart overflow. "look here!" he cried, "where are _you_ going to get your dinner to-day?" "i can get a bite here as well as anywhere. it don't matter much to me," replied the old man. "dine with _me_," said bert, laughing. "i'd like to have you." "i'm afraid i couldn't afford to dine as you are going to," said the man, with a smile, his eyes twinkling again and his white front teeth shining. "i'll pay for your dinner!" bert exclaimed. "come! we don't have a thanksgiving but once a year, and a feller wants a good time then." "but you are waiting for another boy." "oh, hop houghton! he won't come now, it's so late. he's gone to a place down in north street, i guess--a place i don't like: there's so much tobacco smoked and so much beer drank there." bert cast a final glance up the street. "no, he won't come now. so much the worse for him! he likes the men down there; i don't." "ah!" said the man, taking off his hat, and giving it a brush with his elbow, as they entered the restaurant, as if trying to appear as respectable as he could in the eyes of a newsboy of such fastidious tastes. to make him feel quite comfortable in his mind on that point, bert hastened to say: "i mean rowdies, and such. poor people, if they behave themselves, are just as respectable to me as rich folks. i ain't the least mite aristocratic." "ah, indeed!" and the old man smiled again, and seemed to look relieved. "i'm very glad to hear it." he placed his hat on the floor and took a seat opposite bert at a little table, which they had all to themselves. bert offered him the bill of fare. "no, i must ask you to choose for me; but nothing very extravagant, you know. i'm used to plain fare." "so am i. but i'm going to have a good dinner for once in my life, and so shall you!" cried bert, generously. "what do you say to chicken soup, and then wind up with a thumping big piece of squash pie? how's that for a thanksgiving dinner?" "sumptuous!" said the old man, appearing to glow with the warmth of the room and the prospect of a good dinner. "but won't it cost you too much?" "too much? no, _sir_!" laughed bert. "chicken soup, fifteen cents; pie--they give tremendous pieces here; thick, i tell you--ten cents. that's twenty-five cents; half a dollar for two. of course, i don't do this way every day in the year. but mother's glad to have me, once in a while. here, waiter!" and bert gave his princely order as if it were no very great thing for a liberal young fellow like him, after all. "where is your mother? why don't you dine with her?" the little man asked. bert's face grew sober in a moment. "that's the question: why don't i? i'll tell you why i don't. i've got the best mother in the world. what i'm trying to do is to make a home for her, so we can live together and eat our thanksgiving dinners together some time. some boys want one thing, some another. there's one goes in for good times; another's in such a hurry to get rich he don't care much how he does it; but what i want most of anything is to be with my mother and my two sisters again, and i ain't ashamed to say so." bert's eyes grew very tender, and he went on, while his companion across the table watched him with a very gentle, searching look. "i haven't been with her now for two years, hardly at all since father died. when his business was settled up--he kept a little grocery store on hanover street--it was found he hadn't left us anything. we had lived pretty well up to that time, and i and my two sisters had been to school; but then mother had to do something, and her friends got her places to go out nursing, and she's a nurse now. everybody likes her, and she has enough to do. we couldn't be with her, of course. she got us boarded at a good place, but i saw how hard it was going to be for her to support us, so i said, 'i'm a boy; _i_ can do something for _myself_. you just pay their board, and keep 'em to school, and i'll go to work, and maybe help you a little, besides taking care of myself.'" "what could _you_ do?" said the little old man. "that's it. i was only 'leven years old, and what could i? what i should have liked would have been some nice place where i could do light work, and stand a chance of learning a good business. but beggars mustn't be choosers. i couldn't find such a place; and i wasn't going to be loafing about the streets, so i went to selling newspapers. i've sold newspapers ever since, and i shall be twelve years old next month." "you like it?" said the old man. "i like to get my own living," replied bert, proudly, "but what i want is to learn some trade, or regular business, and settle down, and make a home for--but there's no use talking about that. make the best of things, that's my motto. don't this soup smell good? and don't it taste good, too? they haven't put so much chicken in yours as they have in mine. if you don't mind my having tasted it, we'll change." the old man declined this liberal offer, took bert's advice to help himself freely to bread, which "didn't cost anything," and ate his soup with prodigious relish, as it seemed to bert, who grew more and more hospitable and patronizing as the repast proceeded. "come, now, won't you have something between the soup and the pie? don't be afraid: i'll pay for it. thanksgiving don't come but once a year. you won't? a cup of tea, then, to go with your pie?" "i think i _will_ have a cup of tea; you are _so_ kind," said the old man. "all right! here, waiter! two pieces of your fattest and biggest squash pie; and a cup of tea, strong, for this gentleman." "i've told you about myself," added bert; "suppose, now, _you_ tell _me_ something." "about myself?" "yes. i think that would go pretty well with the pie." but the man shook his head. "i could go back and tell about my plans and hopes when i was a lad of your age, but it would be too much like your own story over again. life isn't what we think it will be when we are young. you'll find that out soon enough. i am all alone in the world now, and i am sixty-seven years old." "have some cheese with your pie, won't you? it must be so lonely at your age! what do you do for a living?" "i have a little place in devonshire street. my name is crooker. you'll find me up two flights of stairs, back room, at the right. come and see me, and i'll tell you all about my business, and perhaps help you to such a place as you want, for i know several business men. now don't fail." and mr. crooker wrote his address with a little stub of a pencil on a corner of the newspaper which had led to their acquaintance, tore it off carefully, and gave it to bert. thereupon the latter took a card from his pocket, not a very clean one, i must say (i am speaking of the card, though the remark will apply equally well to the pocket) and handed it across the table to his new friend. "_herbert hampton, dealer in newspapers_," the old man read, with his sharp gray eyes, which glanced up funnily at bert, seeming to say, "isn't this rather aristocratic for a twelve-year-old newsboy?" bert blushed, and explained: "got up for me by a printer's boy i know. i'd done some favours for him, so he made me a few cards. handy to have sometimes, you know." "well, herbert," said the little old man, "i'm glad to have made your acquaintance. the pie was excellent--not any more, thank you--and i hope you'll come and see me. you'll find me in very humble quarters; but you are not aristocratic, you say. now won't you let me pay for my dinner? i believe i have money enough. let me see." bert would not hear of such a thing, but walked up to the desk and settled the bill with the air of a person who did not regard a trifling expense. when he looked around again the little old man was gone. "never mind, i'll go and see him the first chance i have," said bert, as he looked at the pencilled strip of newspaper margin again before putting it into his pocket. he then went round to his miserable quarters, in the top of a cheap lodging-house, where he made himself ready, by means of soap and water and a broken comb, to walk five miles into the suburbs and get a sight, if only for five minutes, of his mother. on the following monday bert, having a leisure hour, went to call on his new acquaintance in devonshire street. having climbed the two flights, he found the door of the back room at the right ajar, and looking in, saw mr. crooker at a desk, in the act of receiving a roll of money from a well-dressed visitor. bert entered unnoticed and waited till the money was counted and a receipt signed. then, as the visitor departed, old mr. crooker looked round and saw bert. he offered him a chair, then turned to lock up the money in a safe. "so this is your place of business?" said bert, glancing about the plain office room. "what do you do here?" "i buy real estate sometimes--sell--rent--and so forth." "who for?" asked bert. "for myself," said little old mr. crooker, with a smile. bert stared, perfectly aghast at the situation. this, then, was the man whom he had invited to dinner, and treated so patronizingly the preceding thursday! "i--i thought--you was a poor man." "i _am_ a poor man," said mr. crooker, locking his safe. "money doesn't make a man rich. i've money enough. i own houses in the city. they give me something to think of, and so keep me alive. i had truer riches once, but i lost them long ago." from the way the old man's voice trembled and eyes glistened, bert thought he must have meant by these riches friends he had lost--wife and children, perhaps. "to think of _me_ inviting _you_ to dinner!" the boy cried, abashed and ashamed. "it _was_ odd." and mr. crooker showed his white front teeth with a smile. "but it may turn out to have been a lucky circumstance for both of us. i like you; i believe in you; and i've an offer to make to you: i want a trusty, bright boy in this office, somebody i can bring up to my business, and leave it with, as i get too old to attend to it myself. what do you say?" what _could_ bert say? again that afternoon he walked--or rather, ran--to his mother, and after consulting with her, joyfully accepted mr. crooker's offer. interviews between his mother and his employer soon followed, resulting in something for which at first the boy had not dared to hope. the lonely, childless old man, who owned so many houses, wanted a home; and one of these houses he offered to mrs. hampton, with ample support for herself and her children, if she would also make it a home for him. of course this proposition was accepted; and bert soon had the satisfaction of seeing the great ambition of his youth accomplished. he had employment which promised to become a profitable business (as indeed it did in a few years, he and the old man proved so useful to each other); and, more than that, he was united once more with his mother and sisters in a happy home where he has since had a good many thanksgiving dinners. a thanksgiving story[ ] by miss l. b. pingree. a three-minute story for the littlest boys and girls. it was nearly time for thanksgiving day. the rosy apples and golden pumpkins were ripe, and the farmers were bringing them into the markets. [footnote : from "boston collection of kindergarten stories," j. l. hammett company.] one day when two little children, named john and minnie, were going to school, they saw the turkeys and chickens and pumpkins in the window of a market, and they exclaimed, "oh, thanksgiving day! oh, thanksgiving day!" after school was over, they ran home to their mother, and asked her when thanksgiving day would be. she told them in about two weeks; then they began to talk about what they wanted for dinner, and asked their mother a great many questions. she told them she hoped they would have turkey and even the pumpkin pie they wanted so much, but that thanksgiving day was not given us so that we might have a good dinner, but that god had been a great many days and weeks preparing for thanksgiving. he had sent the sunshine and the rain and caused the grains and fruits and vegetables to grow. and thanksgiving day was for glad and happy thoughts about god, as well as for good things to eat. not long after, when john and minnie were playing, john said to minnie, "i wish i could do something to tell god how glad i am about thanksgiving." "i wish so, too," said minnie. just then some little birds came flying down to the ground, and minnie said: "oh, i know." then she told john, but they agreed to keep it a secret till the day came. now what do you think they did? well, i will tell you. they saved their pennies, and bought some corn, and early thanksgiving day, before they had their dinner, they went out into the street near their home, and scattered corn in a great many places. what for? why, for the birds. while they were doing it, john said, "i know, minnie, why you thought of the birds: because they do not have any papas and mammas after they are grown up to get a dinner for them on thanksgiving day." "yes, that is why," said minnie. by and by the birds came and found such a feast, and perhaps they knew something about thanksgiving day and must have sung and chirped happily all day. john inglefield's thanksgiving by nathaniel hawthorne. a sad thanksgiving story is a rarity indeed. but the one which follows reminds us that the puritans, although they originated our thanksgiving festival, were after all a sombre people, seldom free from a realizing sense of the imminence of sin. nathaniel hawthorne, a genuine product of puritanism, inherited a full share of his forefathers' constitutional melancholy and preoccupation with the darker aspects of life--as this story bears witness. on the evening of thanksgiving day, john inglefield, the blacksmith, sat in his elbow-chair among those who had been keeping festival at his board. being the central figure of the domestic circle, the fire threw its strongest light on his massive and sturdy frame, reddening his rough visage so that it looked like the head of an iron statue, all aglow, from his own forge, and with its features rudely fashioned on his own anvil. at john inglefield's right hand was an empty chair. the other places round the hearth were filled by the members of the family, who all sat quietly, while, with a semblance of fantastic merriment, their shadows danced on the wall behind them. one of the group was john inglefield's son, who had been bred at college, and was now a student of theology at andover. there was also a daughter of sixteen, whom nobody could look at without thinking of a rosebud almost blossomed. the only other person at the fireside was robert moore, formerly an apprentice of the blacksmith, but now his journeyman, and who seemed more like an own son of john inglefield than did the pale and slender student. only these four had kept new england's festival beneath that roof. the vacant chair at john inglefield's right hand was in memory of his wife, whom death had snatched from him since the previous thanksgiving. with a feeling that few would have looked for in his rough nature, the bereaved husband had himself set the chair in its place next his own; and often did his eye glance hitherward, as if he deemed it possible that the cold grave might send back its tenant to the cheerful fireside, at least for that one evening. thus did he cherish the grief that was dear to him. but there was another grief which he would fain have torn from his heart; or, since that could never be, have buried it too deep for others to behold, or for his own remembrance. within the past year another member of his household had gone from him, but not to the grave. yet they kept no vacant chair for her. while john inglefield and his family were sitting round the hearth with the shadows dancing behind them on the wall, the outer door was opened, and a light footstep came along the passage. the latch of the inner door was lifted by some familiar hand, and a young girl came in, wearing a cloak and hood, which she took off and laid on the table beneath the looking-glass. then, after gazing a moment at the fireside circle, she approached, and took the seat at john inglefield's right hand, as if it had been reserved on purpose for her. "here i am, at last, father," said she. "you ate your thanksgiving dinner without me, but i have come back to spend the evening with you." yes, it was prudence inglefield. she wore the same neat and maidenly attire which she had been accustomed to put on when the household work was over for the day, and her hair was parted from her brow in the simple and modest fashion that became her best of all. if her cheek might otherwise have been pale, yet the glow of the fire suffused it with a healthful bloom. if she had spent the many months of her absence in guilt and infamy, yet they seemed to have left no traces on her gentle aspect. she could not have looked less altered had she merely stepped away from her father's fireside for half an hour, and returned while the blaze was quivering upward from the same brands that were burning at her departure. and to john inglefield she was the very image of his buried wife, such as he remembered on the first thanksgiving which they had passed under their own roof. therefore, though naturally a stern and rugged man, he could not speak unkindly to his sinful child, nor yet could he take her to his bosom. "you are welcome home, prudence," said he, glancing sideways at her, and his voice faltered. "your mother would have rejoiced to see you, but she has been gone from us these four months." "i know, father, i know it," replied prudence quickly. "and yet, when i first came in, my eyes were so dazzled by the firelight that she seemed to be sitting in this very chair!" by this time, the other members of the family had begun to recover from their surprise, and became sensible that it was no ghost from the grave, nor vision of their vivid recollections, but prudence, her own self. her brother was the next that greeted her. he advanced and held out his hand affectionately, as a brother should; yet not entirely like a brother, for, with all his kindness, he was still a clergyman and speaking to a child of sin. "sister prudence," said he, earnestly, "i rejoice that a merciful providence hath turned your steps homeward in time for me to bid you a last farewell. in a few weeks, sister, i am to sail as a missionary to the far islands of the pacific. there is not one of these beloved faces that i shall ever hope to behold again on this earth. oh, may i see all of them--yours and all--beyond the grave!" a shadow flitted across the girl's countenance. "the grave is very dark, brother," answered she, withdrawing her hand somewhat hastily from his grasp. "you must look your last at me by the light of this fire." while this was passing, the twin girl--the rosebud that had grown on the same stem with the castaway--stood gazing at her sister, longing to fling herself upon her bosom, so that the tendrils of their hearts might intertwine again. at first she was restrained by mingled grief and shame, and by a dread that prudence was too much changed to respond to her affection, or that her own purity would be felt as a reproach by the lost one. but, as she listened to the familiar voice, while the face grew more and more familiar, she forgot everything save that prudence had come back. springing forward she would have clasped her in a close embrace. at that very instant, however, prudence started from her chair and held out both her hands with a warning gesture. "no, mary, no, my sister," cried she, "do not you touch me! your bosom must not be pressed to mine!" mary shuddered and stood still, for she felt that something darker than the grave was between prudence and herself, though they seemed so near each other in the light of their father's hearth, where they had grown up together. meanwhile prudence threw her eyes around the room in search of one who had not yet bidden her welcome. he had withdrawn from his seat by the fireside and was standing near the door, with his face averted so that his features could be discerned only by the flickering shadow of the profile upon the wall. but prudence called to him in a cheerful and kindly tone: "come, robert," said she, "won't you shake hands with your old friend?" robert moore held back for a moment, but affection struggled powerfully and overcame his pride and resentment; he rushed toward prudence, seized her hand, and pressed it to his bosom. "there, there, robert," said she, smiling sadly, as she withdrew her hand, "you must not give me too warm a welcome." and now, having exchanged greetings with each member of the family, prudence again seated herself in the chair at john inglefield's right hand. she was naturally a girl of quick and tender sensibilities, gladsome in her general mood, but with a bewitching pathos interfused among her merriest words and deeds. it was remarked of her, too, that she had a faculty, even from childhood, of throwing her own feelings like a spell over her companions. such as she had been in her days of innocence, so did she appear this evening. her friends, in the surprise and bewilderment of her return, almost forgot that she had ever left them, or that she had forfeited any of her claims to their affection. in the morning, perhaps, they might have looked at her with altered eyes, but by the thanksgiving fireside they felt only that their own prudence had come back to them, and were thankful. john inglefield's rough visage brightened with the glow of his heart, as it grew warm and merry within him; once or twice, even, he laughed till the room rang again, yet seemed startled by the echo of his own mirth. the brave young minister became as frolicsome as a schoolboy. mary, too, the rosebud, forgot that her twin-blossom had ever been torn from the stem and trampled in the dust. and as for robert moore, he gazed at prudence with the bashful earnestness of love new-born, while she, with sweet maiden coquetry, half smiled upon and half discouraged him. in short, it was one of those intervals when sorrow vanishes in its own depth of shadow, and joy starts forth in transitory brightness. when the clock struck eight, prudence poured out her father's customary draught of herb tea, which had been steeping by the fireside ever since twilight. "god bless you, child," said john inglefield, as he took the cup from her hand; "you have made your old father happy again. but we miss your mother sadly, prudence, sadly. it seems as if she ought to be here now." "now, father, or never," replied prudence. it was now the hour for domestic worship. but while the family were making preparations for this duty, they suddenly perceived that prudence had put on her cloak and hood, and was lifting the latch of the door. "prudence, prudence! where are you going?" cried they all with one voice. as prudence passed out of the door, she turned toward them and flung back her hand with a gesture of farewell. but her face was so changed that they hardly recognized it. sin and evil passions glowed through its comeliness, and wrought a horrible deformity; a smile gleamed in her eyes, as of triumphant mockery, at their surprise and grief. "daughter," cried john inglefield, between wrath and sorrow, "stay and be your father's blessing, or take his curse with you!" for an instant prudence lingered and looked back into the fire-lighted room, while her countenance wore almost the expression as if she were struggling with a fiend who had power to seize his victim even within the hallowed precincts of her father's hearth. the fiend prevailed, and prudence vanished into the outer darkness. when the family rushed to the door, they could see nothing, but heard the sound of wheels rattling over the frozen ground. that same night, among the painted beauties at the theatre of a neighbouring city, there was one whose dissolute mirth seemed inconsistent with any sympathy for pure affections, and for the joys and griefs which are hallowed by them. yet this was prudence inglefield. her visit to the thanksgiving fireside was the realization of one of those waking dreams in which the guilty soul will sometimes stray back to its innocence. but sin, alas! is careful of her bondslaves; they hear her voice, perhaps, at the holiest moment, and are constrained to go whither she summons them. the same dark power that drew prudence inglefield from her father's hearth--the same in its nature, though heightened then to a dread necessity--would snatch a guilty soul from the gate of heaven, and make its sin and its punishment alike eternal. how obadiah brought about a thanksgiving[ ] by emily hewitt leland. the waddle family had very bad luck on their farm in the west. and they certainly were homesick! but obadiah and his uncle, between them, found means to mend matters. that an innocent and helpless baby should be named obadiah waddle was an outrage which the infant unceasingly resented from the time he got old enough to realize the awful gulf that lay between his name and those of his more fortunate mates. the experiences of his first day at school were branded into his soul; and although he made friends by his bright face and kind and honest nature, scarcely a day passed during his six years of village schooling without his absurd name flying out at him from some unsuspected ambush and making him wince. [footnote : from the _youth's companion_, november , .] it was bad enough when the guying came from a boy, but when a girl took to punning, jeering, or giggling at him it seemed as if his burden was greater than he could bear. then he would go home through the woods and fields to avoid human beings, so hurt and unhappy that nothing but his mother's greeting and the smell of a good supper could cheer him. at home he had no trouble. his mother and his baby sister called him obie, and sweet was his name on their lips. his father, who had objected to "obadiah" from the first, called him bub or bubby; but one can bear almost any name when it comes with a loving smile or a pat on the shoulder, which was mr. waddle's way of addressing his only son. very early in life it had been explained to obadiah that he was named for his mother's favourite brother, who went to california to live, after hanging a silver dollar on a black silk cord round the neck of his little namesake. obadiah often looked at this dollar, which was kept in a little box with a broken earring, a hair chain, a glass breastpin, and an ancient "copper"; and sometimes on circus days or on the fourth of july he wished there was no hole in it that he might expend it on side-shows and lemonade or on monstrous firecrackers. but he knew that his mother valued it highly because uncle obie gave it to him and because there were little dents in it made by his vigorous first teeth; so he always returned it to the box with a sigh of resignation, and made the most of the twenty-five cents given him by his father on the great days of the year. when he was eleven years old the waddle family moved west, and the last thing obadiah heard as the train pulled away from the little station of his native town was this verse, lustily shouted from a group of schoolmates assembled to bid him good-bye: "oh, obadiah, you're going west, where the prairie winds don't have no rest, you'll have to waddle your level best. good-bye, my lover, good-bye!" ill-fortune attended the waddles in their western home. to be sure, they had their rich, broad acres, with never a stone or a stump to hinder the smooth cutting plow, but a frightful midsummer storm in the second year literally wiped out crops and cattle, and left them with their bare lives in their lowly sod house. "drought first year, tornado second. if next year's a failure, we'll go back--if we can raise money enough to go with. three times and then out!" said mr. waddle. mrs. waddle broke down and wept. it scared the children to learn that their mother could cry--their mother, who was always so bright and cheerful and who always laughed away their griefs! mr. waddle was scared, too. he bent down and patted her shoulder--his favourite way of soothing beast or human being. "now, mary, mary! don't you go back on us. we can stand everything as long as you are all right. don't feel bad! we'll pick up again. there's time enough yet to grow turnips and fodder corn." "but what will we fodder it to?" wailed mrs. waddle. mr. waddle could not answer, thinking of his splendid horses, and of his pure jersey cows that would never answer to his call again. "well, i am ashamed of myself!" said mrs. waddle, after a few moments, bravely drying her eyes. "and i'm wicked, too! i've just wished that something would happen so we'd have to go back east, and it's happened; and we might have all been killed. and i'm going to stop just where i am. i don't care where we live--or how we live--so long as we are all together--and well--and there's a crust in the house and water to drink." rising, she seized the broom and began vigorously to sweep together the leaves and grass which the cyclone had cast in through the open door. "i declare, mary!" said mr. waddle. "do you mean to say you've been homesick all this time?" "i'd give more for the north side of one of those old vermont hills than i would for the whole prairie!" was the emphatic reply. "but i'm not going to say another single word." mr. waddle felt a thrill of comfort in knowing he was not alone in his yearning for the old home. it was singular that these two, who loved each other so truly, could so hide their inmost feelings. each had feared to appear weak to the other. mr. waddle looked at his wife with almost a radiant smile. "well, mary, we'll go back in the fall--if we can sell. i guess we can hire the deacon elbridge place i see by last week's paper it's still for sale or rent, and carpenter work in old hartbridge is about as profitable for me as farming out west." "i'm glad you wouldn't mind going back, homer," said mrs. waddle, and they looked at each other as in the days of their courtship. but selling the farm was not easy, and october found the waddles in painful straits. "what will we have for thanksgiving, ma?" asked obadiah. "oh, a pair of nice prairie chickens, mashed turnips, hot biscuits, and melted sugar," cheerfully replied mrs. waddle. "that sounds pretty good," said obadiah; but when he got out of doors he said to himself that you could not shoot prairie chickens without ammunition, and that he had no bait even if he tried to use his quail traps. he also reflected that his mother looked thin and pale, that sister ellie needed shoes, and that plum pudding and mince pie used to be on thanksgiving tables. but this was the day for his story paper--post-office day--which seemed to cheer things up somehow. when he went to town for the mail he would see if his father, who was at work carpentering on a barn, could not spare a dime for a little powder and shot. so the boy trudged away on his long walk, with his empty gun on his shoulder and the hope of youth in his heart. his father, busy at work, greeted him cheerily, but had no dime for powder and shot. pay for the work was not to be had until the first of december, and meanwhile every penny must be saved--for coal and for ellie's shoes. "it leaves thanksgiving out in the cold, doesn't it, bub? but we'll make it up at christmas, maybe," said mr. waddle, as obadiah turned to go. "here's three cents for a bite of candy for sis, and take good care of mother. i'll be home day after to-morrow, likely." obadiah jingled the three pennies in his pocket as he walked to the combined store and post-office. three cents! they would buy a charge or two of powder and shot, and he still had a few caps. and candy was not good for people anyhow! he wished he had asked his father if he might buy ammunition instead. "but i'll not bother him again," he decided, "and sis will be glad enough of the candy." he would not buy rashly. he looked over the jars of striped sticks, peppermint drops, chocolate mice, and mixed varieties. then he sat down on a nail keg to await the distribution of the mail. he watched the people standing by for the opening of the delivery window. it was a rare thing for his family to get a letter, but then they seldom sent one. once in a while a newspaper came from uncle obadiah, but only one letter in two years. perhaps if he knew what hard luck they were having he would write oftener. the boy had heard his mother say only the week before that she wanted to write to brother obie, but was no hand at letters, especially when there was no good news to write. a thought now came to young obadiah. he would write to his uncle to-morrow, and his brain began fairly to hum with what he would say. when his time came he invested one cent in a clean white stick of candy and the remaining two in a postage stamp. "i'll pay two cents back to pa as soon as i get the answer," he said confidently to his questioning conscience. his walk home abounded in exasperations. never had game appeared so plentiful. three separate flocks of prairie chickens flew directly over his head, a rabbit scurried across his path, and in the stubble of the ruined grainfields rose and fell little clouds of quail. "they just know it ain't loaded!" grumbled obadiah, trudging with his empty gun. that night, after sis had gone to sleep, and his mother had lain down beside her, cheerfully remarking that bed was cheaper than fire, and that she was glad there was a good wood lot on the elbridge place, obadiah, behind the sheltering canvas partition that separated the kitchen from the bedrooms, wrote the following letter: dear uncle:--last year our crops were burned up by the drought and this year they were swept away by a cyclone and all the stock was killed, and father will not get his pay for carpenter work until december. if there was no hole in the dollar you gave me when i was a baby i would take it and buy something for thanksgiving. i wish you would send me a dollar without a hole in it as soon as you can and i will send you the one with a hole in it. i would send it now but i have not got stamps enough. i hope you are well. we are all well, only ma is homesick. your sincere nephew, obadiah waddle. p. s.--please send your answer right to me, because i want to surprise ma with some things for thanksgiving. the next morning he set off to look at his most distant quail traps, found them empty, and circled round to the village, where he posted his letter. the days crept slowly by, and times grew more and more uncomfortable in the little sod house. often when obadiah was doing his "sums" his pencil would shy off to a corner of his slate and scribble a list of items something like this: cents to pa $. stamps and paper (to send the d) . powder and shot . tea and sugar for ma . lb. raisens . eggs . lb. butter . ------ . more powder . ------ $ . sometimes he would set down half a pound of "raisens" and add "candy for sis, . ," but this was in his reckless moments. sober second thought always convinced him that "raisens" would bring the greatest good to the greatest number about thanksgiving time. he casually asked his mother how long it took people to go to california. "well, uncle obie's newspapers always get here about four or five days after they are printed. dear me! i must write to your uncle obie just as soon as we can spare the money for paper and stamps. he'll be glad to know we are all alive and well, and that's about all i can tell him." obadiah smiled broadly behind his geography and began reckoning the days. the answer might arrive about the th, but he heroically waited until the st before going to ask for it. he reached the village long before mail time, but saw so many things to consider in the grocery and provision line that he was almost surprised when the rattle of the "mail rig" and an in-gathering of people told that the important time had arrived. the waddles had given up their box, so he could not expect to see his letter until it should be handed out to him from the general "w" pile. he waited patiently. the fortunate owners of lock boxes took out their letters with a proud air while the distributing was still going on. others, who had mere open boxes, drew close and tried to read inverted superscriptions with poor success. others who never had either letters or papers, but who came in at this hour from force of habit, stood near the stove or leaned on the counters and spoke of the weather and swapped feeble jokes. finally the small wooden window was flung open. the little group got its papers and letters and gradually retired. "any letter for me?" cried obadiah, his heart jumping. "nope; your pa got your papers last saturday." "but--ain't there a letter--for me?" the man hastily ran over the half-dozen "w" missives. "nope." obadiah's heart was heavy as lead now. he went out into the sleety weather and faced the long walk home. his eyes were so blurred with tears he could hardly see and his feet came near slipping. a derisive shout came from across the street: "hallo! pretty bad 'waddling' this weather!" obadiah pulled his hat over his eyes and tramped on in scornful silence. and now another voice called out to him, a voice from the rear: "oh, say! waddle! come back here--package for ye!" obadiah hastily went back, his heart leaping. "registered package," explained the postmaster. "'most forgot it. sign your name on that line. odd name you've got. no danger your mail going to some other fellow." obadiah laughed and said he guessed not, and hardly believing his senses, again started for home, and soon struck out upon the far-stretching road. in the privacy of the great prairie he looked at the package again. how heavy it was for such a small one, and how important looked the long row of stamps; and there was uncle obadiah's name in one corner, proving that it was truly the answer! there must be a jackknife in it, or something besides the dollar. he cut the stout twine, removed the wrapper, and lifted the cover of a strong paper box. there was something wrapped in neat white paper and feeling very solid. obadiah removed the paper, and a heavy, handsome and very fat leather purse slipped into his hand. he opened it. it had several compartments, and in each one were three or more hard, flat, round objects wrapped in more white paper to keep them from jingling, very likely. obadiah unwrapped one of these round, flat objects, and even in the dull light of the drizzling and fading november day he could see that it was a bright, clean, shining silver dollar--and had no hole in it. with hands fairly shaking with joy, he returned the purse to the box and sped homeward. he ran all the way, only slowing up for breath now and then, but it was dark, and the poor little supper was waiting when he reached the house. the small lamp did not shed a very brilliant light, but a mother does not need an electric glare in order to read her child's face. "well, obie, what's happened?" asked his mother as soon as he was inside the door. "have you caught a whole flock of quails?" "something better'n quails! guess again, ma!" "three nice fat prairie hens then." "something better'n prairie hens." and then obie could wait no longer. he pulled the package from under his coat and tossed it down beside the poor old teapot, which had known little but hot water these many weeks. "why, it's from brother obie--to _you_!" exclaimed his mother, while his father drew near and said, "well, well!" "and look inside! i haven't half looked yet," said obie, "but _you_ look, ma! i just want you to look!" ma opened the box, and then the purse, and then the fourteen round objects wrapped in white paper. and they made a fine glitter on the red tablecloth. "well, _well_!" repeated mr. waddle. "and here's something written," said mrs. waddle, taking a paper from a pocket at the back of the purse. "read it, ma--out loud! _i_ don't care," said obie generously. so ma read it in a voice that trembled a little: my dear nephew:--if i count rightly, it is thirteen years since your good mother labelled you obadiah. i'm not near enough to give you thirteen slaps--i wish i were--so i send you thirteen dollars, and one to grow on. never mind returning the dollar with the hole in it--keep it for your grandchildren to cut their teeth on. give my love to your parents and little sister; and if you look the purse through closely, i think you will find something of interest to your mother. it is about time she paid our old vermont a visit. be a good boy. your affectionate uncle, obadiah brown. "oh, that blessed brother!" cried mrs. waddle, wiping her eyes with her apron. obie seized the purse and examined it on all sides. it was a very wizard of a purse, for another little flat pocket was found in its inmost centre, and from it obie drew out another bit of folded paper and opened it. "why, it's a check!" shouted mr. waddle. "a check for you, mary, for--two--hundred--dollars! my! there's a brother for you!" "oh, not two _hundred_--it must be twenty--it can't be--" faltered mrs. waddle, wiping her eyes to look at the paper. then she gave a little cry and fell to hugging all her family. "we can all go back--we can go next week!" and she almost danced up and down on the unresponsive clay floor. "i owe you two cents, pa, and i'll pay it back to you just as soon as i can get a dollar changed," said obadiah proudly, fingering the shining coins. "how's that, bubby?" then obadiah explained. "i hope you didn't complain, obie," said his mother, her happy face clouding. "well, i told him about the drought and the cyclone. i guess if i was a near relation i wouldn't call that complaining. and then i asked him if he wouldn't swap dollars with me, so i could have one without a hole in it to get something for thanks--" mr. waddle broke in with a shout of laughter, and mrs. waddle kissed her son once more, and laughed, too, although her eyes were full of tears. and then obadiah knew everything was all right. "we can have thanksgiving now, can't we, ma?" he asked. "it's so near; and i'm going to get all the things. we'll have chicken pie--_tame_ chicken pie--and plum pudding--and butter--and cream for the coffee--and cranberries--and lump sugar--and pumpkin pie--and--" "oh, me wants supper!" exclaimed sis. and then they laughed again, and fell upon the cooling corn-bread and molasses and melancholy bits of fried pork and the thin ghost of tea as if they were already engaged in a feast of thanksgiving. and so they were. the white turkey's wing[ ] by sophie swett. priscilla, the big white hen turkey, deserved a better fate than to be eaten on thanksgiving day, and minty and jason contrived to save her. mary ellen was coming home from her school teaching at the falls, and nahum from 'tending in blodgett's store at edom four corners, and uncle and aunt piper with mirandy and augustus and the twins were coming from juniper hill, and there was every prospect of as merry a thanksgiving as one could wish to see. and thanksgivings were always merry at the kittredge farm on red hill. uncle kittredge might be a trifle over thrifty--a leetle nigh, his neighbours called him--but there was no stinting at thanksgiving, and when a boy is accustomed to perpetual corn-bread and sausages, he knows how to appreciate unlimited turkey and plum pudding; and when he is used to gloomy evenings, in which uncle kittredge holds the one feeble kerosene lamp between himself and a newspaper, aunt kittredge knits in silent meditation on blue yarn stockings, he knows how good it is to have the house filled with lights and people, jolly games going on in the parlour, and candy-pulling in the kitchen. all these delights were directly before jason kittredge as he dangled his legs from the stone wall and whittled away at the skewers which clorinda, the "hired girl," had demanded of him, and yet his heart was as heavy as lead. [footnote : from _harper's young people_, november , .] he did not even look up when his sister minty came up the hill toward him. he knew it was minty, because she was hop-skipping and humming, and he knew that aunt kittredge had sent her to mrs. deacon preble's to get a recipe for snow pudding; she had said she "must have something real stylish, because she had invited the new minister and his daughter to dinner." "oh, jason, don't you wish it was always going to be thanksgiving day after to-morrow?" minty continued her hop-skipping; she went to and fro before the dejected figure on the wall. minty was tall for twelve, and she had a very high forehead, which made aunt kittredge think that she was going to be "smart." aunt kittredge made her comb her hair straight back from the high forehead, and fasten it with a round comb; not a vestige of hair showed under minty's blue hood, and her forehead looked bleak and cold, and her pale blue eyes were watery, and her new teeth were large and overlapped each other; but aunt kittredge said it was no matter, if she was only good and "smart." "why, jason, is anything the matter?" minty stopped, breathless, and the joy faded out of her face. jason continued to whittle in gloomy silence. his hands were almost purple with cold, and the wind flapped his large pantaloons--they were uncle kittredge's old ones, and aunt kittredge never thought it worth the while to consider the fit if they were turned up so that he could walk in them. "you don't care because the new minister and his daughter are coming?" pursued minty. jason's tastes, as she well knew, did not incline to ministers and schoolmasters as companions in merrymaking. "she's a big girl, almost sixteen, and she will go with mary ellen, and we shall have mirandy and augustus and the twins, and the sedgell girls and nehemiah ham are coming in the evening, and we shall have such fun, and such lots to eat!" "that's just like you. you're friv'lous. you don't know what an awful hard world it is. you haven't got a realizing sense," said jason crushingly. this last accusation was one with which aunt kittredge was accustomed to overwhelm clorinda when she burned the pies or wore her best bonnet to evening meeting. minty's face grew so long that it looked like the reflection of a face in a spoon, and the tears came into her eyes. it must be a hard world, since jason found it so. he was much stouter-hearted than she; his round, snub-nosed, freckled face was generally as cheerful as the sunshine. jason had his troubles--minty well knew what they were--but he bore them manfully. he didn't like to have clorinda use his hens' eggs when he was saving them to sell, and perhaps it was even more trying to be at school when the eggs man came around, and have aunt kittredge sell his eggs and put the money into her pocket. jason wished to go into business for himself, and he had a high opinion of the poultry business for a beginning. cyrus, their "hired man," had once lived with a man at north edom who made fabulous sums by raising poultry. but aunt kittredge's peculiar views of the rights of boys interfered with his accumulation of the necessary capital. all these troubles jason bore bravely. it must be some great misfortune that caused him to look so utterly despairing, and to accuse her of such dreadful things, thought poor minty. jason took pity on her woful face. "p'raps you're not so much to blame, mint. you don't know," he said, in a somewhat softened tone. "it's aunt kittredge." minty heaved a long, long sigh. it generally _was_ aunt kittredge. "she's told cyrus to kill the--the white turkey!" continued jason, with almost a break in his voice. "to kill priscilla!" gasped minty. "she couldn't--she wouldn't! oh, jason, cyrus won't do it, will he?" "hasn't he got to if she says so?" demanded jason grimly. "but priscilla is yours," said minty stoutly. "she says she only let me call her mine. just as if i didn't save her out of that weak brood when all the rest were killed by the thunderstorm! and brought her up in cotton behind the kitchen stove, no matter how much clorinda scolded! and found her nest with thirty-one eggs in it in the old pine stump! and she knows me and follows me round." "i shouldn't think aunt kittredge would want to," said minty reflectively. "she wants a big turkey, because the minister and his daughter are coming to dinner, and she doesn't want to have one of the young ones killed, because she is too stin--" "i wouldn't care if i were you. after all, priscilla is only a turkey," said minty, attempting to be cheerful. but this well-meant effort at consolation aroused jason's wrath. "that's just like a girl!" he cried. "what do you care if you only have blue beads and lots of candy?" poor minty's face lengthened again, and her jaw fell. "there's my two dollars and thirty cents, jason," she said anxiously. jason started; a ray of hope flushed his freckled face. "we can buy a big turkey over at jonas hicks's for all that money," continued minty. and then she drew nearer to jason, and added a thrilling whisper, "and we can hide priscilla!" jason stared at her in amazement. he had never expected minty to come to the front in an emergency. perhaps the high forehead meant something after all. "_she_'ll be after you about the money, you know," he said, with a significant nod toward the house. "it's my own. i earned it picking berries and weeding old mrs. jackman's garden. it's in my bank, and the bank won't open till there's five dollars in it." jason's face darkened. "but we can smash it," said minty calmly. _certainly_ the high forehead meant something. priscilla was hidden. the "smashing" was done in extreme privacy behind the stone wall of the pasture. cyrus was bound over to secrecy, as was also jonas hicks, who, after some haggling, sold them his finest turkey for two dollars and thirty cents. "cyrus is gettin' real handy and accommodatin'," said clorinda the next morning, when they were all in the kitchen, and jason, ignobly arrayed in clorinda's kitchen-belle apron, was chopping, and minty was seeding raisins. "i expected nothin' but what i'd got to pick the white turkey, and he's fetched her in all picked and drawed." "she don't weigh quite so much as i expected," said uncle kittredge, as he suspended the turkey on the hook of the old steelyards. jason and minty slyly exchanged anxious glances. neither of them had looked at the turkey, and minty's face was suffused with red even to the roots of her tow-coloured hair. mary ellen and nahum came that night, and bright and early on the morning of thanksgiving day came uncle and aunt piper with mirandy and augustus and the twins, and the house was full of noise and jollity. jason was obliged to go to church in the morning with the grown people, but minty stayed at home to help clorinda, and after much manoeuvring she found an opportunity to run down to the shanty in the logging road and feed the white turkey. the new minister and his daughter came to dinner, and jason and minty were glad that the children had seats at the far end of the table. the minister's daughter was sixteen, and looked very stylish, and aunt kittredge said she was glad enough that they had the snow pudding, and that she had asked aunt piper to bring her sauce dishes. it had begun to be very merry at the far end of the table, in a quiet way, for aunt kittredge's stern eye wandered constantly in that direction, and jason and minty had almost forgotten that there were trials and difficulties in life, when suddenly aunt piper's loud voice sounded across the table, striking terror to their souls: "you don't say that this is the white turkey? seems kind of a pity to kill her, she was so handsome. but she eats real well. now, you mustn't forget to let me take a wing home to sabriny. you know you always promised her a wing for her hat when the white turkey was killed." sabriny was aunt piper's niece, who had been left at home to keep house. "sure enough i did," said aunt kittredge. "jason, you go out to the barn and get cyrus to give you one of the white turkey's wings; and minty, you wrap it up nice, so it will be handy for your aunt to carry. go as soon as you've ate your dinner, so's to have it ready, for uncle piper has got to get home before sundown." "yes'm," answered jason hoarsely, without lifting his eyes from his plate. he could scarcely eat another mouthful, and minty found it unexpectedly easy to obey aunt kittredge's injunction to decline snow pudding lest there should not be "enough to go round." "what are you going to do?" asked minty, overtaking jason, as he walked dejectedly through the woodshed as soon as dinner was over. "i don't know; run away and be a cowboy like hiram trickey, i guess." minty's heart gave a great throb. hiram trickey had sent home a photograph, which showed him to have become very like the picture of a pirate in cyrus's old book, with pistols and a dirk at his belt. "jason, the new minister's daughter has got a white gull's wing on her hat, and--it's up in the spare chamber on the bed, and i don't think sabriny would ever know the difference." jason stared in mild-eyed speechless wonder. minty had never shown herself a leading spirit before. "it will be dark before the minister's daughter goes, and there's a veil over the hat, and if we put a little something white on it i'm sure she won't notice. and when she does notice she won't know what became of it. and we can save up and buy her another gull's wing." "sabriny'll know," said jason, but there was an accent of hope in his voice. "they don't have turkeys, and they know that priscilla wasn't a common turkey; perhaps they won't know the difference," said minty. "anyway, it will give us time to get priscilla out of the way. if aunt kittredge finds out, she will have her killed right away." "you go and get the wing off the minister's daughter's hat, mint," directed jason firmly. minty worked with trembling fingers in the chilly seclusion of the spare chamber, but she made a neat package. and she stuck on to the hat in place of the wing some feathers from the white rooster. there was an awful moment as uncle and aunt piper were leaving. "just let me see whether he's got a real handsome wing," said aunt kittredge, taking the package which minty had put into aunt piper's hand. "malachi is in considerable of a hurry, and they've done it up so nice," said aunt piper. "there! i 'most forgot my sauce dishes, and sabriny's going to have company to-morrow!" minty drew a long breath of relief as the carriage disappeared down the lane, and jason privately confided to her his opinion that she was "an orfle smart girl." there was another dreadful moment when the minister's daughter went home. they had played games until a very late hour, for corinna, and she dressed so hurriedly that she did not observe that anything had happened to her hat, but as she went down the garden walk jason and minty saw in the moonlight the rooster's feathers blowing from it. the next morning, in the privacy afforded by the great woodpile, to which jason had gone to chop his daily stint, the children debated the advisability of committing the white turkey to the care of lot rankin, who lived with his widowed mother on the edge of the woods. "it's hard to get a chance to feed her," said jason, "and she may squawk." "lot rankin may tell," suggested minty. and she heaved a great sigh. conspiracy came hard to minty. just then the voice of the new minister's daughter came to their ears. she was talking with aunt kittredge on the other side of the woodpile. "there was a high wind last night when i went home, and i suppose it blew away. i am very sorry to lose it, because it was so pretty, and it was a present, too," she said. "maybe the children have found it; they're round everywhere," said aunt kittredge. and then she called shrilly to jason. minty shrank down in a little heap behind a huge log as jason stepped bravely out from behind the woodpile, and answered promptly that he had not seen the gull's wing. that was literally true; but how _she_ was going to answer, minty did not know. it was so great a relief that tears sprang to minty's eyes when, after a little more conversation, the minister's daughter went away. aunt kittredge had taken it for granted that, as she remarked, "if one of them young ones didn't know anything about it the other didn't." minty felt her burden of guilt to be greater than she could bear. and there was no way in which she could earn money enough to buy the minister's daughter a new feather until berries were ripe and the weeds grew in old mrs. jackman's garden. minty racked her brains to think of something she could give the minister's daughter to ease her troubled conscience. there was her bunker hill monument, made of shells, her most precious treasure; she would gladly have parted with even that, but it stood upon the table in the parlour, and aunt kittredge would discover so soon that it had gone. and aunt kittredge was quite capable of asking the minister's daughter to return it. minty felt, despairingly, that this atonement was impossible. but suddenly a bright idea struck her. the feather on her summer sunday hat! it was blue--it had been white originally, but aunt kittredge had thriftily had it dyed when it became soiled. blue would be very becoming to the minister's daughter, and perhaps she would like it as well as her gull's wing. there was another sly visit to the chilly spare chamber. minty took the summer sunday hat from its bandbox in the closet, and carefully abstracted the blue feather. it was slightly faded, and there were some traces of the wetting it had received in a thunderstorm in spite of the handkerchief which aunt kittredge carefully pinned over it; but minty thought it still a very beautiful feather. she put it into a little pasteboard box, wrote the minister's daughter's name on it, placed it on her doorstep at dusk, rang the bell, and ran away. it was nearly a week before she could find this opportunity to present the feather, for aunt kittredge didn't allow her to go out after dark; and in all that time they had not been able to negotiate with lot rankin, for lot had the mumps on both sides at once, and could not be seen. but the very next day after the minister's daughter received her feather--as if things were all coming right, thought minty hopefully--uncle kittredge sent her down to lot rankin's to find out when he would be strong enough to help cyrus in the logging camp; and jason gave her many charges concerning the contract she was to make with lot. but as she was going out of the house, there stood the minister's daughter in the doorway, talking with aunt kittredge. "i shouldn't have known where it came from if miss plympton, the milliner, hadn't happened to come in," the young girl was saying. "she said at once, 'it's minty kittredge's feather. i had it dyed for her last summer, and there's the little tag from the dye-house on it now.' i can't think why she sent it to me." aunt kittredge turned to the shrinking figure behind her, holding the blue feather accusingly in her hand. "araminta kittredge, what does this mean?" she demanded sternly. "i--i--she felt so bad about her gull's wing, and--and--" a rising sob fairly choked minty. "please don't scold her. i'm sure she can explain," pleaded the minister's daughter. "it's my duty to find out just what this means," said aunt kittredge severely. "i never heard of a child doing such a high-handed thing! you can do your errand now, because your uncle wants you to, but when you come back i shall have a settlement with you." poor minty! she ran fast, never looking back, although the minister's daughter called to her in kindliest tones. there was no hope of keeping a secret from aunt kittredge when once she had discovered that there was one. the only chance of saving priscilla's life lay in persuading lot rankin to care for and conceal her. but, alas! she found that lot was not to be persuaded. he was going into the woods to work, and his mother was "set against turkeys." moreover, she was "so lonesome most of the time that when folks _did_ come along she told 'em all she knew." jason, who had been very anxious, met her at the corner. perhaps it was not to be wondered at that jason was somewhat cross and unreasonable. he said only a girl would be so foolish as to send that feather to the minister's daughter. girls were all silly, even those who had high foreheads, and he would never trust one again. he hoped she was going to have sense enough not to tell, no matter what aunt kittredge did. poor minty felt herself to be quite unequal to resisting aunt kittredge, but she swallowed a lump in her throat and said firmly that she would try to have sense enough. as they passed the blacksmith's shop, liphlet, uncle piper's man, called out to them: "mebbe i shan't have time to go up to your house. the blacksmith is sick, so i had to come over here to get the mare shod, and i wish you'd tell your aunt that sabriny says 'twan't no turkey's wing that she sent her: 'twas some kind of a sea-bird's wing, and it come off of somebody's bunnit, and she's a-goin' to fetch it back!" minty and jason answered not a word, but as they went on they looked at each other despairingly. "we should have been found out anyway," said minty. her pitifully white face seemed to touch jason and arouse a spark of manly courage in his bosom. "i'll stand by you, mint, feather and all. you can't help being a girl," he said magnanimously. "and i won't run away to be a cowboy like hiram trickey." minty gave him a little grateful glance, but she could not speak. it did not seem so dreadful now about hiram trickey. she wished that a girl could run away to be a cowboy. as they slowly and dejectedly drew near the house, they saw a horse and a farm wagon at the door, and through the window they discovered that uncle and aunt kittredge, clorinda, and cyrus were all in the kitchen. there was a visitor. here was at least a slight reprieve. they went around through the woodshed; it seemed advisable to approach aunt kittredge with caution, even in the presence of a visitor. "well, i must say i'm consid'able disappointed," the visitor was saying, as they softly opened the door. he was a bluff, burly man, who sat with his tall whip between his knees. "i ought to 'a' stopped when i see her out there top of the stone wall the last time i come by--the handsomest turkey cretur i ever did see, and i've been in the poultry business this twenty years. i knew in a minute she belonged to that breed that old mis' joskins had; she fetched 'em from york state. she moved away before i knew it, and carried 'em all with her." "i bought some eggs of her, and 'most all of 'em hatched, but that white turkey was the only one that lived," said aunt kittredge. "i declare if i'd known she was anything more'n common, and worthy of havin' her picture in a book--" "you'd ought to have known it, maria!" said uncle kittredge testily. "i wa'n't for havin' her killed, and you'd ought to have heard to me!" "i was calc'latin' to hev her picter right in the front of my new poultry book," continued the visitor, whom the children now recognized as the distinguished poultry dealer of north edom for whom cyrus had once worked. "and i was going to have printed under it, 'from the farm of abner kittredge, esq., corinna.' be kind of a boom for you 'n' corinna, too--see? and if you didn't want to sell her right out, i was calc'latin' to make you a handsome offer for all the eggs she laid." "there! now you see what you've done, maria! i declare i wouldn't gredge givin' a twenty dollar bill to fetch that white turkey back!" exclaimed uncle kittredge. "oh, oh! uncle kittredge!" minty broke away from jason, who would have held her back, not feeling sure that it was quite time to speak, and rushed into the room. "you needn't give twenty dollars! priscilla is down in the little shanty in the logging wood! we saved her--jason and i--and we bought a turkey of jonas hicks instead. i paid with my own money, aunt kittredge! and then i--i took the gull's wing off the minister's daughter's hat to send to sabriny, and--and so that's why i sent her the blue feather, and--and sabriny's going to send the gull's wing back--" "jason, you go and fetch that turkey home!" said uncle kittredge. "and, maria, don't you blame them children one mite!" "i never heard of such high-handed doin's!" gasped aunt kittredge. "i expect i shall have to send you children each a copy of my book with the picter of that turkey in it," said the poultry dealer. "and maybe the boy and i can make kind of a contract about eggs and chickens." the minister's daughter wore her gull's wing to church the next sunday, and she privately confided to minty that she "didn't blame her one bit." aunt kittredge looked at minty somewhat severely for several days but only as she looked at her when she turned around in church or fidgeted in the long prayer. and after the poultry book came out with priscilla's photograph as a frontispiece, and people began to make pilgrimages to the red hill farm to see the poultry, she was heard to say several times that "it was wonderful to see how a smart boy like jason could make turkey raising pay," and that "as for minty, she always knew that high forehead of hers wasn't for nothing." the thanksgiving goose[ ] by fannie wilder brown. how a little boy learned to be thankful. a charming story even though it _has_ a moral. "but i don't like roast goose," said guy, pouting. "i'd rather have turkey. turkey is best for thanksgiving, anyway. goose is for christmas." [footnote : from the _youth's companion_, november , .] guy's mother did not answer. he watched her while she carefully wrote g. t. w. on the corner of a pretty new red-bordered handkerchief. five others, all alike, and all marked alike, lay beside it. the initials were his own. "why didn't you buy some blue ones? i'd rather have them different," he said. mrs. wright smiled a queer little smile, but did not answer. she lighted a large lamp and held the marked corner of one of the handkerchiefs against the hot chimney. the heat made the indelible ink turn dark, although the writing had been so faint guy hardly could see it before. "oh, dear," he cried, "there's a little blot at the top of that t! i don't want to carry a handkerchief that has a blot on it." "very well," said his mother. "i'll put them away, and you may carry your old ones until you ask me to let you carry this one. i don't care to furnish new things for a boy who doesn't appreciate them." "i don't like old--" "that'll do, guy. never mind the rest of the things that you don't like. i want you to take this dollar down to mrs. burns. tell her that i shall have a day's work for her on friday, and i thought she might like to have part of the pay in advance to help make thanksgiving with. please go now." "but a dollar won't help much. she won't like that. she always acts just as if she was as happy as anybody. i don't want to go there on such an errand as that." mrs. wright smiled again, but her tone was very grave. "mrs. burns is 'as happy as anybody,' guy, and she has the best-behaved children in the neighbourhood. the little ones almost never cry, and i never have seen the older ones quarrel. but there are eight children, and mr. burns has only one arm, so he can't earn much money. mrs. burns has to turn her hands to all sorts of things to keep the children clothed and fed. she'll be thankful to get the dollar--you see if she isn't! and tell her if she is making mince pies to sell this year, i'll take three." guy walked very slowly down the street until he came to the little house where the burns family lived. "i'd hate to live here," he thought. "i don't see where they all sleep. my room isn't big enough, but i don't believe there's a room in this house as big as mine. i shouldn't have a bit of fun, ever, if i lived here. and i'd hate to have my mother make pies and send me about to sell them." then he knocked on the front door, for there was no bell. no one came. he could hear people talking in the distance, so he knew some of the family were at home. some one always was at home here to look after the little children. he walked around to the kitchen door: it stood open. the children were talking so fast they did not hear his knock. they were very busy. katie, the eleven-year-old, and malcolm, ten, guy's age, were cutting citron into long, thin strips, piling it on a big blue plate. mary and james, the eight-year-old twins, were paring apples with a paring machine. the long, curling skins fell in a large stone jar standing on a clean paper, spread on the floor. charlie, who was only four years old, was watching to see that none of the parings fell over the edge of the jar. susan, who was seven, was putting raisins, a few at a time, into a meat chopper screwed down on the kitchen table. george, three years old, was turning the handle of the chopper to grind the raisins. baby joe was creeping about the kitchen floor after a kitten. mrs. burns was taking a great piece of meat from a steaming kettle on the back of the stove. every one was working, except the baby and the kitten, but all seemed to be having a glorious time. what they were saying seemed so funny it was some time before guy could understand it. at last he was sure it was some kind of a game. "mice?" asked susan. mary squealed, and they all laughed. "because they're small," said mary. "snakes?" "they can't climb trees," mrs. burns called out from the pantry. the children fairly roared at that. "a pantry with no window in it?" "oh, we've had that before," katie answered. "i know what you say. it's a good place to ripen pears in when mrs. wright gives us some." guy knocked very loudly at that. he had not thought that he was listening. the children started, but did not leave their work. they looked at their mother. "jamie," she said. then jamie came to meet guy, and invited him to walk in. "what game is it?" asked guy, forgetting his errand. "making mince pies," said jamie. "it's lots of fun. don't you want to play? i'll let you turn the paring machine if you'd like that best." guy said "thank you" and began to turn the parer eagerly. "but i don't mean what you are doin'," said guy. "i knew that was mince pies. i thought that was work. i meant what you were saying. it sounds so funny! i never heard it before." "mamma made it up," explained malcolm. "it's great fun. we always play it at thanksgiving time. you think of something that people don't like, and the one who can think first tells what he is thankful for about it. we call it 'thanksgiving.'" guy stayed for an hour, and played both games. then, quite to his surprise, the twelve o'clock whistles blew, and he had to go home. but he remembered his errands and did them, to the great pleasure of the whole burns family. in the afternoon guy spent some time writing a note to his mother. it was badly written, but it made his mother happy. it read: dear mother:--i am thankful the blot isent any bigger. i am thankful the hankershefs isent black on the borders. i would like that one with the blot on to put in my pocket when you read this. but my old ones are nice. the burnses dont have things to be thankful for but they are thankful just the same. i am thankful for the goose we are going to have. the best is i am thankful i am not a goose myself, for if i was i wouldent know enough to be thankful. respectfully yours, guy theodore wright. an english dinner of thanksgiving[ ] by george eliot. americans are not the only people who hold a feast each year after the crops are gathered into barns. the older boys and girls who wish to know more of the jolly english farmer, martin poyser, and his household, will enjoy reading about them in george eliot's great novel, "adam bede." it was a goodly sight--that table, with martin poyser's round good-humoured face and large person at the head of it, helping his servants to the fragrant roast beef, and pleased when the empty plates came again. martin, though usually blest with a good appetite, really forgot to finish his own beef to-night--it was so pleasant to him to look on in the intervals of carving, and see how the others enjoyed their supper; for were they not men who, on all the days of the year except christmas day and sundays, ate their cold dinner, in a makeshift manner, under the hedgerows, and drank their beer out of wooden bottles--with relish certainly, but with their mouths toward the zenith, after a fashion more endurable to ducks than to human bipeds. martin poyser had some faint conception of the flavour such men must find in hot roast beef and fresh-drawn ale. he held his head on one side, and screwed up his mouth, as he nudged bartle massey, and watched half-witted tom tholer, otherwise known as "tom saft," receiving his second plateful of beef. a grin of delight broke over tom's face as the plate was set down before him, between his knife and fork, which he held erect, as if they had been sacred tapers; but the delight was too strong to continue smouldering in a grin--it burst out the next moment in a long-drawn "haw, haw!" followed by a sudden collapse into utter gravity, as the knife and fork darted down on the prey. martin poyser's large person shook with his silent unctuous laugh; he turned toward mrs. poyser to see if she, too, had been observant of tom, and the eyes of husband and wife met in a glance of good-natured amusement. [footnote : from chapter liii of "adam bede."] but _now_ the roast beef was finished and the cloth was drawn, leaving a fair large deal table for the bright drinking cans, and the foaming brown jugs, and the bright brass candlesticks, pleasant to behold. _now_ the great ceremony of the evening was to begin--the harvest song, in which every man must join; he might be in tune, if he liked to be singular, but he must not sit with closed lips. the movement was obliged to be in triple time; the rest was _ad libitum_. as to the origin of this song--whether it came in its actual state from the brain of a single rhapsodist, or was gradually perfected by a school or succession of rhapsodists, i am ignorant. there is a stamp of unity, of individual genius upon it, which inclines me to the former hypothesis, though i am not blind to the consideration that this unity may rather have arisen from that consensus of many minds which was a condition of primitive thought foreign to our modern consciousness. some will perhaps think that they detect in the first quatrain an indication of a lost line, which later rhapsodists, failing in imaginative vigour, have supplied by the feeble device of iteration; others, however, may rather maintain that this very iteration is an original felicity to which none but the most prosaic minds can be insensible. the ceremony connected with the song was a drinking ceremony. (that is perhaps a painful fact, but then, you know, we cannot reform our forefathers.) during the first and second quatrain, sung decidedly _forte_, no can was filled: "here's a health unto our master, the founder of the feast; here's a health unto our master and to our mistress! "and may his doings prosper, whate'er he takes in hand, for we are all his servants, and are at his command." but now, immediately before the third quatrain or chorus, sung _fortissimo_, with emphatic raps on the table, which gave the effect of cymbals and drum together. alick's can was filled, and he was bound to empty it before the chorus ceased. "then drink, boys, drink! and see ye do not spill, for if ye do, ye shall drink two, for 'tis our master's will." when alick had gone successfully through this test of steady-handed manliness, it was the turn of old kester, at his right hand--and so on, till every man had drunk his initiatory pint under the stimulus of the chorus. tom saft--the rogue--took care to spill a little by accident; but mrs. poyser (too officiously, tom thought) interfered to prevent the exaction of the penalty. to any listener outside the door it would have been the reverse of obvious why the "drink, boys, drink!" should have such an immediate and often-repeated encore; but once entered, he would have seen that all faces were at present sober, and most of them serious; it was the regular and respectable thing for those excellent farm-labourers to do, as much as for elegant ladies and gentlemen to smirk and bow over their wine glasses. bartle massey, whose ears were rather sensitive, had gone out to see what sort of evening it was at an early stage in the ceremony; and had not finished his contemplation, until a silence of five minutes declared that "drink, boys, drink!" was not likely to begin again for the next twelve-month. much to the regret of the boys and totty; on them the stillness fell rather flat, after that glorious thumping of the table, toward which totty, seated on her father's knee, contributed with her small might and small fist. when bartle reëntered, however, there appeared to be a general desire for solo music after the choral. nancy declared that tim the wagoner knew a song and was "allays singing like a lark i' the stable"; whereupon mr. poyser said encouragingly, "come, tim, lad, let's hear it." tim looked sheepish, tucked down his head, and said he couldn't sing; but this encouraging invitation of the master's was echoed all round the table. it was a conversational opportunity: everybody could say, "come, tim"--except alick, who never relaxed into the frivolity of unnecessary speech. at last tim's next neighbour, ben tholoway, began to give emphasis to his speech by nudges, at which tim, growing rather savage, said, "let me alooan, will ye? else i'll ma' ye sing a toon ye wonna like." a good-tempered wagoner's patience has limits, and tim was not to be urged further. "well, then, david, ye're the lad to sing," said ben, willing to show that he was not discomfited by this check. "sing 'my loove's a roos wi'out a thorn.'" the amatory david was a young man of an unconscious abstracted expression, which was due probably to a squint of superior intensity rather than to any mental characteristic; for he was not indifferent to ben's invitation, but blushed and laughed and rubbed his sleeve over his mouth in a way that was regarded as a symptom of yielding. and for some time the company appeared to be much in earnest about the desire to hear david's song. but in vain. the lyrism of the evening was in the cellar at present, and was not to be drawn from that retreat just yet.... a novel postman[ ] by alice w. wheildon. a little country girl made known her wants in a decidedly original way. a small boy in the city did his best to satisfy them. this is at once a story of thanksgiving and of christmas. "oh, mother! what do you suppose ellen found in the turkey? you never could guess. it's a letter--yes, a real letter just stuffed inside--see!" and freddie held before his mother's wondering eyes a soiled and crumpled envelope which seemed to contain a letter. [footnote : from _wideawake_, november, . lothrop, lee & shepard company.] freddie had been in the kitchen all the morning watching the various operations for the thanksgiving dinner which was "to come off" the next day, when all the "sisters, cousins, and aunts" of the family were to assemble, as was their custom each year, and great was the commotion in the kitchen and much there was for master fred to inspect. when ellen put her hand into the turkey to arrange him for the stuffing, great was her astonishment at finding a piece of paper. drawing it quickly out she called, "freddie, freddie, see here! see what i've found in the turkey! i declare if he isn't a new kind of a postman, for sure as you're born this is a letter, come from somewhere, in the turkey. my! who ever heard of such a thing?" freddie, standing with eyes and mouth wide open, finally said, "why, ellen, do you believe it is a letter?" "why, of course it is! don't you see it's in a' envelope and all sealed and everything?" "yes, but it hasn't any stamp and how could a turkey bring it--how did it get in him?" "oh," laughed ellen, "that's the question! you'd better take it right up to your mother and get her to read it to you and perhaps it will tell." so freddie, all excitement, rushed upstairs and into his mother's room, shouting as we have read. his mother took the letter from him. "where did you get this, freddie--what do you mean by finding it in the turkey?" "why, ellen found it in the turkey when she was fixing him, and i don't see how it got there." mrs. page turned the envelope and slowly read, "to the lady who buys this turkey," written with a pencil and in rather crooked letters on the outside; then opening the envelope she found, surely enough, a letter within, also written in pencil, in rather uncertain letters, some large, some quite small, some on the line, others above or below, but all bearing sufficient relation to one another for her finally to decipher the following: _nov. _, _mad river village, n. h._ dere lady i doo want a dol for christmas orful and mother says that sante claws is so busy in the city that she gueses he forgits the cuntry and for me to rite to the city lady who buys our turkey and ask her if she will pleas to ask sante claws if he could send a dol way up here in the cuntry to me. i will hang my stockin in the chimly and he cannot mistake the house becaus it is the only house that is black in the hole place. i have prayed to him lots of times to give me a dol but i gues he does not mind prayers much from a little girl so far away so will you pleas to ask him for me and oblige lucy tillage. p. s.--i hope the turkey will be good to eat, he is our very best one and i was sorry to have him killed, but i never had a dol. freddie listened, very much interested, sometimes helping to make out the letters while his mother read this remarkable letter. at its conclusion he dropped upon a chair in deep thought while in his imagination he saw a small black house surrounded by turkeys running wildly about while a little girl tried to catch the largest. "oh, mother," at length he sighed, "only think of a girl who never had a doll, and beth has so many she don't know what to do with them all--shall you ask santa claus to send her one?" "well," said mrs. page, who also had been in deep thought, "do you think we better ask santa claus to send her one, or send her one ourselves? you and beth might send her one for a christmas present." at once freddie became fired with the desire to rush to a store, purchase a doll, and send it off to the little "black house." he seemed to think the house was little because the girl was little. "no, no, freddie, not so fast," said mrs. page. "i think we better wait till papa comes home and then we will ask his advice about it: first, if he knows of a town in new hampshire of this name, and then if he thinks there may really be a little girl there who has such an odd name--i shouldn't be surprised if papa could find out all about her." freddie thought it was hard to wait until his father came home before something was done about securing a doll; still he knew his mother was right and tried to be patient, wishing beth would come home, wondering how the little girl looked, and if she had any brothers who wanted something, and fifty other things, till he heard his father's key in the front door; then down he rushed, flourishing the open sheet in his hand, and gave him a most bewildering and rapid account of the letter and the finding it in the turkey, ending with, "now, papa, do you know of any such town, and did you ever hear of lucy tillage before, or of anybody's turkey having a letter sent in him, and don't you think we might send her the doll right away so's she might have it for christmas sure--don't you, papa? and if we can't get a new one won't you tell beth to send one of hers? i know she won't want so many and--" "oh! stop, my boy," said mr. page, laughing heartily; "wait a moment, fred, i don't half understand what this is all about--a letter and a turkey and a little girl with a doll and a turkey in a black house--" "now, papa, you're getting it all mixed up; you read the letter yourself, please." so mr. page read the letter and heard about finding it in the turkey, and then talked it over with his wife and freddie and beth, who had come in from her play, and it was decided that he should write to the postmaster and minister in mad river village asking them if they knew of any family in the place of the name of tillage, and if they did, whether they were a poor family, and how many children they had, and anything else they might know of them. there was no time to lose if the doll was to be sent for christmas, so both letters were written that very evening and freddie begged to put them in the post box himself that there might be no mistake in that. then came a long time of waiting for master fred. at first he thought one day would be enough for the letter to find its way to mad river village; but upon a solemn consultation with the cousins and aunts who came to the thanksgiving party, it was decided that three days, at least, ought to be allowed for a letter to reach a place that none of them had ever heard of, and perhaps there was not such a village anywhere after all but freddie had made up his mind that there was somewhere, and so each morning found him watching for the postman and each night he went to bed disappointed, saying, "oh! i hope there is a truly mad village." beth was almost as much excited as fred about lucy's letter, but still she laughed at him as older sisters sometimes seem to take pleasure in doing, saying, "i guess it's a delicious wonderland kind of a letter, and that the people up there are mad people to be sending letters in turkeys!" "well, you just wait, beth, and see if they are," answered fred; and sure enough, after ten days of waiting freddie was rewarded by receiving from the postman a yellow envelope with "mad river village" printed in large, clear letters "right side of the stamp." he ran as fast as he could with it to his father, shouting to beth by the way to "come and see if there isn't a mad village and a lucy tillage." mr. page was never given so short a time before to open a letter and adjust his glasses, but then a letter had never before been received under such circumstances. it proved to be from the postmaster at mad river village, and ran as follows: mad river village, n. h. mr. page of boston: i rec. your letter a day or two since and hasten to ans. it right away, as you wish, by this morning's mail which i must put up pretty soon so this letter must be short. yes sir i do know a family in this town by the name of tillage and they're a good respectable family too. they live a mile or two out of the village on a farm his father left him and i guess they have pretty hard times making both ends meet--there ain't much sale up here for farm things, you know, and it costs a heap to send them to boston but they do say that of late he's raised lots of chickens and turkeys to send to boston for thanksgiving. last year he and his wife started in on taking summer boarders and i guess they done first rate. they're young folks, got three children, a little girl a small boy and a baby and i guess they'll do as well as any one can on that farm, it's a likely place but his father ain't been dead long and geo. didn't have no show while the old man was alive. he buys his flour and groceries of me and i call him a honest fellow and i guess you'd like to board with them if you want to try them next summer. i don't think of anything more to say so will close. yours respt. josiah safford. p. s.--his name and address are george tillage, intervale farm, mad river village, n. h. this was a highly satisfactory letter, especially to master fred who had shouted gleefully to beth, "i told you so!" "i do know a family of the name of tillage," and when his father read "three children, a little girl, etc.," he nearly turned a somersault in his excitement, dancing about and saying, "that's lucy! that's lucy!" mr. page turned smilingly to his wife, saying, "well, my dear, this does not sound so much like a fairy tale after all, and i really think you and the children must play santa claus and send lucy a doll." "oh, yes, papa, of course we must! yes, do, mamma!" shouted both children at once. "it'll be such fun and she won't know where it comes from." mrs. page was only too willing, so she promised, only adding that she hoped the minister would give an equally good account. the children, however, were quite satisfied with the postmaster's letter and began preparations the very next morning to secure the doll and her "fit out" as beth called it. first, beth's dolls were looked at to see if one of them would do to take a trip into the country, but although there were quite a number of them none seemed to just suit their ideas of what lucy's doll should be. so mamma was appealed to and in consequence a visit was paid to partridge's store by mrs. page, accompanied by beth and master fred. here such a bewildering array of dolls was presented to the children that it was with difficulty they finally decided upon one with blue eyes and short golden hair, and real hair that curled bewitchingly. then came the selection of the "fit out." freddie thought she should have skates and a watch and bracelets and one of the cunning waterproof cloaks and a trunk--in fact, everything that could be bought for a doll (and in these days that means all articles of apparel, whether for use or ornament, that could be bought for a real person); but mrs. page explained that she would not need so many things in mad river village, so he was contented with a trunk which he selected himself, while his mother and beth bought a little hat and cloak, shoes, stockings, and a pretty sunshade--the dresses and underclothing beth thought she could make with the aid of her mother's seamstress, and she was very ambitious to try. freddie thought the "small boy" and the "baby" ought to have presents sent to them also; so he was allowed to select a drum, which he was sure the boy "would like best of anything," and a pretty rattle and a rubber cow for the baby. it was a very busy season of the year for the pages as well as for other people, and beth had many presents to think about, but she kept the little dresses and clothes for lucy's doll in mind and worked and planned with a will all the time she could spare for them, and mary, the seamstress, sewed and sewed, and as she knew how to cut dresses as well as make them, in about two weeks they had, as beth said, "a lovely fit out," even to a tiny muff and collar made from some bits of fur mamma had and a sweet little hood made just like beth's own. then miss doll was dressed in her travelling suit, muff and all, her other dresses and clothing packed in the little trunk, and she herself carefully tucked in on top, then beth shut the cover and locked it, tying the key to one of the buckles of the side strap--a box had been procured and into it was packed the trunk, the drum, and the presents for the baby, supplemented by freddie with a ball which he had found among his own playthings and two cornucopias of candy which he had purchased himself, saying that "christmas won't be christmas if they don't have some candy." mrs. page "filled in the nooks and corners just to steady the whole," as she modestly said, with a pair of strong warm mittens for mr. tillage, some magazines and books, several pairs of long thick stockings which freddie had outgrown but not worn out, and over the whole a beautiful warm shawl. then beth and fred composed a letter together which beth wrote and they both signed: dear lucy tillage:--the turkey brought the letter safely to us and we wanted to be santa claus ourselves and so send the doll and the other things for a christmas present to you and your brother and the baby. we wish you all a merry christmas and a happy new year. beth page, fred page. this they neatly folded, put in an envelope addressed to miss lucy tillage, mad river village, and placed on the shawl where it might be seen the moment the box was opened. they felt very proud and happy when the box was finally nailed up and directed in clear printed letters to george tillage, intervale farm, mad river village, new hampshire. freddie insisted that lucy's name ought to be put on, too, as she was the one who had written the letter and to whom the box was really sent; so "for lucy" was printed across one corner and underlined that her father might see it was sent particularly to her. it all seemed so mysterious, sending presents to people they did not know, and so delightful, that they thought this the best christmas they had ever known and only wished that they could be in the little "black house" when the box was opened, to see lucy's face as she caught sight of the cunning trunk and then the doll which she had so longed for. the very day the box was sent on its way there came a letter from a minister in the town in which mad river village was located, saying that he "did not know any family of the name of tillage, but upon inquiry he had found that there was a family of that name living on the other side of the river, but as they did not go to his church he was not acquainted with them; he was sorry, etc., etc." but the children cared little for this letter; their faith in lucy was not shaken, and they were very happy that they had answered her letter. ezra's thanksgivin' out west[ ] by eugene field. a kansas settler's recollections of an old-time thanksgiving in western massachusetts. older boys and girls will best appreciate the tender sentiment of the picture which eugene field has painted so vividly by his masterly use of homely dialect. ezra had written a letter to the home folks, and in it he had complained that never before had he spent such a weary, lonesome day as this thanksgiving day had been. having finished this letter, he sat for a long time gazing idly into the open fire that snapped cinders all over the hearthstone and sent its red forks dancing up the chimney to join the winds that frolicked and gambolled across the kansas prairies that raw november night. it had rained hard all day, and was cold; and although the open fire made every honest effort to be cheerful, ezra, as he sat in front of it in the wooden rocker and looked down into the glowing embers, experienced a dreadful feeling of loneliness and homesickness. [footnote : from "a little book of profitable tales," copyright, , published by charles scribner's sons.] "i'm sick o' kansas," said ezra to himself. "here i've been in this plaguey country for goin' on a year, and--yes, i'm sick of it, powerful sick of it. what a miser'ble thanksgivin' this has been! they don't know what thanksgivin' is out this way. i wish i was back in ol' mass'chusetts--that's the country for _me_, and they hev the kind o' thanksgivin' i like!" musing in this strain, while the rain went patter-patter on the windowpanes, ezra saw a strange sight in the fireplace--yes, right among the embers and the crackling flames ezra saw a strange, beautiful picture unfold and spread itself out like a panorama. "how very wonderful!" murmured the young man. yet he did not take his eyes away, for the picture soothed him and he loved to look upon it. "it is a pictur' of long ago," said ezra softly. "i had like to forgot it, but now it comes back to me as nat'ral-like as an ol' friend. an' i seem to be a part of it, an' the feelin' of that time comes back with the pictur', too." ezra did not stir. his head rested upon his hand, and his eyes were fixed upon the shadows in the firelight. "it is a pictur' of the ol' home," said ezra to himself. "i am back there in belchertown, with the holyoke hills up north an' the berkshire mountains a-loomin' up gray an' misty-like in the western horizon. seems as if it wuz early mornin'; everything is still, and it is so cold when we boys crawl out o' bed that, if it wuzn't thanksgivin' mornin', we'd crawl back again an' wait for mother to call us. but it _is_ thanksgivin' mornin', and we're goin' skatin' down on the pond. the squealin' o' the pigs has told us it is five o'clock, and we must hurry; we're goin' to call by for the dickerson boys an' hiram peabody, an' we've got to hyper! brother amos gets on about half o' my clothes, and i get on 'bout half o' his, but it's all the same; they are stout, warm clo'es, and they're big enough to fit any of us boys--mother looked out for that when she made 'em. when we go downstairs, we find the girls there, all bundled up nice an' warm--mary an' helen an' cousin irene. they're going with us, an' we all start out tiptoe and quiet-like so's not to wake up the ol' folks. the ground is frozen hard; we stub our toes on the frozen ruts in the road. when we come to the minister's house, laura is standin' on the front stoop a-waitin' for us. laura is the minister's daughter. she's a friend o' sister helen's--pretty as a dagerr'otype, an' gentle-like and tender. laura lets me carry her skates, an' i'm glad of it, although i have my hands full already with the lantern, the hockies, and the rest. hiram peabody keeps us waitin', for he has overslept himself, an' when he comes trottin' out at last the girls make fun of him--all except sister mary, an' she sort o' sticks up for hiram, an' we're all so 'cute we kind o' calc'late we know the reason why. "and now," said ezra softly, "the pictur' changes: seems as if i could see the pond. the ice is like a black lookin'-glass, and hiram peabody slips up the first thing, an' down he comes, lickety-split, an' we all laugh--except sister mary, an' _she_ says it is very imp'lite to laugh at other folks' misfortunes. ough! how cold it is, and how my fingers ache with the frost when i take off my mittens to strap on laura's skates! but, oh, how my cheeks burn! and how careful i am not to hurt laura, an' how i ask her if that's 'tight enough,' an' how she tells me 'jist a little tighter' and how we two keep foolin' along till the others hev gone an' we are left alone! an' how quick i get my _own_ skates strapped on--none o' your new-fangled skates with springs an' plates an' clamps an' such, but honest, ol'-fashioned wooden ones with steel runners that curl up over my toes an' have a bright brass button on the end! how i strap 'em and lash 'em and buckle 'em on! an' laura waits for me an' tells me to be sure to get 'em on tight enough--why, bless me! after i once got 'em strapped on, if them skates hed come off, the feet wud ha' come with 'em! an' now away we go--laura and me. around the bend--near the medder where si barker's dog killed a woodchuck last summer--we meet the rest. we forget all about the cold. we run races an' play snap the whip, an' cut all sorts o' didoes, an' we never mind the pick'rel weed that is froze in on the ice an' trips us up every time we cut the outside edge; an' then we boys jump over the air holes, an' the girls stan' by an' scream an' tell us they know we're agoin' to drownd ourselves. so the hours go, an' it is sun-up at last, an' sister helen says we must be gettin' home. when we take our skates off, our feet feel as if they were wood. laura has lost her tippet; i lend her mine, and she kind o' blushes. the old pond seems glad to have us go, and the fire-hangbird's nest in the willer tree waves us good-bye. laura promises to come over to our house in the evenin', and so we break up. "seems now," continued ezra musingly, "seems now as if i could see us all at breakfast. the race on the pond has made us hungry, and mother says she never knew anybody else's boys that had such capac'ties as hers. it is the yankee thanksgivin' breakfast--sausages an' fried potatoes, an' buckwheat cakes, an' syrup--maple syrup, mind ye, for father has his own sugar bush, and there was a big run o' sap last season. mother says, 'ezry an' amos, won't you never get through eatin'? we want to clear off the table, fer there's pies to make, and nuts to crack, and laws sakes alive! the turkey's got to be stuffed yet!' then how we all fly around! mother sends helen up into the attic to get a squash while mary's makin' the pie crust. amos an' i crack the walnuts--they call 'em hickory nuts out in this pesky country of sagebrush and pasture land. the walnuts are hard, and it's all we can do to crack 'em. ev'ry once'n a while one on 'em slips outer our fingers and goes dancin' over the floor or flies into the pan helen is squeezin' pumpkin into through the col'nder. helen says we're shif'less an' good for nothin' but frivolin'; but mother tells us how to crack the walnuts so's not to let 'em fly all over the room, an' so's not to be all jammed to pieces like the walnuts was down at the party at the peasleys' last winter. an' now here comes tryphena foster, with her gingham gown an' muslin apron on; her folks have gone up to amherst for thanksgivin', an' tryphena has come over to help our folks get dinner. she thinks a great deal o' mother, 'cause mother teaches her sunday-school class an' says tryphena oughter marry a missionary. there is bustle everywhere, the rattle uv pans an' the clatter of dishes; an' the new kitchen stove begins to warm up an' git red, till helen loses her wits and is flustered, an' sez she never could git the hang o' that stove's dampers. "an' now," murmured ezra gently, as a tone of deeper reverence crept into his voice, "i can see father sittin' all by himself in the parlour. father's hair is very gray, and there are wrinkles on his honest old face. he is lookin' through the winder at the holyoke hills over yonder, and i can guess he's thinkin' of the time when he wuz a boy like me an' amos, an' uster climb over them hills an' kill rattlesnakes an' hunt partridges. or doesn't his eyes quite reach the holyoke hills? do they fall kind o' lovingly but sadly on the little buryin' ground jest beyond the village? ah, father knows that spot, an' he loves it, too, for there are treasures there whose memory he wouldn't swap for all the world could give. so, while there is a kind o' mist in father's eyes, i can see he is dreamin'-like of sweet an' tender things, and a-communin' with memory--hearin' voices i never heard, an' feelin' the tech of hands i never pressed; an' seein' father's peaceful face i find it hard to think of a thanksgivin' sweeter than father's is. "the pictur' in the firelight changes now," said ezra, "an' seems as if i wuz in the old frame meetin'-house. the meetin'-house is on the hill, and meetin' begins at half-pas' ten. our pew is well up in front--seems as if i could see it now. it has a long red cushion on the seat, and in the hymn-book rack there is a bible an' a couple of psalmodies. we walk up the aisle slow, and mother goes in first; then comes mary, then me, then helen, then amos, and then father. father thinks it is jest as well to have one o' the girls set in between me an' amos. the meetin'-house is full, for everybody goes to meetin' thanksgivin' day. the minister reads the proclamation an' makes a prayer, an' then he gives out a psalm, an' we all stan' up an' turn 'round an' join the choir. sam merritt has come up from palmer to spend thanksgivin' with the ol' folks, an' he is singin' tenor to-day in his ol' place in the choir. some folks say he sings wonderful well, but _i_ don't like sam's voice. laura sings soprano in the choir, and sam stands next to her an' holds the book. "seems as if i could hear the minister's voice, full of earnestness an' melody, comin' from way up in his little round pulpit. he is tellin' us why we should be thankful, an', as he quotes scriptur' an' dr. watts, we boys wonder how anybody can remember so much of the bible. then i get nervous and worried. seems to me the minister was never comin' to lastly, and i find myself wonderin' whether laura is listenin' to what the preachin' is about, or is writin' notes to sam merritt in the back of the tune book. i get thirsty, too, and i fidget about till father looks at me, and mother nudges helen, and helen passes it along to me with interest. "an' then," continues ezra in his revery, "when the last hymn is given out an' we stan' up agin an' join the choir, i am glad to see that laura is singin' outer the book with miss hubbard, the alto. an' goin' out o' meetin' i kind of edge up to laura and ask her if i kin have the pleasure of seein' her home. "an' now we boys all go out on the common to play ball. the enfield boys have come over, and, as all the hampshire county folks know, they are tough fellers to beat. gorham polly keeps tally, because he has got the newest jackknife--oh, how slick it whittles the old broom handle gorham picked up in packard's store an' brought along jest to keep tally on! it is a great game of ball; the bats are broad and light, and the ball is small and soft. but the enfield boys beat us at last; leastwise they make tallies to our , when heman fitts knocks the ball over into aunt dorcas eastman's yard, and aunt dorcas comes out an' picks up the ball an' takes it into the house, an' we have to stop playin'. then phineas owen allows he can flop any boy in belchertown, an' moses baker takes him up, an' they wrassle like two tartars, till at last moses tuckers phineas out an' downs him as slick as a whistle. "then we all go home, for thanksgivin' dinner is ready. two long tables have been made into one, and one of the big tablecloths gran'ma had when she set up housekeepin' is spread over 'em both. we all set round--father, mother, aunt lydia holbrook, uncle jason, mary, helen, tryphena foster, amos, and me. how big an' brown the turkey is, and how good it smells! there are bounteous dishes of mashed potato, turnip, an' squash, and the celery is very white and cold, the biscuits are light and hot, and the stewed cranberries are red as laura's cheeks. amos and i get the drumsticks; mary wants the wishbone to put over the door for hiram, but helen gets it. poor mary, she always _did_ have to give up to 'rushin' helen,' as we call her. the pies--oh, what pies mother makes; no dyspepsia in 'em, but good nature an' good health an' hospitality! pumpkin pies, mince, an' apple, too, and then a big dish of pippins an' russets an' bellflowers, an', last of all, walnuts with cider from the zebrina dickerson farm! i tell ye, there's a thanksgivin' dinner for ye! that's what we get in old belchertown; an' that's the kind of livin' that makes the yankees so all-fired good an' smart. "but the best of all," said ezra very softly to himself, "oh, yes, the best scene in all the pictur' is when evenin' comes, when all the lamps are lit in the parlour, when the neighbours come in, and when there is music and singing an' games. an' it's this part o' the pictur' that makes me homesick now and fills my heart with a longin' i never had before; an' yet it sort o' mellows and comforts me, too. miss serena cadwell, whose beau was killed in the war, plays on the melodeon, and we all sing--all on us: men, womenfolks, an' children. sam merritt is there, and he sings a tenor song about love. the women sort of whisper round that he's goin' to be married to a palmer lady nex' spring, an' i think to myself i never heard better singin' than sam's. then we play games--proverbs, buzz, clap-in-clap-out, copenhagen, fox-an'-geese, button-button-who's-got-the-button, spin-the-platter, go-to-jerusalem, my-ship's-come-in; and all the rest. the ol' folks play with the young folks just as nat'ral as can be; and we all laugh when deacon hosea cowles hez to measure six yards of love ribbon with miss hepsey newton, and cut each yard with a kiss; for the deacon hez been sort o' purrin' round miss hepsey for goin' on two years. then, aft'r a while, when mary and helen bring in the cookies, nutcakes, cider, an' apples, mother says: 'i don't believe we're goin' to hev enough apples to go round; ezry, i guess i'll have to get you to go down cellar for some more.' then i says: 'all right, mother, i'll go, providin' some one 'll go along an' hold the candle.' an' when i say this i look right at laura, an' she blushes. then helen, jest for meanness, says: 'ezry, i s'pose you ain't willin' to have your fav'rite sister go down cellar with you and catch her death o' cold?' but mary, who hez been showin' hiram peabody the phot'graph album for more'n an hour, comes to the rescue an' makes laura take the candle, and she shows laura how to hold it so it won't go out. "the cellar is warm an' dark. there are cobwebs all between the rafters an' everywhere else except on the shelves where mother keeps the butter an' eggs an' other things that would freeze in the butt'ry upstairs. the apples are in bar'ls up against the wall, near the potater bin. how fresh an' sweet they smell! laura thinks she sees a mouse, an' she trembles an' wants to jump up on the pork bar'l, but i tell her that there shan't no mouse hurt her while i'm around; and i mean it, too, for the sight of laura a-tremblin' makes me as strong as one of father's steers. 'what kind of apples do you like best, ezry?' asks laura, 'russets or greenin's or crow-eggs or bellflowers or baldwins or pippins?' 'i like the baldwins best,' says i, ''coz they got red cheeks just like yours.' 'why, ezry thompson! how you talk!' says laura. 'you oughter be ashamed of yourself!' but when i get the dish filled up with apples there ain't a baldwin in all the lot that can compare with the bright red of laura's cheeks. an' laura knows it, too, an' she sees the mouse again, an' screams, and then the candle goes out, and we are in a dreadful stew. but i, bein' almost a man, contrive to bear up under it, and knowin' she is an orph'n, i comfort an' encourage laura the best i know how, and we are almost upstairs when mother comes to the door and wants to know what has kep' us so long. jest as if mother doesn't know! of course she does; an' when mother kisses laura good-bye that night there is in the act a tenderness that speaks more sweetly than even mother's words. "it is so like mother," mused ezra; "so like her with her gentleness an' clingin' love. hers is the sweetest picture of all, and hers the best love." dream on, ezra; dream of the old home with its dear ones, its holy influences, and its precious inspiration!--mother. dream on in the faraway firelight; and as the angel hand of memory unfolds these sacred visions, with thee and them shall abide, like a divine comforter, the spirit of thanksgiving. chip's thanksgiving[ ] by annie hamilton donnell. chip had plenty of nuts on thanksgiving day. the little lady called heart's delight saw to that. can you guess who chip was? they had got "way through," as terry said, to the nuts. it had been a beautiful thanksgiving dinner "so far." grandmother's sweet face beamed down the length of the great table, over all the little crinkly grandheads, at grandfather's face. everybody felt very thankful. [footnote : from the _youth's companion_, november , .] "i wish all the children this side o' the north pole had had some turkey, too, and squash and cram'bry--and things," said silence quietly. silence was always wishing beautiful things like that. "an' some nuts," added terry, setting his small white teeth into the meat of a big fat walnut. "it wouldn't seem thanksgivingy 'thout nuts." "i know somebody who would be thankful with just nuts," smiled grandfather. "indeed, i think he'd rather have them for all the courses of his thanksgiving dinner!" "just nuts! no turkey, nor puddin', nor anything?" the crinkly grandheads all bobbed up from their plates and nut-pickers in amazement. just nuts! "yes. guess who he is?" grandfather's laughing eyes twinkled up the long table at grandmother. "i'll give you three guesses apiece, beginning with heart's delight. guess number one, heart's delight." "chip," gravely. heart's delight had guessed it the very first guess. "chip!" laughed all the little grand girls and boys. why, of course! chip! he would rather have just nuts for thanksgiving dinner! "i wish he had some o' mine!" cried silence. "an' mine!" cried terry; and all the others wished he had some of theirs. what a thanksgiving dinner little chip would have had! "he's got plenty, thank you." it was the shy little voice of heart's delight. a soft pink colour had come into her round cheeks. everybody looked at her inquiringly, for how did heart's delight know chip had plenty of nuts? then terry remembered something. "oh, that's where her nuts went to!" he cried. "heart's delight gave 'em to chip! we couldn't think what she'd done with 'em all." the pink colour was growing pinker--very pink indeed. "yes, that's where," said silence, leaning over to squeeze one of heart's delight's little hands. and sure enough, it was. in the beautiful nut month of october, when the children went after their winter's supply of nuts, little heart's delight had left all her little rounded heap just where bright-eyed, nut-loving squirrel chip would be sure to find them and hurry them away to his winter hole. and chip had found them, she was sure, for not one was left when she went back to see, the next day. "why, maybe this very minute--right now--chip's cracking his thanksgiving dinner!" terry laughed. "same as we are! maybe he's got to the nut cour--oh, they're all nut courses! but maybe he's sittin' up to his table with the rest of the folks, thanksgiving to heart's delight," silence said. heart's delight's little shy face nearly hid itself over her plate. this was dreadful! it was necessary to change the subject at once, and a dear little thought came to her aid. "but i'm afraid he hasn't got any gran'father and gran'mother to his thanksgiving," she said softly. "i shouldn't think anybody could thanksgive 'thout a gran'mother and gran'father." the master of the harvest[ ] by mrs. alfred gatty. a good old-fashioned story for the older boys and girls to read on the sunday before thanksgiving day. the master of the harvest walked by the side of his cornfields in the early year, and a cloud was over his face, for there had been no rain for several weeks, and the earth was hard from the parching of the cold east winds, and the young wheat had not been able to spring up. [footnote : from "parables from nature."] so, as he looked over the long ridges that lay stretched in rows before him, he was vexed, and began to grumble, and say, "the harvest would be backward, and all things would go wrong." at the mere thought of which he frowned more and more, and uttered words of complaint against the heavens, because there was no rain; against the earth, because it was so dry and unyielding; against the corn, because it had not sprung up. and the man's discontent was whispered all over the field, and all along the long ridges where the corn seeds lay; and when it reached them they murmured out, "how cruel to complain! are we not doing our best? have we let one drop of moisture pass by unused, one moment of warmth come to us in vain? have we not seized on every chance, and striven every day to be ready for the hour of breaking forth? are we idle? are we obstinate? are we indifferent? shall we not be found waiting and watching? how cruel to complain!" of all this, however, the master of the harvest heard nothing, so the gloom did not pass away from his face. on the contrary, he took it with him into his comfortable home, and repeated to his wife the dark words that all things were going wrong; that the drought would ruin the harvest, for the corn was not yet sprung. and still thinking thus, he laid his head on his pillow, and presently fell asleep. but his wife sat up for a while by the bedside, and opened her bible, and read, "the harvest is the end of the world, and the reapers are the angels." then she wrote this text in pencil on the flyleaf at the end of the book, and after it the date of the day, and after the date the words, "lord, the husbandman, thou waitest for the precious fruit thou hast sown, and hast long patience for it! amen, o lord, amen!" after which the good woman knelt down to pray, and as she prayed she wept, for she knew that she was very ill. but what she prayed that night was heard only in heaven. and so a few days passed on as before, and the house was gloomy with the discontent of its master; but at last one evening the wind changed, the sky became heavy with clouds, and before midnight there was rain all over the land; and when the master of the harvest came in next morning, wet from his early walk by the cornfields, he said it was well it had come at last, and that, at last, the corn had sprung up. on which his wife looked at him with a smile, and said, "how often things came right, about which one had been anxious and disturbed." to which her husband made no answer, but turned away and spoke of something else. meantime, the corn seeds had been found ready and waiting when the hour came, and the young sprouts burst out at once; and very soon all along the long ridges were to be seen rows of tender blades, tinting the whole field with a delicate green. and day by day the master of the harvest saw them and was satisfied; but because he was satisfied, and his anxiety was gone, he spoke of other things, and forgot to rejoice. and a murmur arose among them: "should not the master have welcomed us to life? he was angry but lately, because the seed he had sown had not yet brought forth; now that it has brought forth, why is he not glad? what more does he want? have we not done our best? are we not doing it minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day? from the morning and evening dews, from the glow of the midday sun, from the juices of the earth, from the breezes which freshen the air, even from clouds and rain, are we not taking in food and strength, warmth and life, refreshment and joy; so that one day the valleys may laugh and sing, because the good seed hath brought forth abundantly? why does he not rejoice?" as before, however, of all they said the master of the harvest heard nothing; and it never struck him to think of the young corn blades' struggling life. nay, once, when his wife asked him if the wheat was doing well, he answered, "very fairly," and nothing more. but she then, because the evening was fine and the fairer weather had revived her failing powers, said she would walk out by the cornfields herself. and so it came to pass that they went out together. and together they looked all along the long green ridges of wheat, and watched the blades as they quivered and glistened in the breeze which sprang up with the setting sun. together they walked, together they looked; looking at the same things and with the same human eyes; even as they had walked, and looked, and lived together for years, but with a world dividing their hearts; and what was ever to unite them? even then, as they moved along, she murmured half aloud, half to herself, thinking of the anxiety that had passed away: "thou visitest the earth, and blessest it; thou makest it very plenteous." to which he answered, if answer it may be called, "why are you always so gloomy? why should scripture be quoted about such common things?" and she looked in his face and smiled, but did not speak; and he could not read the smile, for the life of her heart was as hidden to him as the life of the corn blades in the field. and so they went home together, no more being said by either; for, as she turned round, the sight of the setting sun and of the young freshly growing wheat blades brought tears into her eyes. _she_ might never see the harvest upon earth again; for her that other was at hand, whereof the reapers were to be angels. and when she opened her bible that night she wrote on the flyleaf the text she had quoted to her husband, and after the text the date of the day, and after the date the words, "bless me, even me also, oh, my father, that i may bring forth fruit with patience!" very peaceful were the next few weeks that followed, for all nature seemed to rejoice in the weather, and the corn blades shot up till they were nearly two feet high, and about them the master of the harvest had no complaints to make. but at the end of that time, behold, the earth began to be hard and dry again, for once more rain was wanted; and by degrees the growing plants failed for want of moisture and nourishment, and lost power and colour, and became weak and yellow in hue. and once more the husbandmen began to fear and tremble, and once more the brow of the master of the harvest was over-clouded with angry apprehension. and as the man got more and more anxious about the fate of his crops, he grew more and more irritable and distrustful, and railed as before, only louder now, against the heavens because there was no rain; against the earth because it lacked moisture; against the corn plants because they had waxed feeble. nay, once, when his sick wife reproved him gently, praying him to remember how his fears had been turned to joy before, he reproached her in his turn for sitting in the house and pretending to judge of what she could know nothing about, and bade her come out and see for herself how all things were working together for ill. and although he spoke it in bitter jest, and she was very ill, she said she would go, and went. so once more they walked out together, and once more looked over the cornfields; but when he stretched out his arm and pointed to the long ridges of blades, and she saw them shrunken and faded in hue, her heart was grieved within her, and she turned aside and wept over them. nevertheless, she said she durst not cease from hope, since an hour might renew the face of the earth, if god so willed; neither should she dare to complain, _even the harvest were to fail_. at which words the master of the harvest stopped short, amazed, to look at his wife, for her soul was growing stronger as her body grew weaker, and she dared to say things now which she would have had no courage to utter before. but of all this he knew nothing, and what he thought, as he listened, was that she was as weak in mind as in body; and what he said was that a man must be an idiot who would not complain when he saw the bread taken from under his very eyes! and his murmurings and her tears sent a shudder all along the long ridges of sickly corn blades, and they asked one of another, "why does he murmur? and, why does she weep? are we not doing all we can? do we slumber or sleep, and let opportunities pass by unused? are we not watching and waiting against the times of refreshing? shall we not be found ready at last? why does he murmur? and, why does she weep? is she, too, fading and waiting? has she, too, a master who has lost patience?" meantime, when she opened her bible that night, she wrote on the flyleaf the text, "wherefore should a man complain, a man for the punishment of his sins?" and after the text the date of the day, and after the date the words, "thou dost turn thy face from us, and we are troubled; but, lord, how long, how long?" and by and by came on the long-delayed times of refreshing, but so slowly and imperfectly that the change in the corn could scarcely be detected for a while. nevertheless, it told at last, and stems struggled up among the blades, and burst forth into flowers, which gradually ripened into ears of grain. but a struggle it had been, and continued to be, for the measure of moisture was scant, and the due amount of warmth in the air was wanting. nevertheless, by struggling and effort the young wheat advanced, little by little, in growth; preparing itself, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, as best it could, for the great day of the harvest. as best it could! would the master of the harvest ask more? alas! he had still something to find fault with, for when he looked at the ears and saw that they were small and poor, he grumbled, and said the yield would be less than it ought to be, and the harvest would be bad. and as more weeks went on, and the same weather continued, and the progress was very, very slow, he spoke out of his vexation to his wife at home, to his friends at the market, and to the husbandmen who passed by and talked with him about the crops. and the voice of his discontent was breathed over the cornfield, all along the long ridges where the plants were labouring, and waiting, and watching. and they shuddered and murmured: "how cruel to complain! had we been idle, had we been negligent, had we been indifferent, we might have passed away without bearing fruit at all. how cruel to complain!" but of all this the master of the harvest heard nothing, so he did not cease to complain. meantime, another week or two went on, and people as they glanced over the land wished that a few good rainy days would come and do their work decidedly, so that the corn ears might fill. and behold, while the wish was yet on their lips, the sky became charged with clouds, darkness spread over the country, a wild wind rose, and the growling of thunder announced a storm. and such a storm! people hid from it in cellars and closets and dark corners, as if now, for the first time, they believed in a god, and were trembling at the new-found fact; as if they could never discover him in his sunshine and blessings, but only thus in his tempests and wrath. and all along the long ridges of wheat plants drove the rain-laden blast, and they bent down before it and rose up again, like the waves of a labouring sea. ears over ears they bowed down; ears above ears they rose up. they bowed down as if they knew that to resist was destruction; they rose up as if they had a hope beyond the storm. only here and there, where the whirlwinds were the strongest, they fell down and could not lift themselves again. so the damage done was but little, and the general good was great. but when the master of the harvest saw here and there patches of overweighted corn yet dripping from the thunder showers, he grew angry for them, and forgot to think of the long ridges that stretched over his fields, where the corn ears were swelling and rejoicing. and he came in gloomy to his home, when his wife was hoping that now, at last, all would be well; and when she looked at him the tumult of her soul grew beyond control, and she knelt down before him as he sat moody in his chair, and threw her arms round him, and cried out: "it is of the lord's mercies that we are not utterly consumed. oh, husband! pray for the corn and for me, that it may go well with us at the last! carry me upstairs!" and his anger was checked by fear, and he carried her upstairs and laid her on the bed, and said it must be the storm which had shaken her nerves. but whether he prayed for either the corn or her that night she never knew. and presently came a new distress: for when the days of rain had accomplished their gracious work, and every one was satisfied, behold, they did not cease. and as hitherto the cry had gone up for water on the furrows, so now men's hearts failed them for fear lest it should continue to overflowing, and lest mildew should set in upon the full, rich ears, and the glorious crops should be lost. and the master of the harvest walked out by his cornfields, his face darker than ever. and he railed against the rain because it would not cease; against the sun because it would not shine; against the wheat because it might perish before the harvest. "but why does he always and only complain?" moaned the corn plants, as the new terror was breathed over the field. "have we not done our best from the first? and has not mercy been with us, sooner or later, all along? when moisture was scant, and we throve but little, why did he not rejoice over that little, and wait, as we did, for more? now that abundance has come, and we swell triumphant in strength and in hope, why does he not share our joy in the present, and wait in trust, as we do, for the future ripening change? why does he always complain? has he himself some hard master, who would fain reap where he has not sown, and gather where he has not strewed, and who has no pity for his servants who strive?" but of all this the master of the harvest heard nothing. and when the days of rain had rolled into weeks and the weeks into months, and the autumn set in, and the corn still stood up green in the ridges, as if it never meant to ripen at all, the boldest and most hopeful became uneasy, and the master of the harvest despaired. but his wife had risen no more from her bed, where she lay in sickness and suffering, yet in patient trust, watching the sky through the window that faced her pillow, looking for the relief that came at last. for even at the eleventh hour, when hope seemed almost over, and men had half learned to submit to their expected trial, the dark days began to be varied by a few hours of sunshine; and though these passed away, and the gloom and rain returned again, yet they also passed away in their turn, and the sun shone out once more. and the poor sick wife, as she watched, said to those around her that the weather was gradually changing, and that all would come right at last; and sighing a prayer that it might be so with herself also, she had her bible brought to the bed, and wrote in the flyleaf the text, "some thirty, some sixty, some an hundredfold"; and after the text the date of the day, for on that day the sun had been shining steadily for many hours. and after the date the words, "unto whom much is given, of him shall much be required; yet if thou, lord, be extreme to mark iniquity, o lord, who may stand?" and day by day, the hours of sunshine were more in number, and the hours of rain and darkness fewer, and by degrees the green corn ears ripened into yellow, and the yellow turned into gold, and the harvest was ready, and the labourers not wanting. and the bursting corn broke out into songs of rejoicing, and cried, "at least we have not waited and watched in vain! surely goodness and mercy have followed us all the days of our life, and we are crowned with glory and honour. where is the master of the harvest, that he may claim his own with joy?" but the master of the harvest was bending over the bed of his dying wife. and she whispered that her bible should be brought, and he brought it, and she said, "open it at the flyleaf at the end, and write, 'it is sown in corruption, it is raised in incorruption; it is sown in dishonour, it is raised in glory; it is sown in weakness, it is raised in power; it is sown a natural body, it is raised a spiritual body!'" and she bade him add the date of the day, and after the date of the day, the words, "o lord, in thy mercy say of me--she hath done what she could!" and then she laid her hand in his, and so fell asleep in hope. and the harvest of the earth was gathered into barns, and the gathering-day of rejoicing was over, and the master of it all sat alone by his fireside, with his wife's bible on his knee. and he read the texts and the dates and the prayers, from the first day when the corn seeds were held back by drought; and as he read a new heart seemed to burst out within him from the old one--a heart which the lord of the other harvest was making soft, and the springing whereof he would bless. and henceforth, in his going out and coming in from watching the fruits of the earth, the texts and the dates and the prayers were ever present in his mind, often rising to his lips; and he murmured and complained no more, let the seasons be what they would and his fears however great; for the thought of the late-sprung seed in his own dry cold heart, and of the long suffering of him who was lord and master of all, was with him night and day. and more and more as he prayed for help, that the weary struggle might be blessed, and the new-born watching and waiting not be in vain, so more and more there came over his spirit a yearning for that other harvest, where he and she who had gone before might be gathered in together. and thus--in one hope of their calling--the long-divided hearts were united at last. a thanksgiving dinner[ ] by edna payson brett. ministers' sons, somehow, have a bad reputation. little johnnie was one and he thought it pretty hard to have to go to church on thanksgiving day. but the pink-frosted cakes-- "oh, dear!" puffed a certain little boy one bright thanksgiving morning, as he jerked his chubby neck into the stiffest of white collars. "great fun, isn't it, having to sit up in meeting for a couple of hours straight as a telegraph pole when i might be playing football and beating the haddam team all to hollow! this is what comes of your pa's being the minister, i s'pose." [footnote : from the _youth's companion_, november , .] but johnnie, for that was his name, continued his dressing, the ten years of his young life having taught him how useless it is to make a fuss over what has to be done. in a few minutes he had finished, and was quite satisfied with his appearance, but for his shoes. these he eyed for a moment, and concluding that they would not pass inspection, started for the woodshed to give them a shine. on his way he passed the open dining-room door, and suddenly halted. "oh! why can't i have a nice little lunch during sermon time?" he took a step back and peeped slyly into the room; then stole across to the old-fashioned cupboard, stealthily opening the doors, and such an array of good things you never beheld! sally was the best cook in brockton any day, but on thanksgiving she could work wonders. he looked with longing eyes from one dish to another. now the big pies were out of the question, and the cranberry tarts--he felt of them lovingly--but no, they were altogether too sticky. he stood on tiptoe to see what was on the second shelf. to his delight he found a platter filled with just the daintiest little pink-frosted cakes you ever saw. "o-oo, thimble cakes!" he exclaimed. "you are just the fellows i want! i'll take you along to church with me." he cast one quick glance around, then grabbed a handful of the tiny cakes and crammed them into his trousers' pocket. "lucky for me ma isn't going to meeting to-day," chuckled the naughty boy, "and i don't believe grandma'd ever tell on me if i carried along the turkey!" the early bell had now begun to ring, and johnnie started for the village church. "come, my son," said doctor goodwin, as they entered the meeting-house, "you are to sit in the front seat with grandma this morning: she is particularly anxious to hear every word of the sermon to-day. and where's your contribution, boy? you haven't forgotten that?" "no, sir," meekly answered johnnie, "it's tied up in my handkerchief." but his heart sank--the front seat! how ever was his lunch to come in now? the opening hymn had been sung, the prayer of thanksgiving offered, and now, as the collection was about to be taken, the pastor begged his people to be especially generous to the poor on this day. up in the front pew sat johnnie, but never a word of the notice did he hear, so busy was he planning out his own little affair. it wasn't such easy planning either, just supposing he got caught! but what was that? johnnie jumped as if he had been struck. however, it was nothing but the money plate under his nose, and the good deacon simms standing calmly by. to the guilty boy it seemed as if the deacon must have been waiting for ten minutes at the least, and in a great flurry he began to fumble for his handkerchief. what _had_ he done with it? oh, there it was at last, way down in the depths of his right trousers' pocket. he caught hold of the knotted corner, and out came the handkerchief with a whisk and a flourish, and scatter, rattle, helter-skelter, out flew a half-dozen pink thimble cakes, down upon the floor, back into mrs. smiley's pew, and to johnnie's horror one pat into the deacon's plate! the good man's eyes tried not to twinkle as he removed the unusual offering, and passed on more quickly than was his wont. miserable johnnie, with his face as red as a rooster's comb and eyes cast down in shame, saw nothing but the green squares on the carpet and the dreadful pink-frosted cakes. he was sure that every one in the church was glaring at him; probably even grandma had forsaken him, and each moment he dreaded--he knew not what. to his surprise, the service seemed to go right on as usual. another hymn was sung, and then there was a general settling down for the sermon. very soon he began to grow tired of just gazing at the floor, yet he dared not look up, and by and by the heavy eyes drooped and johnny was fast asleep. all was now quiet in the meeting-house save the calm, steady voice of the preacher. pretty soon a wee creature dressed all in soft brown stole across the floor of a certain pew. she was a courageous little body indeed, but what mother would not venture a good deal for her hungry babies? such a repast as this was certainly the opportunity of a lifetime. looking cautiously around, then concluding that all was safe, she disappeared down a hole in a corner way under the seat. in a twinkling she was back again; this time, however, she was not alone. four little ones pattered after mamma mouse, and eight bright eyes spied a dinner worth running for. never mind what they did; but when johnnie awoke at the strains of the closing hymn and tried to remember what had gone wrong, he saw nothing of the pink-frosted cakes save some scattered crumbs. what could have become of them, he thought, in bewilderment. he hardly knew how he got out of the church that day, but he found himself rushing down the road a sadder and a wiser boy. grandma and papa had remained to chat. johnnie did not feel like chatting to-day. when he reached the house he did not go in, but out to the hayloft, his favourite resort in time of trouble. when the dinner bell sounded, notwithstanding the delicious thanksgiving odours which had been wafted even to the barn, it was an unwelcome summons; yet go he must, and walking sheepishly into the dining-room, he slunk into his chair. "well, john," said his father, as he helped him to turkey, "i understand that you did not forget the poor to-day. eh, my son?" "the poor?" what could he mean? johnnie was too puzzled to speak. then his father went on to tell how little mrs. mouse and her babies had nibbled a wondrous dinner of pink thimble cakes on the floor of pew number one while johnnie slept. grandma and mrs. smiley had told him all about it on the way home; besides, he had seen enough himself from the pulpit. johnny bravely bore the laugh at his expense, and as the merriment died away heaved a deep sigh of relief, and exclaimed, "well, i'm glad somebody had a feast, even if it wasn't the fellow 'twas meant for! humph, _'twas_ quite a setup for poor church mice, wasn't it? but they needn't be looking for another next year. you don't catch me trying that again--no-sir-ee!" two old boys[ ] by pauline shackleford colyar. walter's two grandfathers were a pair of jolly chums, _as boys_. there is plenty of humour in this tale of a turkey hunt. "day after to-morrow will be thanksgiving," said walter, taking his seat beside grandpa davis on the top step of the front gallery. [footnote : _from lippincott's monthly magazine_, december, .] "and no turkey for dinner, neither," retorted grandma davis, while her bright steel needles clicked in and out of the sock she was knitting. the old man was smoking his evening pipe, and sat for a moment with his eyes fixed meditatively upon the blue hills massed in the distance. "have we got so pore as all that, mother?" he asked, after a while, glancing over his shoulder at his wife, who was rocking to and fro just back of him. "i'm obleeged to own to the truth," answered the old lady dejectedly. "what with the wild varmints in the woods and one thing an' another, i'm about cleaned out of all the poultry i ever had. it's downright disheartenin'." "well, then," asserted grandpa davis, with an unmirthful chuckle, "it don't appear to me as we've got so powerful much to be thankful about this year." "why, grandpa!" cried walter, in shocked surprise, "i never did hear you talk like that before." "never had so much call to do it, mebbe," interposed the old man cynically. the last rays of the setting sun touched the two silvered heads, and rested there like a benediction, before disappearing below the horizon. silence had fallen upon the little group, and a bullfrog down in the fishpond was croaking dismally. "why don't you go hunting, and try to kill you a turkey for thanksgiving?" ventured walter, slipping his arm insinuatingly through his grandfather's. "i saw a great big flock of wild ones down on the branch last week, and i got right close up to them before they flew." "i reckon there ought to be a smart sight of game round and about them cane brakes along that branch," said the old man slowly, as though thinking aloud. "it used to be ahead of any strip of woods in all these parts, when me and dick was boys. but nobody ain't hunted there, to my knowledge, not sence me and him fell out." "i wish you and grandpa dun were friends," sighed walter. "it does seem too bad to have two grandpas living right side by side, and not speaking." "i ain't got no ill-will in my heart for dick," replied grandpa davis, "but he is too everlastin' hard-headed to knock under, and i'll be blamed if i go more'n halfway toward makin' up." "that's just exactly what grandpa dun says about you," walter assured him very earnestly. "wouldn't wonder if he did," said the old man pointedly. "dick is always ben a mighty hand to talk, and he'd drap dead in his tracks if he couldn't get in the last word." be this as it might, the breach had begun when the davis cattle broke down the worn fence and demolished the dun crop of corn, and it widened when the dun hogs found their way through an old water gap and rooted up a field of the davis sweet potatoes. several times similar depredations were repeated, and then shotguns were used on both sides with telling effect. the climax was reached when john dun eloped with rebecca, the only child of the davises. the young couple were forbidden their respective homes, though the farm they rented was scarce half a mile away, and the weeks rolled into months without sign of their parents relenting. when walter was born, however, the two grandmothers stole over, without their husbands' knowledge, and mingled their tears in happy communion over the tiny blue-eyed mite. it was a memorable day at each of the houses when the sturdy little fellow made his way, unbidden and unattended, to pay his first call, and ever afterward (though they would not admit it, even to themselves) the grandfathers watched for his coming, and vied with each other in trying to win the highest place in his young affections. he had inherited characteristics of each of his grandsires, and possessed the bold, masterful manner which was common to them both. "say, grandpa," he urged, "go hunting to-morrow and try to kill a turkey for thanksgiving, won't you? i know grandma would feel better to have one, and if you make a cane caller, like papa does, i'll bet you can get a shot at one sure." the old man did not commit himself about going, but when walter saw him surreptitiously take down his gun from the pegs on the wall across which it had lain for so many years, and began to rub the barrels and oil the hammers, he went home satisfied that he had scored another victory. perhaps nothing less than his grandson's pleading could have induced grandpa davis to visit again the old hunting-ground which had been so dear to him in bygone days, which was so rich in hallowed memories. it seemed almost a desecration of the happy past to hunt there now alone. the first cold streaks of dawn were just stealing into the sky the next morning when, accoutred with shot-pouch, powder-flask, and his old double-barrelled gun, grandpa davis made his way toward the branch. a medley of bird notes filled the air, long streamers of gray moss floated out from the swaying trees, and showers of autumn leaves fluttered down to earth. some of the cows were grazing outside the pen, up to their hocks in lush, fresh grass, while others lay on the ground contentedly chewing their cuds. all of them raised their heads and looked at him as he passed them by. how like old times it was to be up at daybreak for a hunt! the long years seemed suddenly to have rolled away, leaving him once more a boy. he almost wondered why dick had not whistled to him as he used to do. dick was an early riser, and somehow always got ready before he did. there was an alertness in the old man's face and a spring in his step as he lived over in thought the joyous days of his childhood. the clouds were flushed with pink when he came in sight of the big water oak on the margin of the stream, and recollected how he and dick had loved to go swimming in the deep, clear water beneath its shade. "we used to run every step of the way," he soliloquized, laughing, "unbuttonin' as we went, chuck our clothes on the bank, and 'most break our necks tryin' to git in the water fust. i've got half a notion to take a dip this mornin', if it wasn't quite so cool," he went on, but a timely twinge of rheumatism brought him to his senses, and he seated himself on the roots of a convenient tree. cocking his gun, he laid it across his knees, and waited there motionless, imitating the yelp of a turkey the while. three or four small canes, graduated in size, and fitted firmly one into the other, enabled him to make the note, and so expert had he become by long practice that the deception was perfect. after a pause he repeated the call; then came another pause, another call, and over in the distance there sounded an answer. how the blood coursed through the old man's veins as he listened! there it was again. it was coming nearer, but very slowly. he wondered how many were in the flock, and called once more. this time, to his surprise, an answer came from a different direction--a long, rasping sound, a sort of cross between a cock's crow and a turkey's yelp. he started involuntarily, and very cautiously peeped around. hardly twenty steps from him another gray head protruded itself from the hole of another tree, and grandpa davis and grandpa dun looked into each other's eyes. "i'll be double-jumped-up if that ain't dick!" cried grandpa davis, under his breath. "and there ain't a turkey as ever wore a feather that he could fool. a minute more, and he'll spile the fun. dick," he commanded, "stop that racket, and sneak over here by me," beckoning mysteriously. "sh-h-h! they are answerin' ag'in. down on your marrow-bones whilst i call." flattening himself upon the ground as nearly as he could, and creeping behind the undergrowth, grandpa dun made his way laboriously to the desired spot. he had never excelled in calling turkeys, but he was a far better shot than grandpa davis. without demur the two old boys fell naturally into the _rôle_ of former days. breathless and excited, they crouched there, waiting for the fateful moment. their nerves were tense, their eyes dilated, and their hearts beating like trip-hammers. grandpa davis had continued to call, and now the answer was very near. "gimme the first shot, billy," whispered grandpa dun. "i let you do the callin'; and, besides, you know you never could hit nothin' that wasn't as big as the side of a meetin'-house." before grandpa davis had time to reply, there came the "put-put-put" which signals possible danger. a stately gobbler raised his head to reconnoitre; two guns were fired almost simultaneously, and, with a whir and a flutter, the flock disappeared in the cane brake. the two old boys bounded over the intervening sticks and stumps with an agility that walter himself might have envied, and bending over the prostrate gobbler exclaimed in concert: "ain't he a dandy, though!" they examined him critically, cutting out his beard as a trophy, and measured the spread of his wings. "but he's yourn, after all, dick," said grandpa davis ruefully. "these here ain't none of my shot, so i reckon i must have missed him." "i knowed you would, billy, afore your fired," grandpa dun replied, with mock gravity, "but that don't cut no figger. he's big enough for us to go halvers and both have plenty. more'n that, you done the callin' anyhow." then they laughed, and as they looked into one another's faces, each seemed to realize for the first time that his quondam chum was an old man. a moment before they had been two rollicking boys off on a lark together--playing hooky, perhaps--and in the twinkling of an eye some wicked fairy had waved her wand and metamorphosed them into walter's two grandfathers, who had not spoken to each other since years before the lad was born. yet the humour of the situation was irresistible after all, and, without knowing just how it happened, or which made the first advance, dick and billy found themselves still laughing until the tears coursed down their furrowed cheeks, and shaking hands with as much vigour as though each one had been working a pump handle. "i'll tell you what it is, billy," said dick at last; "you all come over to my house, and we'll eat him together on thanksgivin'." "see here, dick," suggested billy, abstracting a nickel from his trousers' pocket; "heads at your house, and tails at mine." "all right," came the hearty response. billy tossed the coin into the air: it struck a twig and hid itself among the fallen leaves, where they sought it in vain. "'tain't settled yet," announced dick; "but lemme tell you what let's do. s'posin' we all go over to-morrow--it'll be thanksgivin', you know--and eat him at john's house." "good!" cried billy, with beaming face. "you always did have a head for thinkin' up things, dick, and this here'll sorter split the difference, and ease matters so as--" "yes, and our two old women can draw straws, if they've got a mind to, and see which of them is obligated to make the fust call," interrupted dick. "jist heft him, old feller," urged one of them. "ain't he a whopper, though!" exclaimed the other. "have a chaw, dick?" asked billy, offering his plug of tobacco. "don't keer if i do," acquiesced dick, biting off a goodly mouthful. seating themselves upon a fallen hickory log, they chewed and expectorated, recalling old times, and enjoying their laugh with the careless freedom of their childhood days. "dick, do your ricolleck the fight you and a coon had out on the limb of that tree over yonder, one night?" queried billy, nudging his companion in the ribs. "he come mighty nigh gittin' the best of you." "he tore one sleeve out of my jacket, and mammy gimme a beatin' besides," giggled dick. "and say, billy, wasn't it fun the day we killed old man lee's puddle ducks for wild ones? i don't believe i ever run as fast in my life." "and, dick, do you remember the night your pappy hung the saddle up on the head of the bed to keep you from ridin' the old gray mare to singin' school, and you rid her, bareback, anyway? you ricolleck you was stoopin' over, blowin' the fire, next mornin', when he seen the hairs on your britches, an' come down on you with the leather strop afore you knowed it." thus one adventure recalled another, and the two old boys laughed uproariously, clapping their hands and holding their sides, while the sun climbed up among the treetops. "ain't we ben two old fools to stay mad all this time?" asked one of them, and the other readily agreed that they had, as they once more grasped hands before parting. walter had arranged the thanksgiving surprise for his parents, but when he brought home the big gobbler he was unable longer to keep the secret, and divulged his share in what had happened. "i didn't really believe either one of them could hit a turkey," he confided to his father, "but i wanted to have them meet once more, for i knew if they did they would make friends." the parlour was odorous with late fall roses next morning, the table set, and walter and his parents in gala attire, when two couples, walking arm in arm, appeared upon the stretch of white road leading up to the front gate. one couple was slightly in advance of the other, and grandpa davis, who was behind, whispered to his wife: "listen, mary, dick is actually tryin' to sing, and he never could turn a tune, but somehow it does warm up my heart to hear him: seems like old times ag'in." after dinner was over--and such a grand dinner it was--grandpa davis voiced the sentiment of the rest of the happy family party when he announced, quite without warning: "well, this here has ben the thankfulles' thanksgivin' i ever seen, and i hope the good lord will spar' us all for yet a few more." a thanksgiving dinner that flew away[ ] by hezekiah butterworth. a cape cod story about a wise old gander whose adventure on the sea insured him against the perils of the thanksgiving hatchet. for boys or girls. there is one sound that i shall always remember. it is "honk!" [footnote : from "zigzag journeys in acadia and new france," lothrop, lee & shepard company.] i spun around like a top, one summer day when i heard it, looking nervously in every direction. i had just come down from the city to the cape with my sister hester for my third summer vacation. i had left the cars with my arms full of bundles, and hurried toward aunt targood's. the cottage stood in from the road. there was a long meadow in front of it. in the meadow were two great oaks and some clusters of lilacs. an old, mossy stone wall protected the grounds from the road, and a long walk ran from the old wooden gate to the door. it was a sunny day, and my heart was light. the orioles were flaming in the old orchards; the bobolinks were tossing themselves about in the long meadows of timothy, daisies, and patches of clover. there was a scent of new-mown hay in the air. in the distance lay the bay, calm and resplendent, with white sails and specks of boats. beyond it rose martha's vineyard, green and cool and bowery, and at its wharf lay a steamer. i was, as i said, light-hearted. i was thinking of rides over the sandy roads at the close of the long, bright days; of excursions on the bay; of clambakes and picnics. i was hungry, and before me rose visions of aunt targood's fish dinners, roast chickens, and berry pies. i was thirsty, but ahead was the old well sweep, and behind the cool lattice of the dairy window were pans of milk in abundance. i tripped on toward the door with light feet, lugging my bundles, and beaded with perspiration, but unmindful of all discomforts in the thought of the bright days and good things in store for me. "honk! honk!" my heart gave a bound! _where_ did that sound come from? out of a cool cluster of innocent-looking lilac bushes i saw a dark object cautiously moving. it seemed to have no head. i knew, however, that it had a head. i had seen it; it had seized me once in the previous summer, and i had been in terror of it during all the rest of the season. i looked down into the irregular grass, and saw the head and a very long neck running along on the ground, propelled by the dark body, like a snake running away from a ball. it was coming toward me, and faster and faster as it approached. i dropped my bundles. in a few flying leaps i returned to the road again, and armed myself with a stick from a pile of cordwood. "honk! honk! honk!" it was a call of triumph. the head was high in the air now. my enemy moved grandly forward, as became the monarch of the great meadow farmyard. i stood with beating heart, after my retreat. it was aunt targood's gander. how he enjoyed his triumph, and how small and cowardly he made me feel! "honk! honk! honk!" the geese came out of the lilac bushes, bowing their heads to him in admiration. then came the goslings--a long procession of awkward, half-feathered things; they appeared equally delighted. the gander seemed to be telling his admiring audience all about it: how a strange lad with many bundles had attempted to cross the yard; how he had driven him back, and had captured his bundles, and now was monarch of the field. he clapped his wings when he had finished his heroic story, and sent forth such a "honk!" as might have startled a major-general. then he, with an air of great dignity and coolness, began to examine my baggage. among my effects were several pounds of chocolate caramels done up in brown paper. aunt targood liked caramels, and i brought her a large supply. he tore off the wrappers quickly. he bit one. it was good. he began to distribute the bonbons among the geese, and they, with much liberality and good-will, among the goslings. this was too much. i ventured through the gate, swinging my cordwood stick. "shoo!" he dropped his head on the ground, and drove it down the walk in a lively waddle toward me. "shoo!" it was aunt targood's voice at the door. he stopped immediately. his head was in the air again. "shoo!" out came aunt targood with her broom. she always corrected the gander with her broom. if i were to be whipped i should choose a broom--not the stick. as soon as he beheld the broom he retired, although with much offended pride and dignity, to the lilac bushes; and the geese and goslings followed him. "hester, you dear child," she said to my sister, "come here. i was expecting you, and had been looking out for you, but missed sight of you. i had forgotten all about the gander." we gathered up the bundles and the caramels. i was light-hearted again. how cool was the sitting-room, with the woodbine falling about the open window! aunt brought me a pitcher of milk, and some strawberries, some bread and honey, and a fan. while i was resting and taking my lunch, i could hear the gander discussing the affairs of the farmyard with the geese. i did not greatly enjoy the discussion. his tone of voice was very proud, and he did not seem to be speaking well of me. i was suspicious that he did not think me a very brave lad. a young person likes to be spoken well of, even by the gander. aunt targood's gander had been the terror of many well-meaning people, and of some evildoers, for many years. i have seen tramps and pack peddlers enter the gate, and start on toward the door, when there would sound that ringing warning like a war blast, "honk, honk!" and in a few minutes these unwelcome people would be gone. farmhouse boarders from the city would sometimes enter the yard, thinking to draw water by the old well sweep; in a few minutes it was customary to hear shrieks, and to see women and children flying over the walls, followed by air-rending "honks!" and jubilant cackles from the victorious gander and his admiring family. aunt targood sometimes took summer boarders. among those that i remember was the rev. mr. bonney, a fervent-souled methodist preacher. he put the gander to flight with the cart whip, on the second day after his arrival, and seemingly to aunt's great grief; but he never was troubled by the feathered tyrant again. young couples sometimes came to father bonney to be married; and one summer afternoon there rode up to the gate a very young couple, whom we afterward learned had "run away," or rather, had attempted to get married without their parents' approval. the young bridegroom hitched the horse, and helped from the carriage the gayly dressed miss he expected to make his wife. they started up the walk upon the run, as though they expected to be followed and haste was necessary to prevent the failure of their plans. "honk!" they stopped. it was a voice of authority. "just look at him!" said the bride. "oh, oh!" the bridegroom cried "shoo!" but he might as well have said "shoo" to a steam engine. on came the gander, with his head and neck upon the ground. he seized the lad by the calf of his leg, and made an immediate application of his wings. the latter seemed to think he had been attacked by dragons. as soon as he could shake him off he ran. so did the bride, but in another direction; and while the two were thus perplexed and discomfited, the bride's father appeared in a carriage, and gave her a most forcible invitation to ride home with him. she accepted it without discussion. what became of the bridegroom, or how the matter ended, we never knew. "aunt, what makes you keep that gander year after year?" said i one evening, as we were sitting on the lawn before the door. "is it because he is a kind of watchdog, and keeps troublesome people away?" "no, child, no; i do not wish to keep most people away--not well-behaved people--nor to distress nor annoy any one. the fact is, there is a story about that gander that i do not like to speak of to every one--something that makes me feel tender toward him; so that if he needs a whipping i would rather do it. he knows something that no one else knows. i could not have him killed or sent away. you have heard me speak of nathaniel, my oldest boy?" "yes." "that is his picture in my room, you know. he was a good boy to me. he loved his mother. i loved nathaniel--you cannot think how much i loved nathaniel. it was on my account that he went away. "the farm did not produce enough for us all--nathaniel, john, and me. we worked hard, and had a hard time. one year--that was ten years ago--we were sued for our taxes. "'nathaniel,' said i, 'i will go to taking boarders.' "then he looked up to me and said--oh, how noble and handsome he appeared to me: "'mother, i will go to sea.' "'where?' asked i, in surprise. "'in a coaster.' "i turned white. how i felt! "'you and john can manage the place,' he continued. 'one of the vessels sails next week--uncle aaron's; he offers to take me.' "it seemed best, and he made preparations to go. "the spring before skipper ben--you have met skipper ben--had given me some goose eggs; he had brought them from canada, and said that they were wild goose eggs. "i set them under hens. in four weeks i had three goslings. i took them into the house at first, but afterward made a pen for them out in the yard. i brought them up myself, and one of those goslings is that gander. "skipper ben came over to see me the day before nathaniel was to sail. aaron came with him. "i said to aaron: "'what can i give nathaniel to carry to sea with him to make him think of home? cake, preserves, apples? i haven't got much; i have done all i can for him, poor boy.' "brother looked at me curiously, and said: "'give him one of those wild geese, and we will fatten it on shipboard and will have it for our thanksgiving dinner.' "what brother aaron said pleased me. the young gander was a noble bird, the handsomest of the lot; and i resolved to keep the geese to kill for my own use, and to give _him_ to nathaniel. "the next morning--it was late in september--i took leave of nathaniel. i tried to be calm and cheerful and hopeful. i watched him as he went down the walk with the gander struggling under his arms. a stranger would have laughed, but i did not feel like laughing; it was true that the boys who went coasting were usually gone but a few months, and came home hardy and happy. but when poverty compels a mother and son to part, after they have been true to each other, and shared their feelings in common, it seems hard, it seems hard--though i do not like to murmur or complain at anything allotted to me. "i saw him go over the hill. on the top he stopped and held up the gander. he disappeared; yes, my own nathaniel disappeared. i think of him now as one who disappeared. "november came. it was a terrible month on the coast that year. storm followed storm; the sea-faring people talked constantly of wrecks and losses. i could not sleep on the nights of those high winds. i used to lie awake thinking over all the happy hours that i had lived with nathaniel. "thanksgiving week came. "it was full of an indian-summer brightness after the long storms. the nights were frosty, bright, and calm. "i could sleep on those calm nights. "one morning i thought i heard a strange sound in the woodland pasture. it was like a wild goose. i listened; it was repeated. i was lying in bed. i started up--i thought i had been dreaming. "on the night before thanksgiving i went to bed early, being very tired. the moon was full; the air was calm and still. i was thinking of nathaniel, and i wondered if he would indeed have the gander for his thanksgiving dinner, if it would be cooked as well as i would have cooked it, and if he would think of me that day. "i was just going to sleep when suddenly i heard a sound that made me start up and hold my breath. "'_honk_!' "i thought it was a dream followed by a nervous shock. "'_honk! honk!_' "there it was again, in the yard, i was surely awake and in my senses. "i heard the geese cackle. "'_honk! honk! honk!_' "i got out of bed and lifted the curtain. it was almost as light as day. "instead of two geese there were three. had one of the neighbours' geese stolen away? "i should have thought so, and should not have felt disturbed, but for the reason that none of the neighbours' geese had that peculiar call--that hornlike tone that i had noticed in mine. "i went out of the door. "the _third_ goose looked like the very gander i had given nathaniel. could it be? "i did not sleep. i rose early and went to the crib for some corn. "it _was_ a gander--a 'wild gander'--that had come in the night. he seemed to know me. "i trembled all over as though i had seen a ghost. i was so faint that i sat down on the meal chest. "as i was in that place, a bill pecked against the door. the door opened. the strange gander came hobbling over the crib stone and went to the corn bin. he stopped there, looked at me, and gave a sort of glad 'honk' as though he knew me and was glad to see me. "i was certain that he was the gander i had raised and that nathaniel had lifted into the air when he gave me his last recognition from the top of the hill. "it overcame me. it was thanksgiving. the church bell would soon be ringing as on sunday. and here was nathaniel's thanksgiving dinner and brother aaron's--had it flown away? where was the vessel? "years have passed--ten. you know i waited and waited for my boy to come back. december grew dark with its rainy seas; the snows fell; may lighted up the hills, but the vessel never came back. nathaniel--my nathaniel--never returned. "that gander knows something he could tell me if he could talk. birds have memories. _he_ remembered the corncrib--he remembered something else. i wish he _could_ talk, poor bird! i wish he could talk. i will never sell him, nor kill him, nor have him abused. he _knows_!" mon-daw-min, or the origin of indian corn[ ] by h. r. schoolcraft. this is the real indian fairy tale of the birth of mon-daw-min. readers of longfellow will remember his treatment of the same subject in "hiawatha." in times past, a poor indian was living with his wife and children in a beautiful part of the country. he was not only poor, but inexpert in procuring food for his family, and his children were all too young to give him assistance. although poor, he was a man of a kind and contented disposition. he was always thankful to the great spirit for everything he received. the same disposition was inherited by his eldest son, who had now arrived at the proper age to undertake the ceremony of the ke-ig-uish-im-o-win, or fast, to see what kind of a spirit would be his guide and guardian through life. wunzh, for this was his name, had been an obedient boy from his infancy, and was of a pensive, thoughtful, and mild disposition, so that he was beloved by the whole family. as soon as the first indications of spring appeared, they built him the customary little lodge at a retired spot, some distance from their own, where he would not be disturbed during this solemn rite. in the meantime he prepared himself, and immediately went into it, and commenced his fast. the first few days he amused himself, in the mornings, by walking in the woods and over the mountains, examining the early plants and flowers, and in this way prepared himself to enjoy his sleep, and at the same time stored his mind with pleasant ideas for his dreams. while he rambled through the woods, he felt a strong desire to know how the plants, herbs, and berries grew without any aid from man, and why it was that some species were good to eat and others possessed medicinal or poisonous juices. he recalled these thoughts to mind after he became too languid to walk about, and had confined himself strictly to the lodge; he wished he could dream of something that would prove a benefit to his father and family, and to all others. "true!" he thought, "the great spirit made all things, and it is to him that we owe our lives. but could he not make it easier for us to get our food than by hunting animals and taking fish? i must try to find out this in my visions." [footnote : from "the myth of hiawatha."] on the third day he became weak and faint, and kept his bed. he fancied, while thus lying, that he saw a handsome young man coming down from the sky and advancing toward him. he was richly and gayly dressed, having on a great many garments of green and yellow colours, but differing in their deeper or lighter shades. he had a plume of waving feathers on his head, and all his motions were graceful. "i am sent to you, my friend," said the celestial visitor, "by that great spirit who made all things in the sky and on the earth. he has seen and knows your motives in fasting. he sees that it is from a kind and benevolent wish to do good to your people, and to procure a benefit for them, and that you do not seek for strength in war or the praise of warriors. i am sent to instruct you, and show you how you can do your kindred good." he then told the young man to arise, and prepare to wrestle with him, as it was only by this means that he could hope to succeed in his wishes. wunzh knew he was weak from fasting, but he felt his courage rising in his heart, and immediately got up, determined to die rather than fail. he commenced the trial, and after a protracted effort was almost exhausted when the beautiful stranger said, "my friend, it is enough for once; i will come again to try you"; and, smiling on him, he ascended in the air in the same direction from which he came. the next day the celestial visitor reappeared at the same hour and renewed the trial. wunzh felt that his strength was even less than the day before, but the courage of his mind seemed to increase in proportion as his body became weaker. seeing this, the stranger again spoke to him in the same words he used before, adding, "to-morrow will be your last trial. be strong, my friend, for this is the only way you can overcome me, and obtain the boon you seek." on the third day he again appeared at the same time and renewed the struggle. the poor youth was very faint in body, but grew stronger in mind at every contest, and was determined to prevail or perish in the attempt. he exerted his utmost powers, and after the contest had been continued the usual time, the stranger ceased his efforts and declared himself conquered. for the first time he entered the lodge, and sitting down beside the youth, he began to deliver his instructions to him, telling him in what manner he should proceed to take advantage of his victory. "you have won your desires of the great spirit," said the stranger. "you have wrestled manfully. to-morrow will be the seventh day of your fasting, your father will give you food to strengthen you, and as it is the last day of trial, you will prevail. i know this, and now tell you what you must do to benefit your family and your tribe. to-morrow," he repeated, "i shall meet you and wrestle with you for the last time; and, as soon as you have prevailed against me, you will strip off my garments and throw me down, clean the earth of roots and weeds, make it soft, and bury me in the spot. when you have done this, leave my body in the earth, and do not disturb it, but come occasionally to visit the place, to see whether i have come to life, and be careful never to let the grass or weeds grow on my grave. once a month cover me with fresh earth. if you follow my instructions, you will accomplish your object of doing good to your fellow-creatures by teaching them the knowledge i now teach you." he then shook him by the hand and disappeared. in the morning the youth's father came with some slight refreshments, saying, "my son, you have fasted long enough. if the great spirit will favour you, he will do it now. it is seven days since you have tasted food, and you must not sacrifice your life. the master of life does not require that." "my father," replied the youth, "wait till the sun goes down. i have a particular reason for extending my fast to that hour." "very well," said the old man. "i shall wait till the hour arrives, and you feel inclined to eat." at the usual hour of the day the sky visitor returned, and the trial of strength was renewed. although the youth had not availed himself of his father's offer of food, he felt that new strength had been given to him, and that exertion had renewed his strength and fortified his courage. he grasped his angelic antagonist with supernatural strength, threw him down, took from him his beautiful garments and plume, and finding him dead, immediately buried him on the spot, taking all the precautions he had been told of, and being very confident, at the same time, that his friend would again come to life. he then returned to his father's lodge, and partook sparingly of the meal that had been prepared for him. but he never for a moment forgot the grave of his friend. he carefully visited it throughout the spring, and weeded out the grass, and kept the ground in a soft and pliant state. very soon he saw the tops of the green plumes coming through the ground; and the more careful he was to obey his instructions in keeping the ground in order, the faster they grew. he was, however, careful to conceal the exploit from his father. days and weeks had passed in this way. the summer was now drawing toward a close, when one day, after a long absence in hunting, wunzh invited his father to follow him to the quiet and lonesome spot of his former fast. the lodge had been removed, and the weeds kept from growing on the circle where it stood, but in its place stood a tall and graceful plant, with bright coloured silken hair, surmounted with nodding plumes and stately leaves, and golden clusters on each side. "it is my friend," shouted the lad; "it is the friend of all mankind. it is _mondawmin_. we need no longer rely on hunting alone; for, as long as this gift is cherished and taken care of, the ground itself will give us a living." he then pulled an ear. "see, my father," said he, "this is what i fasted for. the great spirit has listened to my voice, and sent us something new, and henceforth our people will not alone depend upon the chase or upon the waters." he then communicated to his father the instructions given him by the stranger. he told him that the broad husks must be torn away, as he had pulled off the garments in his wrestling; and having done this, directed him how the ear must be held before the fire till the outer skin became brown, while all the milk was retained in the grain. the whole family then united in feast on the newly grown ears, expressing gratitude to the merciful spirit who gave it. so corn came into the world. a mystery in the kitchen[ ] by olive thorne miller. the boy who has a sister and the girl who has a brother are the ones who will best like this story of the spirited twins, jessie and jack. jessie wanted to take music lessons and jack tried mining in colorado. something very mysterious was going on in the jarvis kitchen. the table was covered with all sorts of good things--eggs and butter and raisins and citron and spices; and jessie, with her sleeves rolled up and a white apron on, was bustling about, measuring and weighing and chopping and beating and mixing those various ingredients in a most bewildering way. [footnote : from "kristy's surprise party," houghton, mifflin co.] moreover, though she was evidently working for dear life, her face was full of smiles; in fact, she seemed to have trouble to keep from laughing outright, while betty, the cook, who was washing potatoes at the sink, fairly giggled with glee every few minutes, as if the sight of miss jessie working in the kitchen was the drollest thing in the world. it was one of the pleasantest sights that big, sunny kitchen had seen for many a day, and the only thing that appeared mysterious about it was that the two workers acted strangely like conspirators. if they laughed--as they did on the slightest provocation--it was very soft and at once smothered. jessie went often to the door leading into the hall, and listened; and if there came a knock on the floor, she snatched off her apron, hastily wiped her hands, rolled down her sleeves, asked betty if there was any flour on her, and then hurried away into another part of the house, trying to look cool and quiet, as if she had not been doing anything. on returning from one of these excursions, as she rolled up her sleeves again, she said: "betty, we must open the other window if it is cold. mamma thought she smelled roast turkey!" betty burst into a laugh which she smothered in her apron. jessie covered her mouth and laughed, too, but the window was opened to make a draught and carry out the delicious odours, which, it must be confessed, did fill that kitchen so full that no wonder they crept through the cracks, and the keyholes, and hung about jessie's dress as she went through the hall, in a way to make one's mouth water. "what did ye tell her?" asked betty, as soon as she could speak. "oh, i told her i thought potpie smelled a good deal like turkey," said jessie, and again both laughed. "wasn't it lucky we had potpie to-day? i don't know what i should have said if we hadn't." well, it was not long after that when jessie lined a baking-dish with nice-looking crust, filled it with tempting looking chicken legs and wings and breasts and backs and a bowlful of broth, laid a white blanket of crust over all, tucked it in snugly around the edge, cut some holes in the top, and shoved it into the oven just after betty drew out a dripping pan in which reposed, in all the glory of rich brown skin, a beautiful turkey. mrs. jarvis couldn't have had any nose at all if she didn't smell that. it filled the kitchen full of nice smells, and betty hurried it into the pantry, where the window was open to cool. then jessie returned to the spices and fruits she had been working over so long, and a few minutes later she poured a rich, dark mass into a tin pudding-dish, tied the cover on tight, and slipped it into a large kettle of boiling water on the stove. "there!" she said, "i hope that'll be good." "i know it will," said betty confidently. "that's y'r ma's best receipt." "yes, but i never made it before," said jessie doubtfully. "oh, i know it'll be all right, 'n' i'll watch it close," said betty; "'n' now you go'n sit with y'r ma. i want that table to git dinner." "but i'm going to wash all these things," said jessie. "you go long! i'd ruther do that myself. 'twon't take me no time," said betty. jessie hesitated. "but you have enough to do, betty." "i tell you i want to do it," the girl insisted. "oh, i know!" said jessie; "you like to help about it. well, you may; and i'm much obliged to you, besides." and after a last look at the fine turkey cooling his heels (if he had any) in the pantry, jessie went into the other part of the house. when dinner time arrived and papa came from town, there duly appeared on the table the potpie before mentioned, and various other things pleasant to eat, but nothing was seen of the turkey so carefully roasted nor of the chicken pie, nor of the pudding that caused the young cook so much anxiety. nothing was said about them, either, and it was not thanksgiving nor christmas, though it was only a few days before the former. it was certainly odd, and stranger things happened that night. in the first place, jessie sat up in her room and wrote a letter; and then, after her mother was in bed and everything still, she stole down the back stairs with a candle, quietly, as though she was doing some mischief. betty, who came down to help her, brought a box in from the woodshed; and the two plotters, very silently, with many listenings at the door to see if any one was stirring, packed that box full of good things. in it the turkey, wrapped in a snowy napkin, found a bed, the chicken pie and the plum pudding--beautiful looking as betty said it would be--bore him company; and numerous small things, jam jars, fruits, etc., etc., filled the box to its very top. then the cover, provided with screws so that no hammering need be done, was fastened on. "now you go to bed, miss jessie," whispered betty. "i'll wait." "no, you must be tired," said jessie. "i'd just as lief." "but i'd ruther," said betty shortly--"'n' i'm going to; it won't be long now." so jessie crept quietly upstairs, and before long there was a low rap on the kitchen door. betty opened it, and there stood a man. "ready?" said he. "yes," answered betty; "but don't speak loud; miss jarvis has sharp ears, 'n' we don't want her disturbed. here's the card to mark it by," and she produced a card from the table. the man put it in his pocket, shouldered the box, and betty shut the door. not one of those good things ever went into the jarvis dining-room! the next morning things went on just as usual in the house. the kitchen door was left open and mrs. jarvis was welcome to smell any of the appetizing odours that wafted out into her room. jessie resumed her study, and especially her practice, for she hoped some day to be a great musician. she waited on her mother and took charge of the housekeeping, so much as was necessary with the well-tried servant at the head of the kitchen. and though she had but sixteen years over her bright brown head, she proved herself to be what in that little new england town was called "capable." but that box of goodies! let us see where it went. it was thanksgiving morning in a rough-looking little mining settlement in colorado. in a shanty rougher and more comfortless than the rest were two persons: one, a man of thirty, was deeply engaged in cleaning and oiling a gun which lay in pieces about him on the rough bench where he sat; the other, a youth of sixteen, was trying to make a fire burn in the primitive-looking affair that did duty as a stove. both wore coarse miner's suits, and picks and other things about the room told that their business was to dig for the yellow dust we are all so greedy to have. evidently luck had not been good, for the whole place appeared run down, and the two looked absolutely hungry. it was thanksgiving morning, as i said, but no thankfulness shone in the two pale, thin faces. both were sad, and the younger one almost hopeless. "jack," said the elder, pausing in his operations, "mind you give that old hen a good boil, or we won't be able to eat it." "it'll be better'n nothing, anyway, i suppose," said jack gloomily. "not much. 'specially if you don't get the taste of sage brush out of it. lucky i happened to get that shot at her, anyway," he went on, "i've seen worse dinners--even thanksgiving dinners--than a sage hen." "i haven't," said jack shortly; for the mention of thanksgiving had brought up before him with startling vividness the picture of a bright dining-room in a certain town far away, a table loaded with good things, and surrounded by smiling faces, and the contrast was almost more than he could bear. "well, don't be down on your luck, boy, so long as you can get a good fat hen to eat, if she does happen to be too fond of seasoning before she's dead!" replied the other cheerfully; "we haven't struck it yet, but it's always darkest just before dawn, you know. we may be millionaires before this time to-morrow." "we may," answered jack; but he didn't look as if he had much hope of it. a few hours later the occupants of the cabin sat down to their thanksgiving dinner. it consisted of the hen aforesaid, cut in pieces and boiled--looking very queer, too--served in the kettle in which the operation had been performed. the table was at one end of the bench, the table service two jackknives and two iron spoons--absolutely nothing else. the elder sat on the bench, the younger drew up a keg that had held powder, and the dinner was about to begin. but that hen was destined never to be eaten, for just at that moment the door was pushed open in the rude way of the country, a box set down on the floor, and a rough voice announced: "a box for mr. jack jones." jack started up. "for me, there must be a mistake! nobody knows--" he stopped, for he had not mentioned that his name was assumed. "likely not!" said the man, with a knowing look, "but folks has a mighty queer way of findin' out," and he shut the door and left. jack stood staring at the box as if he had lost his wits. it could not be from home, for no one knew where he went when he stole out of the house one night six months ago, and ran away to seek his fortune. not a line had he ever written--not even when very ill, as he had been; not even when without a roof to cover his head, as he had been more than once; not even when he had not eaten for two days, as also, alas, had been his experience. he had deliberately run away, because--how trivial it looked to him now, and how childish seemed his conduct--because he thought his father too hard on him; would not allow him enough liberty; wanted to dictate to this man of sixteen; he intended to show him that he could get on alone. poor jack, the only comfort he had been able to extract from his hard lot these many months of wandering, of work, of suffering such as he had never dreamed of--his only comfort was that his tender mother didn't know, his only sister would no more be worried by his grumbling and complaints, and his father would be convinced now that he wasn't a baby. small comfort, too, to balance the hardships that had fallen to his lot since the money he had drawn from the savings bank--his little all--was used up. "why don't you open it?" the gruff but not unkind voice of his roommate, whom he called tom, aroused him. "maybe there's something in it better'n sage hen," trying to raise a smile. but no smile followed. mechanically jack sought the tools to open it, and in a few moments the cover was off. it _was_ from home! on the very top was a letter addressed to jack jarvis in a hand that he well knew. he hastily stuffed it into his pocket unopened. the layers of paper were removed, and as each one was thrown off, something new appeared. not a word was spoken, but the kettle of sage hen was silently put on the floor by tom as the bench began to fill up. a jar of cranberry sauce, another of orange marmalade, oranges and apples, a plum pudding, a chicken pie, and lastly, in its white linen wrapper, the turkey we saw browning in that far-off new england kitchen. as one by one these things were lifted out and placed on the bench a deep silence reigned in the cabin. jack had choked at sight of the letter, and memories of days far different from these checked even tom's usually lively tongue. a strange unpacking it was; how different from the joyful packing at dead of night with those two laughing girl faces bending over it! when all was done, and the silence grew painful, jack blurted out: "help yourself," and bustled about, busily gathering up the papers and folding them, and stuffing them back in the box, as though he were the most particular housekeeper in the world. but if jack couldn't eat, something, too, ailed tom. he said simply: "don't feel hungry. believe i'll go out and see what i can find," and shouldering his gun, now cleaned and put together, he quickly went out and shut the door. jack sat down on the keg and looked at the things which so vividly brought home, and his happy life there, before him. he did not feel hungry, either. he sat and stared for some time. then he remembered his letter. he drew it from his pocket and opened it. it was very thick; and when he pulled it out of the envelope the first thing he saw was the smiling face of his sister jessie, his twin sister, his playmate and comrade, his confidante from the cradle. the loss of her ever-willing sympathy had been almost more to him than all the rest of his troubles. this was another shock that brought something to his eyes that made him see the others through a mist. there were the pictures of his mother, whose gentle voice he could almost hear, and of his father, whose gray hairs and sad face he suddenly remembered were partly his work. at last he read the letter. it began: dear jack:--i've just found out where you are, and i'm so glad. i send you this thanksgiving dinner. it was too bad for you to go off so. you don't know how dreadful it was for mamma; she was sick a long time, and we were scared to death about her, but she's better now; she can sit up most all day. oh, jack! father _cried_! i'm sure he did, and he almost ran out of the room, and didn't say anything to anybody all day. but i was determined i'd find you. i shan't tell you how i did it, but uncle john helped me, and now, jack, he says he wants just such a fellow as you to learn his business, and he'll make you a very good offer. and, jack, that's my turkey--my winnie--and nobody but betty knows anything about this box and this letter. i send you all my money out of the savings bank (i didn't tell _anybody_ that), and i _want_ you to come home. you'll find the money under the cranberries. i thought it would be safe there, and i knew you'd eat them all, you're so fond of cranberries. i didn't tell anybody because i want to surprise them, and besides, let them think you came home because you got ready. it's nobody's business where you got the money anyway. now do come right home, jack. you can get here in a week's time, i know. your affectionate sister, jessie. jack laid the letter down with a rush of new feelings and thoughts that overwhelmed him. he sat there for hours; he knew nothing of time. he had mechanically turned the cranberry jar upside down and taken from the bottom, carefully wrapped in white paper, fifty dollars. a pang went through him. well did he know what that money represented to his sister; by how many sacrifices she had been saving it for a year or two, with the single purpose of taking the lessons from a great master that were to fit her to teach, to take an independent position in the world, to relieve her father, who had lost a large slice of his comfortable income, and who was growing old and sad under his burden. she had often talked it over with jack. now she had generously given up the whole to him, all her hopes and dreams of independence; and he--he who should have been the support of his sister, the right arm of his father--he had basely deserted. these thoughts and many more surged through his mind that long afternoon, and when tom returned as the shadows were growing long, he sat exactly as he had been left. on tom's entrance he roused himself. there was a new light in his eye. "come, tom," he said, "dinner's waiting. you must be hungry by this time." "i am that," said tom, who had been through his own mental struggles meanwhile. the two sat down once more to their thanksgiving dinner, and this time they managed to eat, though jack choked whenever he thought of tasting a bit of jessie's pet turkey, winnie; and much as he liked turkey, and a home turkey at that, he could not touch it. after the meal, when the provisions were stored away in the cupboard (a soap box) much too small for such a supply, it had grown quite dark, and the two, still disinclined to talk, went to their beds--if the rough bunks they occupied may be dignified by that name. but not to sleep--at least not jack, who tumbled and tossed all night and got up in the morning with an energy and life he had not shown for weeks. after breakfast tom shouldered his pick and said: "i'll go on, jack, while you clear up." yet he felt in his heart he should never see jack again; for there was a homestruck look in his face that the man of experience in the ways of runaway boys knew well. he was not surprised that jack did not join him, nor that when he returned at night to the cabin he found him gone and a note pinned up on the door: i can't stand it--i'm off for home. you may have my share of everything. jack. it was a cold evening in early december, and there seemed to be an undercurrent of excitement in the jarvis household. the table was spread in the dining-room with the best silver and linen. mrs. jarvis was better, and had even been able to go into the kitchen to superintend the preparations for dinner. jessie went around with a shining face that no one understood and she could not explain. betty was strangely nervous, and had made several blunders that morning which mortified the faithful servant very much. an air of expectancy pervaded the whole house, though the two heads of it had not a hint of the cause. jessie heard the train she had decided to be the important one. she could hardly contain herself for expectation. she tried hard to sober herself now and then by the thought, "perhaps he won't come," but she couldn't stay sobered, for she felt as certain that he would as that she lived. you all know how it happened. the door opened and jack walked in. one instant of blank silence, and then a grand convulsion. jack fell on his knees with his face in his mother's lap, though he had not thought a moment before of doing any such thing. jessie hung over him, frantically hugging him. mr. jarvis, vainly trying to join this group, could only lay his hands on jack's head and say in a broken voice: "my son! my son!" while betty performed a war dance around the party, wildly brandishing a basting spoon in one hand and wiping her streaming eyes on the dishcloth which she held in the other. it was long before a word could be spoken, and the dinner was totally ruined, as betty declared with tears (though they were not for sorrow), before any one could calm down enough to eat. then the reaction set in, and justice was done to the dinner, while talk went on in a stream. jack did not tell his adventures; he only said that he had come from the city, where he had made arrangements for a situation with uncle john--at which jessie's eyes sparkled. his looks, even after a week of comfort and hope, spoke for his sufferings. there is little more to tell. jack jarvis at seventeen was a different boy from the jack who at sixteen started out to seek his fortune. you may be sure that jessie had her music lessons after all, and that a new winnie with a fine young brood at her heels stalked about the jarvis grounds the next spring. who ate the dolly's dinner?[ ] by isabel gordon curtis. a good story for the big sister to read to the little boys and girls. "why can't dollies have a thanksgiving dinner as well as real folks?" asked polly pine. [footnote : from "for the children's hour," milton bradley company.] "i don't know why," said mamma, laughing; "go and dress them in their best clothes, get the dolls' house swept and dusted and the table ready. then i'll fix their dinner before we go downstairs." "oh, how nice!" said polly pine. the doll house stood in the nursery. it was very big and very beautiful. it was painted red; it had tall chimneys, and a fine front door with r. bliss on a brass plate. there were lace curtains at the windows, and two steps led up to the cunning little piazza. polly pine swept the rooms with her tiny broom and dusted them. then she set the table in the dining-room with the very best dishes and the finest silver. she set a teeny vase in the middle of the table, with two violets in it, and she put dolly table napkins at each place. when the house was all nice and clean she dressed lavinia in her pink muslin, and dora jane in her gray velvet, and hannah welch in her yellow silk; then she seated them around the table, each one in her own chair. polly was just telling them about company manners, how they must not eat with their knives, or leave their teaspoons in their cups when they drank their tea, when the door opened and in came mamma with a real dolls' thanksgiving dinner. there was a chicken bone to put on the platter before hannah welch, for hannah always did the carving. there were cunning little dishes of mashed potato and cranberry sauce, and some celery in a tiny tumbler, and the smallest squash pie baked in a patty pan. polly pine just hopped up and down with delight when she saw it. she set everything on the table; then she ran away to put on her nicest muslin frock with the pink ribbons, and she went downstairs to her own dinner. there were gentlemen there for dinner--gentlemen polly was very fond of--and she had a nice time visiting with one of them. he could change his table napkin into a white rabbit, and she forgot all about the dolls' thanksgiving dinner until it was dessert-time, and the nuts and raisins came in. then polly remembered, and she jumped down from her chair and asked mamma if she might go upstairs and see if the dolls had eaten their dinner. when mamma told about the doll house thanksgiving, all the family wanted to go, too, to find out if the dolls had enjoyed their dinner. the front door of the doll house was open, and there sat the dolls just as their little mistress had left them--only they had eaten nearly all the dinner! everything was gone except the potato and the cranberry sauce. the chicken leg was picked bare, the bread was nibbled, and the little pie was eaten all around. "well, this is funny," said papa. just then they heard a funny, scratching noise in the doll house, and a little gray mouse jumped out from under the table. he ran out the front door of the doll house, and over the piazza, and down the steps before you could say "jack robinson." in a minute he was gone--nobody knew where. there was another tiny mouse in the doll house under the parlour sofa, and a third one under lavinia's bed, with a poor, frightened gray tail sticking out. they all got away safe. papa would not allow mamma to go for the cat. he said: "why can't a poor little mouse have a thanksgiving dinner as well as we?" an old-fashioned thanksgiving[ ] by rose terry cooke. a long story about a family of hardy new england pioneers in revolutionary days. it will be most enjoyed by the older children. "pile in, hannah. get right down 'long o' the clock, so's to kinder shore it up. i'll fix in them pillers t'other side on't, and you can set back ag'inst the bed. good-bye, folks! gee up! bright. gee! i tell ye, buck." [footnote : adapted from "huckleberries," houghton, mifflin co.] "good-bye!" nodded hannah, from the depths of the old calash which granny had given her for a riding-hood, and her rosy face sparkled under the green shadow like a blossom under a burdock leaf. this was their wedding journey. thirty long miles to be travelled, at the slow pace of an oxcart, where to-day a railroad spins by, and a log hut in the dim distance. but hannah did not cry about it. there was a momentary choking, perhaps, in her throat, as she caught a last view of granny's mob cap and her father's rough face, with the red head of her small stepbrother between them, grouped in the doorway. her mother had died long ago, and there was another in her place now, and a swarm of children. hannah was going to her own home, to a much easier life, and going with john. why should she cry? besides, hannah was the merriest little woman in the country. she had a laugh always lying ready in a convenient dimple. she never knew what "blues" meant, except to dye stocking yarn. she was sunny as a dandelion and gay as a bobolink. her sweet good nature never failed through the long day's journey, and when night came she made a pot of tea at the campfire, roasted a row of apples, and broiled a partridge john shot by the wayside, with as much enjoyment as if this was the merriest picnic excursion, and not a solitary camp in the forest, long miles away from any human dwelling, and by no means sure of safety from some lingering savage, some beast of harmful nature, or at least a visit from a shambling black bear, for bears were plentiful enough in that region. but none of these things worried hannah. she ate her supper with hearty appetite, said her prayers with john, and curled down on the featherbed in the cart, while john heaped on more wood, and, shouldering his musket, went to lengthen the ropes that tethered his oxen, and then mounted guard over the camp. hannah watched his fine, grave face, as the flickering light illuminated it, for a few minutes, and then slept tranquilly till dawn. and by sunset next day the little party drew up at the door of the log hut they called home. it looked very pretty to hannah. she had the fairy gift, that is so rare among mortals, of seeing beauty in its faintest expression; and the young grass about the rough stone doorstep, the crimson cones on the great larch tree behind it, the sunlit panes of the west window, the laugh and sparkle of the brook that ran through the clearing, the blue eyes of the squirrel caps that blossomed shyly and daintily beside the stumps of new-felled trees--all these she saw and delighted in. and when the door was open, the old clock set up, the bed laid on the standing bedplace, and the three chairs and table ranged against the wall, she began her house-wifery directly, singing as she went. before john had put his oxen in the small barn, sheltered the cart and the tools in it, and shaken down hay into the manger, hannah had made a fire, hung on the kettle, spread up her bed with homespun sheets and blankets and a wonderful cover of white-and-red chintz, set the table with a loaf of bread, a square of yellow butter, a bowl of maple sugar, and a plate of cheese; and even released the cock and the hen from their uneasy prison in a splint basket, and was feeding them in the little woodshed when john came in. his face lit up, as he entered, with that joyful sense of home so instinctive in every true man and woman. he rubbed his hard hands together, and catching hannah as she came in at the shed door, bestowed upon her a resounding kiss. "you're the most of a little woman i ever see, hannah, i swan to man." hannah laughed like a swarm of spring blackbirds. "i declare, john, you do beat all! ain't it real pleasant here? seems to me i never saw things so handy." oh, hannah, what if your prophetic soul could have foreseen the conveniences of this hundred years after! yet the shelves, the pegs, the cupboard in the corner, the broad shelf above the fire, the great pine chest under the window, and the clumsy settle, all wrought out of pine board by john's patient and skilful fingers, filled all her needs; and what can modern conveniences do more? so they ate their supper at home for the first time, happy as new-nested birds, and far more grateful. john had built a sawmill on the brook a little way from the house, and already owned a flourishing trade, for the settlement about the lake from which nepasset brook sprung was quite large, and till john perkins went there the lumber had been all drawn fifteen miles off, to litchfield, and his mill was only three miles from nepash village. hard work and hard fare lay before them both, but they were not daunted by the prospect.... by and by a cradle entered the door, and a baby was laid in it.... one baby is well enough in a log cabin, with one room for all the purposes of life; but when next year brought two more, a pair of stout boys, then john began to saw lumber for his own use. a bedroom was built on the east side of the house, and a rough stairway into the loft--more room perhaps than was needed; but john was called in nepash "a dre'dful forecastin' man," and he took warning from the twins. and timely warning it proved, for as the years slipped by, one after another, they left their arrows in his quiver till ten children bloomed about the hearth. the old cabin had disappeared entirely. a good-sized frame house of one story, with a high-pitched roof, stood in its stead, and a slab fence kept roving animals out of the yard and saved the apple trees from the teeth of stray cows and horses. poor enough they were still. the loom in the garret always had its web ready, the great wheel by the other window sung its busy song year in and year out. dolly was her mother's right hand now; and the twins, ralph and reuben, could fire the musket and chop wood. sylvy, the fourth child, was the odd one. all the rest were sturdy, rosy, laughing girls and boys; but sylvy had been a pining baby, and grew up into a slender, elegant creature, with clear gray eyes, limpid as water, but bright as stars, and fringed with long golden lashes the colour of her beautiful hair--locks that were coiled in fold on fold at the back of her fine head, like wreaths of undyed silk, so pale was their yellow lustre. she bloomed among the crowd of red-cheeked, dark-haired lads and lasses, stately and incongruous as a june lily in a bed of tulips. but sylvy did not stay at home. the parson's lady at litchfield came to nepash one sunday, with her husband, and seeing sylvy in the square corner pew with the rest, was mightily struck by her lovely face, and offered to take her home with her the next week, for the better advantages of schooling. hannah could not have spared dolly; but sylvia was a dreamy, unpractical child, and though all the dearer for being the solitary lamb of the flock by virtue of her essential difference from the rest, still, for that very reason, it became easier to let her go. parson everett was childless, and in two years' time both he and his wife adored the gentle, graceful girl; and she loved them dearly. they could not part with her, and at last adopted her formally as their daughter, with the unwilling consent of john and hannah. yet they knew it was greatly "for sylvy's betterment," as they phrased it; so at last they let her go. but when dolly was a sturdy young woman of twenty-five the war-trumpet blew, and john and the twins heard it effectually. there was a sudden leaving of the plow in the furrow. the planting was set aside for the children to finish, the old musket rubbed up, and with set lips and resolute eyes the three men walked away one may morning to join the nepash company. hannah kept up her smiling courage through it all. if her heart gave way, nobody knew it but god and john. the boys she encouraged and inspired, and the children were shamed out of their childish tears by mother's bright face and cheery talk. then she set them all to work. there was corn to plant, wheat to sow, potatoes to set; flax and wool to spin and weave, for clothes would be needed for all, both absent and stay-at-homes. there was no father to superintend the outdoor work; so hannah took the field, and marshalled her forces on nepasset brook much as the commander-in-chief was doing on a larger scale elsewhere. eben, the biggest boy, and joey, who came next him, were to do all the planting; diana and sam took on themselves the care of the potato patch, the fowls, and the cow; dolly must spin and weave when mother left either the wheel or loom to attend to the general ordering of the forces; while obed and betty, the younglings of the flock, were detailed to weed, pick vegetables (such few as were raised in the small garden), gather berries, herbs, nuts, hunt the straying turkeys' nests, and make themselves generally useful. at evening all the girls sewed; the boys mended their shoes, having learned so much from a travelling cobbler; and the mother taught them all her small stock of schooling would allow. at least, they each knew how to read, and most of them to write, after a very uncertain fashion. as to spelling, nobody knew how to spell in those days.... but they did know the four simple rules of arithmetic, and could say the epigrammatic rhymes of the old new england primer and the sibyllic formulas of the assembly's catechism as glibly as the child of to-day repeats "the house that jack built." so the summer went on. the corn tasselled, the wheat ears filled well, the potatoes hung out rich clusters of their delicate and graceful blossoms, beans straggled half over the garden, the hens did their duty bravely, and the cow produced a heifer calf. father and the boys were fighting now, and mother's merry words were more rare, though her bright face still wore its smiling courage. they heard rarely from the army. now and then a post rider stopped at the nepash tavern and brought a few letters or a little news; but this was at long intervals, and women who watched and waited at home without constant mail service and telegraphic flashes, aware that news of disaster, of wounds, of illness, could only reach them too late to serve or save, and that to reach the ill or the dying involved a larger and more disastrous journey than the survey of half the world demands now--these women endured pangs beyond our comprehension, and endured them with a courage and patience that might have furnished forth an army of heroes, that did go far to make heroes of that improvised, ill-conditioned, eager multitude who conquered the trained bands of their oppressors and set their sons "free and equal," to use their own dubious phraseology, before the face of humanity at large. by and by winter came on with all its terrors. by night wolves howled about the lonely house, and sprung back over the palings when eben went to the door with his musket. joe hauled wood from the forest on a hand-sled, and dolly and diana took it in through the kitchen window when the drifts were so high that the woodshed door could not be opened. besides, all the hens were gathered in there, as well for greater warmth as for convenience in feeding, and the barn was only to be reached with snowshoes and entered by the window above the manger. hard times these were. the loom in the garret could not be used, for even fingers would freeze in that atmosphere; so the thread was wound off, twisted on the great wheel, and knit into stockings, the boys learning to fashion their own, while hannah knit her anxiety and her hidden heartaches into socks for her soldier boys and their father. by another spring the aching and anxiousness were a little dulled, for habit blunts even the keen edge of mortal pain. they had news that summer that ralph had been severely wounded, but had recovered; that john had gone through a sharp attack of camp-fever; that reuben was taken prisoner, but escaped by his own wit. hannah was thankful and grateful beyond expression. perhaps another woman would have wept and wailed, to think all this had come to pass without her knowledge or her aid; but it was hannah's way to look at the bright side of things. sylvia would always remember how once, when she was looking at mount tahconic, darkened by a brooding tempest, its crags frowning blackly above the dark forest at its foot and the lurid cloud above its head torn by fierce lances of light, she hid her head in her mother's checked apron, in the helpless terror of an imaginative child; but, instead of being soothed and pitied, mother had only laughed a little gay laugh, and said gently, but merrily: "why, sylvy, the sun's right on the other side, only you don't see it." after that she always thought her mother saw the sun when nobody else could. and in a spiritual sense it was true. parson everett rode over once or twice from litchfield that next summer to fetch sylvia and to administer comfort to hannah. he was a quaint, prim little gentleman, neat as any wren, but mild-mannered as wrens never are, and in a moderate way kindly and sympathetic. when the children had haled their lovely sister away to see their rustic possessions, parson everett would sit down in a high chair, lay aside his cocked hat, spread his silk pocket handkerchief over his knees, and prepare to console hannah. "mistress perkins, these are trying times, trying times. there is a sound of a going in the tops of the mulberry-trees--h-m! sea and waves roaring of a truth--h-m! h-m! i trust, mistress perkins, you submit to the divine will with meekness." "well, i don't know," replied hannah, with a queer little twinkle in her eye. "i don't believe i be as meek as moses, parson. i should like things fixed different, to speak truth." "dear me! dear me--h-m! h-m! my good woman, the lord reigneth. you must submit; you must submit. you know it is the duty of a vessel of wrath to be broken to pieces if it glorifieth the maker." "well, mebbe 'tis. i don't know much about that kind o' vessel. i've got to submit because there ain't anything else to do, as i see. i can't say it goes easy--not'n' be honest; but i try to look on the bright side, and to believe the lord'll take care of my folks better'n i could, even if they was here." "h-m! h-m! well," stammered the embarrassed parson, completely at his wit's end with this cheerful theology, "well, i hope it is grace that sustains you, mistress perkins, and not the vain elation of the natural man. the lord is in his holy temple; the earth is his footstool--h-m!" the parson struggled helplessly with a tangle of texts here; but the right one seemed to fail him, till hannah audaciously put it in: "well, you know what it says about takin' care of sparrers, in the bible, and how we was more valerable than they be, a lot. that kind o' text comes home these times, i tell ye. you fetch a person down to the bedrock, as grandsir penlyn used to say, and then they know where they be. and ef the lord is really the lord of all, i expect he'll take care of all; 'nd i don't doubt but what he is and does. so i can fetch up on that." parson everett heaved a deep sigh, put on his cocked hat, and blew his nose ceremonially with the silk handkerchief. not that he needed to: but as a sort of shaking off of the dust of responsibility and ending the conversation, which, if it was not heterodox on hannah's part, certainly did not seem orthodox to him.... he did not try to console her any more, but contented himself with the stiller spirits in his own parish, who had grown up in and after his own fashion. another dreadful winter settled down on nepasset township. there was food enough in the house and firewood in the shed; but neither food nor fire seemed to assuage the terrible cold, and with decreased vitality decreased courage came to all. hygienics were an unforeseen mystery to people of that day. they did not know that nourishing food is as good for the brain as for the muscles. they lived on potatoes, beets, beans, with now and then a bit of salt pork or beef boiled in the pot with the rest; and their hearts failed, as their flesh did, with this sodden and monotonous diet. one ghastly night hannah almost despaired. she held secret council with dolly and eben, while they inspected the potato bin and the pork barrel, as to whether it would not be best for them to break up and find homes elsewhere for the winter. her father was old and feeble. he would be glad to have her with him and betty. the rest were old enough to "do chores" for their board, and there were many families where help was needed, both in nepash and litchfield, since every available man had gone to the war by this time. but while they talked a great scuffling and squawking in the woodhouse attracted the boys upstairs. joe seized the tongs and diana the broomstick. an intruding weasel was pursued and slaughtered; but not till two fowls, fat and fine, had been sacrificed by the invader and the tongs together. the children were all hungry, with the exhaustion of the cold weather, and clamoured to have these victims cooked for supper. nor was hannah unmoved by the appeal. her own appetite seconded. the savoury stew came just in time. it aroused them to new life and spirits. hannah regained courage, wondering how she could have lost heart so far, and said to dolly, as they washed up the supper dishes: "i guess we'll keep together, dolly. it'll be spring after a while, and we'll stick it out together." "i guess i would," answered dolly. "and don't you believe we should all feel better to kill off them fowls--all but two or three? they're master hands to eat corn, and it does seem as though that biled hen done us all a sight o' good to-night. just hear them children." and it certainly was, as hannah said, "musical to hear 'em." joe had a cornstalk fiddle, and eben an old singing book, which diana read over his shoulder while she kept on knitting her blue sock; and the three youngsters--sam, obed, and betty--with wide mouths and intent eyes, followed diana's "lining out" of that quaint hymn "the old israelites," dwelling with special gusto and power on two of the verses: "we are little, 'tis true, and our numbers are few, and the sons of old anak are tall; but while i see a track i will never go back, but go on at the risk of my all. "the way is all new, as it opens to view, and behind is the foaming red sea; so none need to speak of the onions and leeks or to talk about garlics to me!" hannah's face grew brighter still. "we'll stay right here!" she said, adding her voice to the singular old ditty with all her power: "what though some in the rear preach up terror and fear, and complain of the trials they meet, tho' the giants before with great fury do roar, i'm resolved i can never retreat." and in this spirit, sustained, no doubt, by the occasional chickens, they lived the winter out, till blessed, beneficent spring came again, and brought news, great news, with it. not from the army, though. there had been a post rider in nepash during the january thaw, and he brought short letters only. there was about to be a battle, and there was no time to write more than assurances of health and good hopes for the future. only once since had news reached them from that quarter. a disabled man from the nepash company was brought home dying with consumption. hannah felt almost ashamed to rejoice in the tidings he brought of john's welfare, when she heard his husky voice, saw his worn and ghastly countenance, and watched the suppressed agony in his wife's eyes. the words of thankfulness she wanted to speak would have been so many stabs in that woman's breast. it was only when her eight children rejoiced in the hearing that she dared to be happy. but the other news was from sylvia. she was promised to the schoolmaster in litchfield. only to think of it! our sylvy! master loomis had been eager to go to the war; but his mother was a poor bedrid woman, dependent on him for support, and all the dignitaries of the town combined in advising and urging him to stay at home for the sake of their children, as well as his mother. so at home he stayed, and fell into peril of heart, instead of life and limb, under the soft fire of sylvia's eyes, instead of the enemy's artillery. parson everett could not refuse his consent, though he and madam were both loth to give up their sweet daughter. but since she and the youth seemed to be both of one mind about the matter, and he being a godly young man, of decent parentage, and in a good way of earning his living, there was no more to be said. they would wait a year before thinking of marriage, both for better acquaintance and on account of the troubled times. "mayhap the times will mend, sir," anxiously suggested the schoolmaster to parson everett. "i think not, i think not, master loomis. there is a great blackness of darkness in hand, the philistines be upon us, and there is moving to and fro. yea, behemoth lifteth himself and shaketh his mane--h-m! ah! h-m! it is not a time for marrying and giving in marriage, for playing on sackbuts and dulcimers--h-m!" a quiet smile flickered around master loomis's mouth as he turned away, solaced by a shy, sweet look from sylvia's limpid eyes, as he peeped into the keeping-room, where she sat with madam, on his way out. he could afford to wait a year for such a spring blossom as that, surely. and wait he did, with commendable patience, comforting his godly soul with the fact that sylvia was spared meantime the daily tendance and care of a fretful old woman like his mother; for, though master loomis was the best of sons, that did not blind him to the fact that the irritability of age and illness were fully developed in his mother, and he alone seemed to have the power of calming her. she liked sylvia at first, but became frantically jealous of her as soon as she suspected her son's attachment. so the summer rolled away. hannah and her little flock tilled their small farm and gathered plenteous harvest. mindful of last year's experience, they raised brood after brood of chickens, and planted extra acres of corn for their feeding, so that when autumn came, with its vivid, splendid days, its keen winds and turbulent skies, the new chicken yard, which the boys had worked at through the summer, with its wattled fence, its own tiny spring, and lofty covered roofs, swarmed with chickens, ducks, and turkeys. many a dollar was brought home about thanksgiving time for the fat fowls sold in litchfield and nepash; but dollars soon vanished in buying winter clothes for so many children, or rather, in buying wool to spin and weave for them. mahala green, the village tailoress, came to fashion the garments, and the girls sewed them. uncouth enough was their aspect; but fashion did not yet reign in nepash, and if they were warm, who cared for elegance? not hannah's rosy, hearty, happy brood. they sang and whistled and laughed with a force and freedom that was kin to the birds and squirrels among whom they lived; and hannah's kindly, cheery face lit up as she heard them, while a half sigh told that her husband and her soldier boys were still wanting to her perfect contentment. at last they were all housed snugly for winter. the woodpile was larger than ever before, and all laid up in the shed, beyond which a rough shelter of chinked logs had been put up for the chickens, to which their roosts and nest boxes, of coarse wicker, boards nailed together, hollow bark from the hemlock logs, even worn-out tin pails, had all been transferred. the cellar had been well banked from the outside, and its darksome cavern held good store of apples, pork, and potatoes. there was dried beef in the stairway, squashes in the cupboard, flour in the pantry, and the great gentle black cow in the barn was a wonderful milker. in three weeks thanksgiving would come, and even hannah's brave heart sank as she thought of her absent husband and boys; and their weary faces rose up before her as she numbered over to herself her own causes for thankfulness, as if to say: "can you keep thanksgiving without us?" poor hannah! she did her best to set these thankless thoughts aside, but almost dreaded the coming festival. one night, as she sat knitting by the fire, a special messenger from litchfield rode up to the door and brought stirring news. master loomis's mother was dead, and the master himself, seeing there was a new levy of troops, was now going to the war. but before he went there was to be a wedding, and, in the good old fashion, it should be on thanksgiving day, and madam everett had bidden as many of sylvy's people to the feast as would come. there was great excitement as hannah read aloud the madam's note. the tribe of perkins shouted for joy, but a sudden chill fell on them when mother spoke: "now, children, hush up! i want to speak myself, ef it's a possible thing to git in a word edgeways. we can't all go, fust and foremost. 'tain't noways possible." "oh, mother! why? oh, do! not go to sylvy's wedding?" burst in the "infinite deep chorus" of youngsters. "no, you can't. there ain't no team in the county big enough to hold ye all, if ye squeeze ever so much. i've got to go, for sylvy'd be beat out if mother didn't come. and dolly's the oldest. she's got a right to go." loud protest was made against the right of primogeniture, but mother was firm. "says so in the bible. leastways, bible folks always acted so. the first-born, ye know. dolly's goin', sure. eben's got to drive, and i must take obed. he'd be the death of somebody, with his everlastin' mischief, if i left him to home. mebbe i can squeeze in betty, to keep him company. joe and sam and dianner won't be more'n enough to take care o' the cows and chickens and fires, and all. likewise of each other." sam set up a sudden howl at his sentence, and kicked the mongrel yellow puppy, who leaped on him to console him, till that long-suffering beast yelped in concert. diana sniffed and snuffled, scrubbed her eyes with her checked apron, and rocked back and forth. "now, stop it!" bawled joe. "for the land's sake, quit all this noise. we can't all on us go; 'n' for my part, i don't want to. we'll hev a weddin' of our own some day!" and here he gave a sly look at dolly, who seemed to understand it and blushed like an apple-blossom, while joe went on: "then we'll all stay to 't, i tell ye, and have a right down old country time." mother had to laugh. "so you shall, joe, and dance 'money musk' all night, if you want to--same as you did to the corn huskin'. now, let's see. betty, she's got that chintz gown that was your sunday best, dolly--the flowered one, you know, that dianner outgrowed. we must fix them lawn ruffles into 't; and there's a blue ribbin laid away in my chest o' drawers that'll tie her hair. it's dreadful lucky we've got new shoes all round; and obed's coat and breeches is as good as new, if they be made out of his pa's weddin' suit. that's the good o' good cloth. it'll last most forever. joe hed 'em first, then sam wore 'em quite a spell, and they cut over jest right for obey. my black paduasoy can be fixed up, i guess. but, my stars! dolly, what hev' you got?" "well, mother, you know i ain't got a real good gown. there's the black lutestring petticoat sylvy fetched me two years ago; but there ain't any gown to it. we calculated i could wear that linsey jacket to meeting, under my coat; but 'twouldn't do rightly for a weddin'." "that's gospel truth. you can't wear that, anyhow. you've got to hev somethin'. 'twon't do to go to sylvy's weddin' in linsey woolsy; but i don't believe there's more'n two hard dollars in the house. there's a few continentals; but i don't count on them. joe, you go over to the mill fust thing in the morning and ask sylvester to lend me his old mare a spell to-morrer, to ride over to nepash, to the store." "why don't ye send doll?" asked joe, with a wicked glance at the girl that set her blushing again. "hold your tongue, joseph, 'n' mind me. it's bedtime now, but i'll wake ye up airly," energetically remarked hannah. and next day, equipped in cloak and hood, she climbed the old mare's fat sides and jogged off on her errand; and by noon-mark was safe and sound home again, looking a little perplexed, but by no means cast down. "well, dolly," said she, as soon as cloak and hood were laid aside, "there's the beautifulest piece of chintz over to the store you ever see--jest enough for a gown. it's kind of buff-coloured ground, flowered all over with roses, deep-red roses, as nateral as life. squire dart wouldn't take no money for 't. he's awful sharp about them new bills. sez they ain't no more'n corn husks. well, we ain't got a great lot of 'em, so there's less to lose, and some folks will take 'em; but he'll let me have the chintz for 'leven yards o' soldier's cloth--blue, ye know, like what we sent pa and the boys. and i spent them two silver dollars on a white gauze neck-kercher and a piece of red satin ribbin for ye, for i'm set on that chintz. now hurry up 'nd fix the loom right off. the web's ready, then we'll card the wool. i'll lay ye a penny we'll have them 'leven yards wove by friday. to-day's tuesday, thanksgiving comes a thursday week, an' ef we have the chintz by sundown a saturday there'll be good store of time for mahaly green and you to make it afore wednesday night. we'll hev a kind of a thanksgiving, after all. but i wisht your pa----" the sentence ended in hannah's apron at her eyes, and dolly looked sober; but in a minute she dimpled and brightened, for the pretty chintz gown was more to her than half a dozen costly french dresses to a girl of to-day. but a little cloud suddenly put out the dimples. "but, mother, if somebody else should buy it?" "oh, they won't. i've fixed that. i promised to fetch the cloth inside of a week, and squire dart laid away the chintz for me till that time. fetch the wool, dolly, before you set up the web, so's i can start." the wool was carded, spun, washed, and put into the dye tub, one "run" of yarn that night; and another spun and washed by next day's noon--for the stuff was to be checked, and black wool needed no dyeing. swiftly hummed the wheel, merrily flew the shuttle, and the house steamed with inodorous dye; but nobody cared for that, if the cloth could only be finished. and finished it was--the full measure and a yard over; and on saturday morning sylvester's horse was borrowed again, and hannah came back from the village beaming with pleasure, and bringing besides the chintz a yard of real cushion lace, to trim the ruffles for dolly's sleeves, for which she had bartered the over yard of cloth and two dozen fresh eggs. then even busier times set in. mahala green had already arrived, for she was dressmaker as well as tailoress, and was sponging and pressing over the black paduasoy that had once been dove-coloured and was hannah's sole piece of wedding finery, handed down from her grandmother's wardrobe at that. a dark green grosgrain petticoat and white lawn ruffles made a sufficiently picturesque attire for hannah, whose well-silvered hair set off her still sparkling eyes and clear healthy skin. she appeared in this unwonted finery on thanksgiving morning to her admiring family, having added a last touch of adornment by a quaint old jet necklace, that glittered on the pure lawn neckkerchief with as good effect as a chain of diamonds and much more fitness. betty, in her striped blue-and-white chintz, a clean dimity petticoat, and a blue ribbon round her short brown curls, looked like a cabbage rosebud--so sturdy and wholesome and rosy that no more delicate symbol suits her. obed was dreadful in the old-fashioned costume of coat and breeches, ill-fitting and shiny with wear, and his freckled face and round shock head of tan-coloured hair thrown into full relief by a big, square collar of coarse tatten lace laid out on his shoulders like a barber's towel, and illustrating the great red ears that stood out at right angles above it. but obed was only a boy. he was not expected to be more than clean and speechless; and, to tell the truth, eben, being in the hobbledehoy stage of boyhood--gaunt, awkward, and self-sufficient--rather surpassed his small brother in unpleasant aspect and manner. but who would look at the boys when dolly stood beside them, as she did now, tall and slender, with the free grace of an untrammelled figure, her small head erect, her eyes dark and soft as a deer's, neatly clothed feet (not too small for her height) peeping from under the black lutestring petticoat, and her glowing brunette complexion set off by the picturesque buff-and-garnet chintz gown, while her round throat and arms were shaded by delicate gauze and snowy lace, and about her neck lay her mother's gold beads, now and then tangling in the heavy black curls that, tied high on her head with a garnet ribbon, still dropped in rich luxuriance to her trim waist. the family approved of dolly, no doubt, though their phrases of flattery were as homely as heartfelt. "orful slick-lookin', ain't she?" confided joe to eben; while sinful sam shrieked out: "land o' goshen! ain't our dolly smart? shan't i fetch sylvester over?" for which i regret to state dolly smartly boxed his ears. but the pung was ready, and sam's howls had to die out uncomforted. with many parting charges from hannah about the fires and fowls, the cow, the hasty pudding, already put on for its long boil, and the turkey that hung from a string in front of the fire and must be watched well, since it was the thanksgiving dinner, the "weddingers," as joe called them, were well packed in with blankets and hot stones and set off on their long drive. the day was fair and bright, the fields of snow purely dazzling; but the cold was fearful, and in spite of all their wraps, the keen winds that whistled over those broad hilltops where the road lay seemed to pierce their very bones, and they were heartily glad to draw up, by twelve o'clock, at the door of the parsonage and be set before a blazing fire, and revived with sundry mugs of foaming and steaming flip, made potent with a touch of old peach brandy; for in those ancient days, even in parsonages, the hot poker knew its office and sideboards were not in vain. there was food, also, for the exhausted guests, though the refection was slight and served informally in the kitchen corner, for the ceremonial thanksgiving dinner was to be deferred till after the wedding. and as soon as all were warmed and refreshed they were ushered into the great parlour, where a turkey carpet, amber satin curtains, spider-legged chairs and tables, and a vast carved sofa, cushioned also with amber, made a regal and luxurious show in the eyes of our rustic observers. but when sylvy came in with the parson, who could look at furniture? madam everett had lavished her taste and her money on the lovely creature as if she were her own daughter, for she was almost as dear to that tender, childless soul. the girl's lustrous gold-brown hair was dressed high upon her head in soft puffs and glittering curls, and a filmy thread-lace scarf pinned across it with pearl-headed pins. her white satin petticoat showed its rich lustre under a lutestring gown of palest rose brocaded with silver sprigs and looped with silver ribbon and pink satin roses. costly lace clung about her neck and arms, long kid gloves covered her little hands and wrists and met the delicate sleeve ruffles, and about her white throat a great pink topaz clasped a single string of pearls. hannah could scarce believe her eyes. was this her sylvy?--she who even threw madam everett, with her velvet dress, powdered hair, and mechlin laces, quite into the background! "i did not like it, mammy dear," whispered sylvy, as she clung round her astonished mother's neck. "i wanted a muslin gown; but madam had laid this by long ago, and i could not thwart or grieve her, she is so very good to me." "no more you could, sylvy. the gown is amazing fine, to be sure; but as long as my sylvy's inside of it i won't gainsay the gown. it ain't a speck too pretty for the wearer, dear." and hannah gave her another hug. the rest scarce dared to touch that fair face, except dolly, who threw her arms about her beautiful sister, with little thought of her garments, but a sudden passion of love and regret sending the quick blood to her dark brows and wavy hair in a scarlet glow. master loomis looked on with tender eyes. he felt the usual masculine conviction that nobody loved sylvy anywhere near as much as he did; but it pleased him to see that she was dear to her family. the parson, however, abruptly put an end to the scene. "h-m! my dear friends, let us recollect ourselves. there is a time for all things. yea, earth yieldeth her increase--h-m! the lord ariseth to shake visibly the earth--ahem! sylvia, will you stand before the sophy? master lummis on the right side. let us pray." but even as he spoke the words a great knocking pealed through the house: the brass lion's head on the front door beat a reveille loud and long. the parson paused, and sylvia grew whiter than before; while decius, the parson's factotum, a highly respectable old negro (who, with his wife and daughter, sole servants of the house, had stolen in to see the ceremony), ambled out to the vestibule in most undignified haste. there came sounds of dispute, much tramping of boots, rough voices, and quick words; then a chuckle from decius, the parlour door burst open, and three bearded, ragged, eager men rushed in upon the little ceremony. there was a moment's pause of wonder and doubt, then a low cry from hannah, as she flew into her husband's arms; and in another second the whole family had closed around the father and brothers, and for once the hardy, stern, reticent new england nature, broken up from its foundations, disclosed its depths of tenderness and fidelity. there were tears, choking sobs, cries of joy. the madam held her lace handkerchief to her eyes with real need of it; master loomis choked for sympathy; and the parson blew his nose on the ceremonial bandanna like the trumpet of a cavalry charge. "let us pray!" said he, in a loud but broken voice; and holding fast to the back of the chair, he poured out his soul and theirs before the lord with all the fervour and the fluency of real feeling. there was no stumbling over misapplied texts now, no awkward objections in his throat, but only glowing bible words of thankfulness and praise and joy. and every heart was uplifted and calm as they joined in the "amen." john's story was quickly told. their decimated regiment was disbanded, to be reformed of fresh recruits, and a long furlough given to the faithful but exhausted remnant. they had left at once for home, and their shortest route lay through litchfield. night was near when they reached the town, but they must needs stop to get one glimpse of sylvy and tidings from home, for fear lay upon them lest there might be trouble there which they knew not of. so they burst in upon the wedding. but master loomis began to look uneasy. old dorcas had slipped out, to save the imperilled dinner, and pokey, the maid (_née_ pocahontas!) could be heard clinking glass and silver and pushing about chairs; but the happy family were still absorbed in each other. "mister everett!" said the madam, with dignity, and the little minister trotted rapturously over to her chair to receive certain low orders. "yes, verily, yes--h-m! a--my friends, we are assembled in this place this evening--" a sharp look from madam recalled him to the fact that this was not a prayer-meeting. "a--that is--yes, of a truth our purpose this afternoon was to--" "that's so!" energetically put in captain john. "right about face! form!" and the three continentals sprung to their feet and assumed their position, while sylvy and master loomis resumed theirs, a flitting smile in sylvia's tearful eyes making a very rainbow. so the ceremony proceeded to the end, and was wound up with a short prayer, concerning which captain perkins irreverently remarked to his wife some days after: "parson smelt the turkey, sure as shootin', hannah. he shortened up so 'mazin' quick on that prayer. i tell you i was glad on't. i knew how he felt. i could ha' ate a wolf myself." then they all moved in to the dinner table--a strange group, from sylvia's satin and pearls to the ragged fatigue-dress of her father and brothers; but there was no help for that now, and really it troubled nobody. the shade of anxiety in madam's eye was caused only by a doubt as to the sufficiency of her supplies for three unexpected and ravenous guests; but a look at the mighty turkey, the crisp roast pig, the cold ham, the chicken pie, and the piles of smoking vegetables, with a long vista of various pastries, apples, nuts, and pitchers of cider on the buffet, and an inner consciousness of a big indian pudding, for twenty-four hours simmering in the pot over the fire, reassured her, and perhaps heartened up the parson, for after a long grace he still kept his feet and added, with a kindly smile: "brethren and friends, you are heartily welcome. eat and be glad, for seldom hath there been such cause and need to keep a thanksgiving!" and they all said amen! and froze to death[ ] by c. a. stephens. an exciting story of a battle with a crazy moose. it has a thanksgiving flavour, too. "what shall we have for thanksgiving dinner?" was a question which distressed more than one household that year. indeed, it was often a question what to have for dinner, supper, or breakfast on any day. for that was the strangely unpropitious, unproductive season of , quaintly known in local annals as " and froze to death." [footnote : from the _youth's companion_, november , .] it was shortly after the close of the war of with england. our country was then poor and but little cultivated. there was no golden west to send carloads of wheat and corn; no florida or california to send fruit; there were no cars, no railroads. what the people of the eastern states had they must raise for themselves, and that year there were no crops. nothing grew, nothing ripened properly. winter lingered even in the lap of may. as late as the middle of june there was a heavy snowstorm in new england. frosts occurred every fortnight of the season. the seed potatoes, corn, and beans, when planted, either rotted in the ground or came up to be killed by the frosts. the cold continued through july and august. a little barley, still less wheat and rye, a few oats, in favourable situations, were the only cereals harvested, and these were much pinched in the kernel. actual starvation threatened hundreds of farmers' families as this singular summer and autumn advanced. the corn crop, then the main staple in the east, was wholly cut off. two and three dollars a bushel--equal to ten dollars to-day--were paid for corn that year--by those who had the money to purchase it. many of the poorer families subsisted in part on the boiled sprouts of raspberry and other shrubs. starving children stole forth into the fields of the less indigent farmers by night, and dug up the seed potatoes and sprouted corn to eat raw. moreover, there appeared to be little or no game in the forest; many roving bears were seen, and wolves were bold. all wild animals, indeed, behaved abnormally, as if they, too, felt that nature was out of joint. the eggs of the grouse or partridge failed to hatch; even woodchucks were lean and scarce. so of the brooding hens at the settler's barn: the eggs would not hatch, and the hens, too, it is said, gave up laying eggs, perhaps from lack of food. even the song birds fell into the "dumps" and neglected to rear young. the dreary, fruitless autumn drew on; and thanksgiving day bade fair to be such a hollow mockery that in several states the governors did not issue proclamations. maine at that time was a part of the state of massachusetts. my impression is that the governor appointed november th as thanksgiving day, but i am not sure. it is likely that not much unction attended the announcement. the notices of it did not reach many localities in maine. in the neighbourhood where my grandparents lived, in oxford county, nothing was heard of it; but at a schoolhouse meeting, on november st, our nearest neighbour, jonas edwards, made a motion "that the people of the place keep the th of the month as thanksgiving day--the best they could." the motion prevailed; and then the poor housewives began to ask the question, "what shall we have for thanksgiving dinner?" at our house it is still remembered that one of my young great-uncles cried in reply, "oh, if we could only have a good big johnnycake!" and it was either that very night, or the night after, that the exciting news came of the arrival of a shipload of corn at bath and brunswick. at brunswick, seat of the then infant bowdoin college, freeport, topsham, and other towns near the coast of maine, where the people were interested in maritime ventures, it had become known that a surplus of corn was raised in cuba, and could be purchased at a fair price. an old schooner, commanded by one capt. john simmons, was fitted out to sail for a cargo of the precious cereal. for three months not a word was heard from schooner or skipper. captain simmons had purchased corn, however, and loaded his crazy old craft full to the deck with it. heavy weather and head winds held him back on his voyage home. water got to the corn, and some of it swelled to such an extent that the old schooner was like to burst. but it got in at last, early in november, with three thousand bushels of this west india corn. how the news of this argosy flew even to towns a day's journey up from the coast! a great hunger for corncake swept through that part of the state; and in our own little neighbourhood a searching canvass of the resources of the five log farm-houses followed. as a result of it, young jonathan edwards and my then equally youthful great-uncle nathaniel set off the next day to drive to brunswick with a span of old white horses hitched in a farm wagon without springs, carrying four rather poor sheep, four bushels of barley, and fifteen pounds of wool, which they hoped to exchange for five bushels of that precious corn. on top of it all there were three large bagfuls of hay for the horses. the boys also took an axe and an old flintlock gun, for much of the way was then through forest. it was a long day's drive for horses in poor condition, but they reached brunswick that night. there, however, they found the cargo of corn so nearly sold out, or bartered away, that they were able to get but three bushels to bring home. the corn was reckoned at nine dollars, the four sheep at only six dollars, and it had been difficult "dickering" the fifteen pounds of wool and the two bushels of barley as worth three dollars more. the extra two bushels of barley went for their keep overnight. such was produce exchange in . the next morning they started for home, lightly loaded with their dearly bought corn. their route lay along the androscoggin river, and they had got as far on their way as the present factory town of auburn, where the little androscoggin flows into the larger river of the same name, when they had an adventure which resulted in very materially increasing the weight of their load. it was a raw, cloudy day, and had begun to "spit snow"; and as it drew toward noon, they stopped beside the road at a place where a large pine and several birches leaned out from the brink of the deep gorge through which the little androscoggin flows to join the larger stream. here they fed their horses on the last of the three bagfuls of hay, but had nothing to cook or eat in the way of food themselves. the weather was chilly, and my young great-uncle nathaniel said to jonathan: "if you will get some dry birchbark, i will flash the pan. we will kindle a fire and warm up." jonathan brought the bark, and meanwhile nathaniel drew the charge from the old "queen's arm," then ignited some powder in the pan with the flintlock, and started a blaze going. the blaze, however, had soon to be fed with dry fuel, and noticing a dead firtop lying on the ground a few steps away, jonathan took the axe and ran to break it up; and the axe strokes among the dry stuff made a considerable crackling. throwing down the axe at last, jonathan gathered up a large armful of the dry branches, and had turned to the fire, when they both heard a strange sound, like a deep grunt, not far away, followed by sharp crashes of the brush down in the basin. "what's that?" nathaniel exclaimed. "it's a bear i guess," and he snatched up the empty gun to reload it. jonathan, too, threw down his armful of boughs and turned back to get the axe. before they could do either, however, the strange grunts and crashes came nearer, and a moment later a pair of broad antlers and a huge black head appeared, coming up from the gorge. at sight of the snorting beast, jonathan turned suddenly. "it's a moose, nat!" he cried. "a big bull moose! shoot him! shoot him!" nat was making frantic efforts, but the gun was not reloaded. recharging an old "queen's arm" was a work of time. fortunately for the boys, the attention of the moose was full fixed on the horses. with another furious snort, it gained the top of the bank and bounded toward where they stood hitched, chewing their hay. the tired white horses looked up suddenly from their hay, and perceiving this black apparition of the forest, snorted and tugged at their halters. with a frightful bellow, half squeal, half roar, the moose rose twelve feet tall on his hind legs, and rushed at the one hitched nearest. the horse broke its halter, ran headlong against its mate, recoiled, bumped into a tree trunk, and then--the trees standing thick in front of it--backed over the bank and went out of sight down the bluff, the moose bounding after it, still bellowing hoarsely. the other horse had also broken its halter and ran off, while the two boys stood amazed and alarmed at this tremendous exhibition of animal ferocity. "nat! nat! he will kill that horse!" jonathan exclaimed, and they both ran to look over the bank. horse and moose were now down near the water, where the river ran deep and swift under the steep bank, the horse trying vainly to escape through the tangled alder brush, the moose savagely pursuing. the sight roused the boys to save their horse. axe in hand, jonathan ran and slid down the bluff side, catching hold of trees and bushes as he did so, to keep from going quite into the river. nat followed him, with the gun which he had hastily primed. both horse and moose were now thrashing amidst the alder clumps. "shoot him, shoot him!" jonathan shouted. "why don't you fire? oh, let me have that gun!" it is not as easy as an onlooker often thinks to shoot an animal, even a large one, in rapid motion, particularly among trees and brush; something constantly gets in the way. both animals were now tearing along the brink of the deep stream, stumbling headlong one second, up the next, plunging on. as often as nat tried to steady himself on the steep side of the bluff for a shot, either the horse was in the way or both animals were wholly concealed by the bushes. moreover, the boys had to run fast through the brush to keep them in sight. nat could not shoot with certainty, and jonathan grew wild over the delay. "shoot him yourself, then!" nat retorted, panting. jonathan snatched the gun and dashed forward, nat picking up the axe and following after. on they ran for several hundred yards, barely keeping pace with the animals. jonathan experienced quite as much difficulty in getting a shot as nat had done. at last he aimed and snapped--and the gun did not go off. "you never primed it!" he exclaimed indignantly. nat thought that he had done so, but was not wholly certain; and feeling that he must do his part somehow, he now dashed past jonathan, and running on, attempted to head the horse off at a little gully down the bank to which they had now come. it was a brushy place; he fell headlong into it himself, and rolled down, still grasping hard at the axe. he was close upon the horse now, within a few yards of the water, and looking up, he saw the moose's head among the alder brush. the creature appeared to be staring at him, and regaining his feet, much excited, nat threw the axe with all his strength at the moose's head. by chance rather than skill, the poll of the axe struck the animal just above the eyes at the root of the antlers. it staggered, holding its head to one side a moment, as if half-stunned or in pain. then, recovering, it snorted, and with a bound through the brush, jumped into the stream, and either swam or waded across to the low sandy bank on the other side. there it stood, still shaking its head. jonathan had caught up with nat by this time, and they both stood watching the moose for some moments, hoping that the mad animal had now had enough of the fracas and would go his way. the horse was in the brush of the little gully, sticking fast there, or tired out by its exertions; and they now began considering how they could best extricate it and get it back up the bluff. just then, however, their other horse neighed long and shrill from the top of the bank, calling to its mate. the frightened horse beside them neighed back in reply. these equine salutations produced an unexpected result. another hoarse snort and a splash of the water was the response from across the stream. "he's coming again!" exclaimed jonathan. "have you got the powder-horn, nat? give it to me quick, if you've got it!" nathaniel had had the powder-horn up on the bank, but had dropped it there, or lost it out of his pocket in his scramble down the bluff. there was no time to search for it. the moose was plunging through the narrow stream, and a moment later sprang ashore and came bounding up the gully toward the horse. the boys shouted to frighten him off. the crazy creature appeared neither to hear nor heed. jonathan hastily took refuge behind a rock; nat jumped to cover of a tree trunk. in his rush at the horse, the moose passed close to them. again nat hurled the axe at the animal's side. jonathan, snatching up a heavy stone, threw it with all his might. the horse, too, wheeling in the narrow bed of the gully, kicked spitefully, lashing out its iron-shod hoofs again and again, planting them hard on the moose's front. for some moments this singular combat raged there. recovering the axe and coming up behind the animal, nat now attempted to deal a blow. the moose wheeled, however, as if struck by sudden panic, and went clear over nat, who was thrown headlong and slid down into the water. the moose bounded clear over him, and again went splashing through the little androscoggin to the other side, where it turned as before, shaking its antlers and rending the brush with them. nathaniel had caught hold of a bush, and thus saved himself from going fully into the swift current. jonathan helped him get out, and the two young fellows stared at each other. the encounter had given them proof of the mad strength and energy of the moose. "oh, if we could only find that powder-horn somewhere!" jonathan exclaimed. the horse up on the bluff sent forth again its shrill neigh, to which the one beside them responded. and just as before, the moose, with an awful bellow, came plunging through the little river and bounding up the gully. "my soul! here he comes again!" jonathan fairly yelled. "get out o' the way!" and nat got out of the way as quickly as possible, taking refuge behind the same rock in the side of the gully. again the place resounded to a frightful medley of squeals, bellowings, and crashes in the brush. this time jonathan had caught up the axe, and approaching the furious mêlée of whirling hoofs and gnashing teeth from one side, attempted to get in a blow. in their wild movements the enraged animals nearly ran over him, but he struck and stumbled. the blow missed the moose's head, but fell on the animal's foreleg, just below the knee, and broke the bone. the moose reared, and wheeling on its hind legs, plunged down the gully, falling partly into the river, much as nat had done. a dozen times it now struggled to get up, almost succeeding, but fell back each time. with the ardour of battle still glowing in him, jonathan rushed forward with the axe, and finally managed to deal the moose a deathblow; with a knife they then bled it, and stood by, triumphant. "we've muttoned him! we've muttoned him!" nat shouted. "but i never had such a fight as that before." the horse, as it proved, was not seriously injured, but they were obliged to cut away the alder brush in the gully to get the animal back up the bluff, and were occupied for fully an hour doing so. the body of the moose was a huge one; it must have weighed fully fourteen hundred pounds. the boys could no more have moved it than they could move a mountain. moreover, it was now beginning to snow fine and fast. jonathan had a fairly good knife, however, and by using the axe they succeeded in rudely butchering the carcass and dismembering it. even then the quarters were so heavy that their full strength was required to drag them up the bluff and load them into the wagon. the head, with its broad, branching antlers, was all that they could lift to the top of their now bulky load. the task had taken till past four o'clock of that stormy november afternoon. twilight was upon them, the wintry twilight of a snowstorm, before they made start; and it was long past midnight when they finally plodded home. there were corncake and moose venison for thanksgiving dinner. raggedy andy stories [illustration: raggedy andy on a bar] raggedy andy stories introducing the little rag brother of raggedy ann written & illustrated by johnny gruelle [illustration: raggedy andy] little simon new york london toronto sydney [illustration: to marcella's mama] [illustration: raggedy andy bowing] gainsville, florida, january , . johnny gruelle, care of p. f. volland company. chicago, ill. dear johnny: when i saw your raggedy ann books and dolls in a store near here, i went right in and bought one of each, and when i had read your introduction to "raggedy ann" i went right up to an old trunk in my own attic and brought down the doll i am sending you with this letter. this doll belonged to my mother and she played with it when a little girl. she treasured it highly, i know, for she kept it until i came and then she gave it to me. the fun that we two have had together i cannot begin to tell you, but often, like the little boy who went out into the garden to eat worms when all the world seemed blue and clouded, this doll and i went out under the arbor and had our little cry together. i can still feel it's soft rag arms (as i used to imagine) about me, and hear the words of comfort (also imaginary) that were whispered in my ear. as you say in your raggedy ann book, "fairyland must be filled with rag dolls, soft loppy rag dolls who go through all the beautiful adventures found there, nestling in the crook of a dimpled arm." i truly believe there is such a fairyland and that rag dolls were first made there, or how else could they bring so much sunshine into a child's life? [illustration: raggedy ann bowing] all the little girls of my acquaintance have your raggedy ann book and doll, and for the happiness you have brought to them let me give to you the doll of all my dolls, the doll i loved most dearly. may it prove to you a gift from fairyland, bringing with it all the "wish come true" that you may wish and, if possible, add to the sunshine in your life. my mother called the doll raggedy andy and it was by this name that i have always known him. is it any wonder that i was surprised when i saw the title of your book? introduce raggedy andy to raggedy ann, dear johnny. let him share in the happiness of your household. sincerely yours, raggedy andy's "mama." * * * * * wilton, connecticut, january , . dear john: your letter brings many pleasant memories to my mind and takes me back to my childhood. living next door to us, when i was about four years old, was a little girl named bessie; i cannot recall her last name. when my mother made raggedy ann for me, bessie's mother made a rag doll for her, for we two always played together; as i recall, there was no fence between our two houses. bessie's doll was made a day or so after raggedy ann, i think, though i am not quite certain which of the two dolls was made first. however, bessie's doll was given the name of raggedy andy, and one of the two dolls was named after the other, so that their names would sound alike. we children played with the two rag dolls most of the time until bessie's family moved away--when i was eight or nine years old. they had faces just alike; the mother who made the first doll probably painted both doll faces. i do not remember just how raggedy andy was dressed, but i know he often wore dresses over his boy clothes when bessie and i decided that he and raggedy ann should be sisters for the day. you will remember i told you about raggedy andy long ago, john. isn't it strange that the two old rag dolls should come together after all these years? i wish raggedy andy's "mama" had signed her name, for i should like to write to her. perhaps there may be some way of finding her out. anyway, it seems to me you have the subject for another rag doll book, for raggedy andy must have had some wonderful adventures in his long life. yours lovingly, mom. * * * * * contents how raggedy andy came the nursery dance the spinning wheel the taffy pull the rabbit chase the new tin gutter doctor raggedy andy raggedy andy's smile the wooden horse making "angels" in the snow the singing shell [illustration: raggedy ann and books] how raggedy andy came one day daddy took raggedy ann down to his office and propped her up against some books upon his desk; he wanted to have her where he could see her cheery smile all day, for, as you must surely know, smiles and happiness are truly catching. daddy wished to catch a whole lot of raggedy ann's cheeriness and happiness and put all this down on paper, so that those who did not have raggedy ann dolls might see just how happy and smiling a rag doll can be. so raggedy ann stayed at daddy's studio for three or four days. she was missed very, very much at home and marcella really longed for her, but knew that daddy was borrowing some of raggedy ann's sunshine, so she did not complain. raggedy ann did not complain either, for in addition to the sunny, happy smile she always wore (it was painted on), raggedy ann had a candy heart, and of course no one (not even a rag doll) ever complains if they have such happiness about them. one evening, just as daddy was finishing his day's work, a messenger boy came with a package; a nice, soft lumpy package. daddy opened the nice, soft lumpy package and found a letter. gran'ma had told daddy, long before this, that at the time raggedy ann was made, a neighbor lady had made a boy doll, raggedy andy, for her little girl, who always played with gran'ma. and when gran'ma told daddy this she wondered whatever had become of her little playmate and the boy doll, raggedy andy. after reading the letter, daddy opened the other package which had been inside the nice, soft, lumpy package and found--raggedy andy. raggedy andy had been carefully folded up. his soft, loppy arms were folded up in front of him and his soft, loppy legs were folded over his soft, loppy arms, and they were held this way by a rubber band. raggedy andy must have wondered why he was being "done up" this way, but it could not have caused him any worry, for in between where his feet came over his face daddy saw his cheery smile. after slipping off the rubber band, daddy smoothed out the wrinkles in raggedy andy's arms and legs. then daddy propped raggedy ann and raggedy andy up against books on his desk, so that they sat facing each other; raggedy ann's shoe button eyes looking straight into the shoe button eyes of raggedy andy. they could not speak--not right out before a real person--so they just sat there and smiled at each other. daddy could not help reaching out his hands and feeling their throats. yes! there was a lump in raggedy ann's throat, and there was a lump in raggedy andy's throat. a cotton lump, to be sure, but a lump nevertheless. "so, raggedy ann and raggedy andy, that is why you cannot talk, is it?" said daddy. "i will go away and let you have your visit to yourselves, although it is good to sit and share your happiness by watching you." daddy then took the rubber band and placed it around raggedy ann's right hand, and around raggedy andy's right hand, so that when he had it fixed properly they sat and held each other's hands. daddy knew they would wish to tell each other all the wonderful things that had happened to them since they had parted more than fifty years before. so, locking his studio door, daddy left the two old rag dolls looking into each other's eyes. the next morning, when daddy unlocked his door and looked at his desk, he saw that raggedy andy had fallen over so that he lay with his head in the bend of raggedy ann's arm. [illustration: then daddy propped raggedy ann and raggedy andy up] [illustration: side by side] [illustration: dolls in a row] the nursery dance when raggedy andy was first brought to the nursery he was very quiet. raggedy andy did not speak all day, but he smiled pleasantly to all the other dolls. there was raggedy ann, the french doll, henny, the little dutch doll, uncle clem, and a few others. some of the dolls were without arms and legs. one had a cracked head. she was a nice doll, though, and the others all liked her very much. all of them had cried the night susan (that was her name) fell off the toy box and cracked her china head. raggedy andy did not speak all day. but there was really nothing strange about this fact, after all. none of the other dolls spoke all day, either. marcella had played in the nursery all day and of course they did not speak in front of her. marcella thought they did, though, and often had them saying things which they really were not even thinking of. for instance, when marcella served water with sugar in it and little oyster crackers for "tea," raggedy andy was thinking of raggedy ann, and the french doll was thinking of one time when fido was lost. marcella took the french doll's hand, and passed a cup of "tea" to raggedy andy, and said, "mr. raggedy andy, will you have another cup of tea?" as if the french doll was talking. and then marcella answered for raggedy andy, "oh, yes, thank you! it is so delicious!" neither the french doll nor raggedy andy knew what was going on, for they were thinking real hard to themselves. nor did they drink the tea when it was poured for them. marcella drank it instead. perhaps this was just as well, for, most of the dolls were moist inside from the "tea" of the day before. marcella did not always drink all of the tea, often she poured a little down their mouths. sugar and water, if taken in small quantities, would not give the dolls colic, marcella would tell them, but she did not know that it made their cotton, or sawdust insides, quite sticky. quite often, too, marcella forgot to wash their faces after a "tea," and fido would do it for them when he came into the nursery and found the dolls with sweets upon their faces. really, fido was quite a help in this way, but he often missed the corners of their eyes and the backs of their necks where the "tea" would run and get sticky. but he did his best and saved his little mistress a lot of work. no, raggedy andy did not speak; he merely thought a great deal. one can, you know, when one has been a rag doll as long as raggedy andy had. years and years and years and years! even raggedy ann, with all her wisdom, did not really know how long raggedy andy and she had been rag dolls. if raggedy ann had a pencil in her rag hand and marcella guided it for her, raggedy ann could count up to ten--sometimes. but why should one worry one's rag head about one's age when all one's life has been one happy experience after another, with each day filled with love and sunshine? [illustration: raggedy andy in a chair] raggedy andy did not know his age, but he remembered many things that had happened years and years and years ago, when he and raggedy ann were quite young. it was of these pleasant times raggedy andy was thinking all day, and this was the reason he did not notice that marcella was speaking for him. raggedy andy could patiently wait until marcella put all the dollies to bed and left them for the night, alone in the nursery. the day might have passed very slowly had it not been for the happy memories which filled raggedy andy's cotton-stuffed head. but he did not even fidget. of course, he fell out of his chair once, and his shoe button eyes went "click!" against the floor, but it wasn't his fault. raggedy andy was so loppy he could hardly be placed in a chair so that he would stay, and marcella jiggled the table. marcella cried for raggedy andy, "awaa! awaa!" and picked him up and snuggled him and scolded uncle clem for jiggling the table. through all this raggedy andy kept right on thinking his pleasant thoughts, and really did not know he had fallen from the chair. you see how easy it is to pass over the little bumps of life if we are happy inside. and so raggedy andy was quiet all day, and so the day finally passed. raggedy andy was given one of uncle clem's clean white nighties and shared uncle clem's bed. marcella kissed them all good night and left them to sleep until morning. but as soon as she had left the room all the dolls raised up in their beds. when their little mistress' footsteps passed out of hearing, all the dollies jumped out of their beds and gathered around raggedy andy. raggedy ann introduced them one by one and raggedy andy shook hands with each. [illustration: raggedy andy on his face] [illustration: shaking hands] "i am very happy to know you all!" he said, in a voice as kindly as raggedy ann's, "and i hope we will all like each other as much as raggedy ann and i have always liked each other!" "oh, indeed we shall!" the dollies all answered. "we love raggedy ann because she is so kindly and happy, and we know we shall like you too, for you talk like raggedy ann and have the same cheery smile!" "now that we know each other so well, what do you say to a game, uncle clem?" raggedy andy cried, as he caught uncle clem and danced about the floor. henny, the dutch doll, dragged the little square music box out into the center of the room and wound it up. then all, catching hands, danced in a circle around it, laughing and shouting in their tiny doll voices. "that was lots of fun!" raggedy andy said, when the music stopped and all the dolls had taken seats upon the floor facing him. "you know i have been shut up in a trunk up in an attic for years and years and years." "wasn't it very lonesome in the trunk all that time?" susan asked in her queer little cracked voice. you see, her head had been cracked. "oh, not at all," raggedy andy replied, "for there was always a nest of mice down in the corner of the trunk. cute little mama and daddy mice, and lots of little teeny weeny baby mice. and when the mama and daddy mice were away, i used to cuddle the tiny little baby mice!" "no wonder you were never lonesome!" said uncle clem, who was very kind and loved everybody and everything. "no, i was never lonesome in the old trunk in the attic, but it is far more pleasant to be out again and living here with all you nice friends!" said raggedy andy. and all the dolls thought so too, for already they loved raggedy andy's happy smile and knew he would prove to be as kindly and lovable as raggedy ann. [illustration: raggedy andy and a mouse] [illustration: raggedy andy in bed] [illustration: raggedy andy throws a pillow] the spinning wheel one night, after all the household had settled down to sleep, raggedy andy sat up in bed and tickled uncle clem. uncle clem twisted and wiggled in his sleep until finally he could stand it no longer and awakened. "i dreamed that some one told me the funniest story!" said uncle clem; "but i cannot remember what it was!" "i was tickling you!" laughed raggedy andy. when the other dolls in the nursery heard raggedy andy and uncle clem talking, they too sat up in their beds. "we've been so quiet all day," said raggedy andy. "let's have a good romp!" this suggestion suited all the dolls, so they jumped out of their beds and ran over towards raggedy andy's and uncle clem's little bed. raggedy andy, always in for fun, threw his pillow at henny, the dutch doll. henny did not see the pillow coming towards him so he was knocked head over heels. henny always said "mama" when he was tilted backward or forward, and when the pillow rolled him over and over, he cried, "mama, mama, mama!" it was not because it hurt him, for you know santa claus always sees to it that each doll he makes in his great workshop is covered with a very magical wish, and this wish always keeps them from getting hurt. henny could talk just as well as any of the other dolls when he was standing up, sitting, or lying down, but if he was being tipped forward and backward, all he could say was, "mama." this amused henny as much as it did the other dolls, so when he jumped to his feet he laughed and threw the pillow back at raggedy andy. raggedy andy tried to jump to one side, but forgot that he was on the bed, and he and uncle clem went tumbling to the floor. then all the dolls ran to their beds and brought their pillows and had the jolliest pillow fight imaginable. the excitement ran so high and the pillows flew so fast, the floor of the nursery was soon covered with feathers. it was only when all the dolls had stopped to rest and put the feathers back into the pillow cases that raggedy andy discovered he had lost one of his arms in the scuffle. the dolls were worried over this and asked, "what will marcella say when she sees that raggedy andy has lost an arm?" "we can push it up his sleeve!" said uncle clem. "then when raggedy andy is taken out of bed in the morning, marcella will find his arm is loose!" "it has been hanging by one or two threads for a day or more!" said raggedy andy. "i noticed the other day that sometimes my thumb was turned clear around to the back, and i knew then that the arm was hanging by one or two threads and the threads were twisted." uncle clem pushed raggedy andy's arm up through his sleeve, but every time raggedy andy jumped about, he lost his arm again. "this will never do!" said raggedy ann. "raggedy andy is lopsided with only one arm and he cannot join in our games as well as if he had two arms!" [illustration: pillow fight] "oh, i don't mind that!" laughed raggedy andy. "marcella will sew it on in the morning and i will be all right, i'm sure!" "perhaps raggedy ann can sew it on now!" suggested uncle clem. "yes, raggedy ann can sew it on!" all the dolls cried. "she can play peter, peter, pumpkin eater on the toy piano and she can sew!" "i will gladly try," said raggedy ann, "but there are no needles or thread in the nursery, and i have to have a thimble so the needle can be pressed through raggedy andy's cloth!" "marcella always gets a needle from mama!" said the french doll. "i know," said raggedy ann, "but we cannot waken mama to ask her!" the dolls all laughed at this, for they knew very well that even had mama been awake, they would not have asked her for needle and thread, because they did not wish her to know they could act and talk just like real people. "perhaps we can get the things out of the machine drawer!" henny suggested. "yes," cried susan, "let's all go get the things out of the machine drawer! come on, everybody!" and susan, although she had only a cracked head, ran out the nursery door followed by all the rest of the dolls. even the tiny little penny dolls clicked their china heels upon the floor as they followed the rest, and raggedy andy, carrying his loose arm, thumped along in the rear. raggedy andy had not lived in the house as long as the others; so he did not know the way to the room in which the machine stood. after much climbing and pulling, the needle and thread and thimble were taken from the drawer, and all raced back again to the nursery. uncle clem took off raggedy andy's waist, and the other dolls all sat around watching while raggedy ann sewed the arm on again. raggedy ann had only taken two stitches when she began laughing so hard she had to quit. of course when raggedy ann laughed, all the other dolls laughed too, for laughter, like yawning, is very catching. "i was just thinking!" said raggedy ann. "remember, 'way, 'way back, a long, long time ago, i sewed this arm on once before?" she asked raggedy andy. "i do remember, now that you mention it," said raggedy andy, "but i can not remember how the arm came off!" "tell us about it!" all the dolls cried. "let's see!" raggedy ann began. "your mistress left you over at our house one night, and after everyone had gone to bed, we went up into the attic!" "oh, yes! i do remember now!" raggedy andy laughed. "we played with the large whirligig!" "yes," raggedy ann said. "the large spinning wheel. we held on to the wheel and went round and round! and when we were having the most fun, your feet got fastened between the wheel and the rod which held the wheel in position and there you hung, head down!" "i remember, you were working the pedal and i was sailing around very fast," said raggedy andy, "and all of a sudden the wheel stopped!" "we would have laughed at the time," raggedy ann explained to the other dolls, "but you see it was quite serious." "my mistress had put us both to bed for the night, and if she had discovered us 'way up in the attic, she would have wondered how in the world we got there! so there was nothing to do but get raggedy andy out of the tangle!" "but you pulled me out all right!" raggedy andy laughed. "yes, i pulled and i pulled until i pulled one of raggedy andy's arms off," raggedy ann said. "and then i pulled and pulled until finally his feet came out of the wheel and we both tumbled to the floor!" "then we ran downstairs as fast as we could and climbed into bed, didn't we!" raggedy andy laughed. [illustration: raggedy ann sewing] "yes, we did!" raggedy ann replied. "and when we jumped into bed, we remembered that we had left raggedy andy's arm lying up on the attic floor, so we had to run back up there and get it! remember, raggedy andy?" "yes! wasn't it lots of fun?" "indeed it was!" raggedy ann agreed. "raggedy andy wanted to let the arm remain off until the next morning, but i decided it would be better to have it sewed on, just as it had been when mistress put us to bed. so, just like tonight, we went to the pincushion and found a needle and thread and i sewed it on for him!" "there!" raggedy ann said, as she wound the thread around her hand and pulled, so that the thread broke near raggedy andy's shoulder. "it's sewed on again, good as new!" "thank you, raggedy ann!" said raggedy andy, as he threw the arm about raggedy ann's neck and gave her a hug. "now we can have another game!" uncle clem cried as he helped raggedy andy into his waist and buttoned it for him. just then the little cuckoo clock on the nursery wall went, "whirrr!" the little door opened, and the little bird put out his head and cried, "cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo!" "no more games!" raggedy ann said. "we must be very quiet from now on. the folks will be getting up soon!" "last one in bed is a monkey!" cried raggedy andy. there was a wild scramble as the dolls rushed for their beds, and susan, having to be careful of her cracked head, was the monkey. so raggedy andy, seeing that susan was slow about getting into her bed, jumped out and helped her. then, climbing into the little bed which uncle clem shared with him, he pulled the covers up to his eyes and, after pretending to snore a couple of times, he lay very quiet, thinking of the kindness of his doll friends about him, until marcella came and took him down to breakfast. and all the other dolls smiled at him as he left the room, for they were very happy to know that their little mistress loved him as much as they did. [illustration: watching the cuckoo clock] [illustration: friends] [illustration: raggedy andy in the sugar] the taffy pull "i know how we can have a whole lot of fun!" raggedy andy said to the other dolls. "we'll have a taffy pull!" "do you mean crack the whip, raggedy andy?" asked the french doll. "he means a tug of war, don't you, raggedy andy?" asked henny. "no," raggedy andy replied, "i mean a taffy pull!" "if it's lots of fun, then show us how to play the game!" uncle clem said. "we like to have fun, don't we?" and uncle clem turned to all the other dolls as he asked the question. "it really is not a game," raggedy andy explained. "you see, it is only a taffy pull. "we take sugar and water and butter and a little vinegar and put it all on the stove to cook. when it has cooked until it strings 'way out when you dip some up in a spoon, or gets hard when you drop some of it in a cup of water, then it is candy. "then it must be placed upon buttered plates until it has cooled a little, and then each one takes some of the candy and pulls and pulls until it gets real white. then it is called 'taffy'." "that will be loads of fun!" "show us how to begin!" "let's have a taffy pull!" "come on, everybody!" the dolls cried. "just one moment!" raggedy ann said. she had remained quiet before, for she had been thinking very hard, so hard, in fact, that two stitches had burst in the back of her rag head. the dolls, in their eagerness to have the taffy pull, were dancing about raggedy andy, but when raggedy ann spoke, in her soft cottony voice, they all quieted down and waited for her to speak again. "i was just thinking," raggedy ann said, "that it would be very nice to have the taffy pull, but suppose some of the folks smell the candy while it is cooking." "there is no one at home!" raggedy andy said. "i thought of that, raggedy ann. they have all gone over to cousin jenny's house and will not be back until day after tomorrow. i heard mama tell marcella." "if that is the case, we can have the taffy pull and all the fun that goes with it!" raggedy ann cried, as she started for the nursery door. after her ran all the dollies, their little feet pitter-patting across the floor and down the hall. when they came to the stairway raggedy ann, raggedy andy, uncle clem and henny threw themselves down the stairs, turning over and over as they fell. the other dolls, having china heads, had to be much more careful; so they slid down the banisters, or jumped from one step to another. raggedy ann, raggedy andy, uncle clem and henny piled in a heap at the bottom of the steps, and by the time they had untangled themselves and helped each other up, the other dolls were down the stairs. to the kitchen they all raced. there they found the fire in the stove still burning. raggedy andy brought a small stew kettle, while the others brought the sugar and water and a large spoon. they could not find the vinegar and decided not to use it, anyway. [illustration: they threw themselves down the stairs] raggedy andy stood upon the stove and watched the candy, dipping into it every once in a while to see if it had cooked long enough, and stirring it with the large spoon. at last the candy began to string out from the spoon when it was held above the stew kettle, and after trying a few drops in a cup of cold water, raggedy andy pronounced it "done." uncle clem pulled out a large platter from the pantry, and raggedy ann dipped her rag hand into the butter jar and buttered the platter. the candy, when it was poured into the platter, was a lovely golden color and smelled delicious to the dolls. henny could not wait until it cooled; so he put one of his chamois skin hands into the hot candy. of course it did not burn henny, but when he pulled his hand out again, it was covered with a great ball of candy, which strung out all over the kitchen floor and got upon his clothes. then too, the candy cooled quickly, and in a very short time henny's hand was encased in a hard ball of candy. henny couldn't wiggle any of his fingers on that hand and he was sorry he had been so hasty. while waiting for the candy to cool, raggedy andy said, "we must rub butter upon our hands before we pull the candy, or else it will stick to our hands as it has done to henny's hands and have to wear off!" "will this hard ball of candy have to wear off of my hand?" henny asked. "it is so hard, i cannot wiggle any of my fingers!" "it will either have to wear off, or you will have to soak your hand in water for a long time, until the candy on it melts!" said raggedy andy. "dear me!" said henny. uncle clem brought the poker then and, asking henny to put his hand upon the stove leg, he gave the hard candy a few sharp taps with the poker and chipped the candy from henny's hand. "thank you, uncle clem!" henny said, as he wiggled his fingers. "that feels much better!" raggedy andy told all the dolls to rub butter upon their hands. "the candy is getting cool enough to pull!" he said. then, when all the dolls had their hands nice and buttery, raggedy andy cut them each a nice piece of candy and showed them how to pull it. "take it in one hand this way," he said, "and pull it with the other hand, like this!" when all the dolls were supplied with candy they sat about and pulled it, watching it grow whiter and more silvery the longer they pulled. then, when the taffy was real white, it began to grow harder and harder, so the smaller dolls could scarcely pull it any more. when this happened, raggedy andy, raggedy ann, uncle clem and henny, who were larger, took the little dolls' candy and mixed it with what they had been pulling until all the taffy was snow white. [illustration: the taffy pull] then raggedy andy pulled it out into a long rope and held it while uncle clem hit the ends a sharp tap with the edge of the spoon. this snipped the taffy into small pieces, just as easily as you might break icicles with a few sharp taps of a stick. the small pieces of white taffy were placed upon the buttered platter again and the dolls all danced about it, singing and laughing, for this had been the most fun they had had for a long, long time. "but what shall we do with it?" raggedy ann asked. "yes, what shall we do with it!" uncle clem said. "we can't let it remain in the platter here upon the kitchen floor! we must hide it, or do something with it!" "while we are trying to think of a way to dispose of it, let us be washing the stew kettle and the spoon!" said practical raggedy ann. "that is a very happy thought, raggedy ann!" said raggedy andy. "for it will clean the butter and candy from our hands while we are doing it!" so the stew kettle was dragged to the sink and filled with water, the dolls all taking turns scraping the candy from the sides of the kettle, and scrubbing the inside with a cloth. when the kettle was nice and clean and had been wiped dry, raggedy andy found a roll of waxed paper in the pantry upon one of the shelves. "we'll wrap each piece of taffy in a nice little piece of paper," he said, "then we'll find a nice paper bag, and put all the pieces inside the bag, and throw it from the upstairs window when someone passes the house so that someone may have the candy!" all the dolls gathered about the platter on the floor, and while raggedy andy cut the paper into neat squares, the dolls wrapped the taffy in the papers. then the taffy was put into a large bag, and with much pulling and tugging it was finally dragged up into the nursery, where a window faced out toward the street. then, just as a little boy and a little girl, who looked as though they did not ever have much candy, passed the house, the dolls all gave a push and sent the bag tumbling to the sidewalk. the two children laughed and shouted, "thank you," when they saw that the bag contained candy, and the dolls, peeping from behind the lace curtains, watched the two happy faced children eating the taffy as they skipped down the street. when the children had passed out of sight, the dolls climbed down from the window. "that was lots of fun!" said the french doll, as she smoothed her skirts and sat down beside raggedy andy. "i believe raggedy andy must have a candy heart too, like raggedy ann!" said uncle clem. "no!" raggedy andy answered, "i'm just stuffed with white cotton and i have no candy heart, but some day perhaps i shall have!" "a candy heart is very nice!" raggedy ann said. (you know, she had one.) "but one can be just as nice and happy and full of sunshine without a candy heart." "i almost forgot to tell you," said raggedy andy, "that when pieces of taffy are wrapped in little pieces of paper, just as we wrapped them, they are called 'kisses'." [illustration: all sitting together] [illustration: fido in a basket] [illustration: raggedy andy and fido] the rabbit chase "well, what shall we play tonight?" asked henny, the dutch doll, when the house was quiet and the dolls all knew that no one else was awake. raggedy andy was just about to suggest a good game, when fido, who sometimes slept in a basket in the nursery, growled. all the dollies looked in his direction. fido was standing up with his ears sticking as straight in the air as loppy silken puppy dog ears can stick up. "he must have been dreaming!" said raggedy andy. "no, i wasn't dreaming!" fido answered. "i heard something go, 'scratch! scratch!' as plain as i hear you!" "where did the sound come from, fido?" raggedy andy asked when he saw that fido really was wide awake. "from outside somewhere!" fido answered. "and if i could get out without disturbing all the folks, i'd run out and see what it might be! perhaps i had better bark!" "please do not bark!" raggedy andy cried as he put his rag arm around fido's nose. "you will awaken everybody in the house. we can open a door or a window for you and let you out, if you must go!" "i wish you would. listen! there it is again: 'scratch! scratch!' what can it be?" "you may soon see!" said raggedy andy. "we'll let you out, but please don't sit at the door and bark and bark to get back in again, as you usually do, for we are going to play a good game and we may not hear you!" "you can sleep out in the shed after you have found out what it is," said raggedy andy. as soon as the dolls opened the door for fido, he went running across the lawn, barking in a loud shrill voice. he ran down behind the shed and through the garden, and then back towards the house again. raggedy andy and uncle clem stood looking out of the door, the rest of the dolls peeping over their shoulders, so when something came jumping through the door, it hit uncle clem and raggedy andy and sent them flying against the other dolls behind them. all the dolls went down in a wiggling heap on the floor. it was surprising that the noise and confusion did not waken daddy and the rest of the folks, for just as the dolls were untangling themselves from each other and getting upon their feet, fido came jumping through the door and sent the dolls tumbling again. fido quit barking when he came through the door. "which way did he go?" he asked, when he could get his breath. "what was it?" raggedy andy asked in return. "it was a rabbit!" fido cried. "he ran right in here, for i could smell his tracks!" "we could feel him!" raggedy andy laughed. "i could not tell you which way he went!" uncle clem said, "except i feel sure he came through the door and into the house!" none of the dolls knew into which room the rabbit had run. finally, after much sniffing, fido traced the rabbit to the nursery, where, when the dolls followed, they saw the rabbit crouching behind the rocking horse. [illustration: looking out of the door] [illustration: raggedy andy and the rabbit] fido whined and cried because he could not get to the rabbit and bite him. "you should be ashamed of yourself, fido!" cried raggedy ann. "just see how the poor bunny is trembling!" "he should not come scratching around our house if he doesn't care to be chased!" said fido. "why don't you stay out in the woods and fields where you really belong?" raggedy andy asked the rabbit. "i came to leave some easter eggs!" the bunny answered in a queer little quavery voice. "an easter bunny!" all the dolls cried, jumping about and clapping their hands. "an easter bunny!" "well!" was all fido could say, as he sat down and began wagging his tail. "you may come out from behind the rocking horse now, easter bunny!" said raggedy andy. "fido will not hurt you, now that he knows, will you, fido?" "indeed i won't!" fido replied. "i'm sorry that i chased you! and i remember now, i had to jump over a basket out by the shed! was that yours?" "yes, it was full of easter eggs and colored grasses for the little girl who lives here!" the bunny said. when the easter bunny found out that fido and the dolls were his friends, he came out from behind the rocking horse and hopped across the floor to the door. "i must go see if any of the eggs are broken, for if they are, i will have to run home and color some more! i was just about to make a nice nest and put the eggs in it when fido came bouncing out at me!" and with a squeeky little laugh the easter bunny, followed by fido and all the dolls, hopped across the lawn towards the shed. there they found the basket. four of the lovely colored easter eggs were broken. "i will run home and color four more. it will only take a few minutes, so when i return and scratch again to make a nest, please do not bark at me!" said the easter bunny. [illustration: the easter bunny] "i won't! i promise!" fido laughed. "may we go with you and watch you color the easter eggs?" raggedy andy begged. "indeed you may!" the easter bunny answered. "can you run fast?" then down through the garden and out through a crack in the fence the easter bunny hopped, with a long string of dolls trailing behind. when they came to the easter bunny's home, they found mama easter bunny and a lot of little teeny weeny bunnies who would some day grow up to be big easter bunnies like their mama and daddy bunny. the easter bunny told them of his adventure with fido, and all joined in his laughter when they found it had turned out well at the end. the easter bunny put four eggs on to boil and while these were boiling he mixed up a lot of pretty colors. when the eggs were boiled, he dipped the four eggs into the pretty colored dye and then painted lovely flowers on them. when the easter bunny had finished painting the eggs he put them in his basket and, with all the dolls running along beside him, they returned to the house. "why not make the nest right in the nursery?" raggedy andy asked. "that would be just the thing! then the little girl would wonder and wonder how i could ever get into the nursery without awakening the rest of the folks, for she will never suspect that you dolls and fido let me in!" so with raggedy andy leading the way, they ran up to the nursery and there, 'way back in a corner, they watched the easter bunny make a lovely nest and put the easter eggs in it. and in the morning when marcella came in to see the dolls you can imagine her surprise when she found the pretty gift of the easter bunny. "how in the world did the bunny get inside the house and into this room without awakening fido?" she laughed. and fido, pretending to be asleep, slowly opened one eye and winked over the edge of his basket at raggedy andy. and raggedy andy smiled back at fido, but never said a word. [illustration: how did the bunny get into this room?] [illustration: looking out the window] [illustration: raggedy andy under the quilt] the new tin gutter all day saturday the men had worked out upon the eaves of the house and the dolls facing the window could see them. the men made quite a lot of noise with their hammers, for they were putting new gutters around the eaves, and pounding upon tin makes a great deal of noise. marcella had not played with the dolls all that day, for she had gone visiting; so when the men hammered and made a lot of noise, the dolls could talk to each other without fear of anyone hearing or knowing they were really talking to each other. "what are they doing now?" raggedy andy asked. he was lying with his head beneath a little bed quilt, just as marcella had dropped him when she left the nursery; so he could not see what was going on. "we can only see the men's legs as they pass the window," answered uncle clem. "but they are putting new shingles or something on the roof!" after the men had left their work and gone home to supper and the house was quiet, raggedy andy cautiously moved his head out from under the little bed quilt and, seeing that the coast was clear, sat up. this was a signal for all the dolls to sit up and smooth out the wrinkles in their clothes. [illustration: lifting the penny dolls] the nursery window was open; so raggedy andy lifted the penny dolls to the sill and climbed up beside them. leaning out, he could look along the new shiny tin gutter the men had put in place. "here's a grand place to have a lovely slide!" he said as he gave one of the penny dolls a scoot down the shiny tin gutter. "whee! see her go!" raggedy andy cried. all the other dolls climbed upon the window sill beside him. "scoot me too!" cried the other little penny doll in her squeeky little voice, and raggedy andy took her in his rag hand and gave her a great swing which sent her scooting down the shiny tin gutter, "kerswish!" then raggedy andy climbed into the gutter himself and, taking a few steps, spread out his feet and went scooting down the shiny tin. the other dolls followed his example and scooted along behind him. when raggedy andy came to the place where he expected to find the penny dolls lying, they were nowhere about. "perhaps you scooted them farther than you thought!" uncle clem said. "perhaps i did!" raggedy andy said, "we will look around the bend in the eave!" "oh dear!" he exclaimed when he had peeped around the corner of the roof, "the gutter ends here and there is nothing but a hole!" "they must have scooted right into the hole," henny, the dutch doll said. raggedy andy lay flat upon the shiny tin and looked down into the hole. "are you down there, penny dolls?" he called. there was no answer. "i hope their heads were not broken!" raggedy ann said. [illustration: in the gutter] "i'm so sorry i scooted them!" raggedy andy cried, as he brushed his hand over his shoe button eyes. "maybe if you hold to my feet, i can reach down the hole and find them and pull them up again!" he added. uncle clem and henny each caught hold of a foot of raggedy andy and let him slide down into the hole. it was a rather tight fit, but raggedy andy wiggled and twisted until all the dolls could see of him were his two feet. "i can't find them!" he said in muffled tones. "let me down farther and i think i'll be able to reach them!" now henny and uncle clem thought that raggedy andy meant for them to let go of his feet and this they did. raggedy andy kept wiggling and twisting until he came to a bend in the pipe and could go no farther. "i can't find them!" he cried. "they have gone farther down the pipe! now you can pull me up!" "we can't reach you, raggedy andy!" uncle clem called down the pipe. "try to wiggle back up a piece and we will catch your feet and pull you up!" raggedy andy tried to wiggle backward up the pipe, but his clothes caught upon a little piece of tin which stuck out from the inside of the pipe and there he stayed. he could neither go down nor come back up. "what shall we do?" uncle clem cried, "the folks will never find him down there, for we can not tell them where he is, and they will never guess it!" the dolls were all very sad. they stayed out upon the shiny new tin gutter until it began raining and hoped and hoped that raggedy andy could get back up to them. then they went inside the nursery and sat looking out the window until it was time for the folks to get up and the house to be astir. then they went back to the position each had been in, when marcella had left them. and although they were very quiet, each one was so sorry to lose raggedy andy, and each felt that he would never be found again. [illustration: down the spout] "the rain must have soaked his cotton through and through!" sighed raggedy ann. "for all the water from the house runs down the shiny tin gutters and down the pipe into a rain barrel at the bottom!" then raggedy ann remembered that there was an opening at the bottom of the pipe. "tomorrow night if we have a chance, we dolls must take a stick and see if we can reach raggedy andy from the bottom of the pipe and pull him down to us!" she thought. marcella came up to the nursery and played all day, watching the rain patter upon the new tin gutter. she wondered where raggedy andy was, although she did not get worried about him until she had asked mama where he might be. "he must be just where you left him!" mama said. "i cannot remember where i left him!" marcella said. "i thought he was with all the other dolls in the nursery, though!" all day sunday it rained and all of sunday night, and monday morning when daddy started to work it was still raining. as daddy walked out of the front gate, he turned to wave good-bye to mama and marcella and then he saw something. daddy came right back into the house and called up the men who had put in the new shiny tin gutters. "the drain pipe is plugged up. some of you must have left shavings or something in the eaves, and it has washed down into the pipe, so that the water pours over the gutter in sheets!" "we will send a man right up to fix it!" the men said. so along about ten o'clock that morning one of the men came to fix the pipe. but although he punched a long pole down the pipe, and punched and punched, he could not dislodge whatever it was which plugged the pipe and kept the water from running through it. [illustration: raggedy ann and the dolls] [illustration: the man finds raggedy andy] then the man measured with his stick, so that he knew just where the place was, and with a pair of tin shears he cut a section from the pipe and found raggedy andy. raggedy andy was punched quite out of shape and all jammed together, but when the man straightened out the funny little figure, raggedy andy looked up at him with his customary happy smile. the man laughed and carried little water-soaked raggedy andy into the house. "i guess your little girl must have dropped this rag doll down into the drain pipe!" the man said to mama. "i'm so glad you found him!" mama said to the man. "we have hunted all over the house for him! marcella could not remember where she put him; so when i get him nice and dry, i'll hide him in a nice easy place for her to find, and she will not know he has been out in the rain all night!" so mama put raggedy andy behind the radiator and there he sat all afternoon, steaming and drying out. and as he sat there he smiled and smiled, even though there was no one to see him. he felt very happy within and he liked to smile, anyway, because his smile was painted on. and another reason raggedy andy smiled was because he was not lonesome. inside his waist were the two little penny dolls. the man had punched raggedy andy farther down into the pipe, and he had been able to reach the two little dolls and tuck them into a safe place. "won't they all be surprised to see us back again!" raggedy andy whispered as he patted the two little penny dolls with his soft rag hands. and the two little penny dolls nestled against raggedy andy's soft cotton stuffed body, and thought how nice it was to have such a happy, sunny friend. [illustration: raggedy andy sitting] [illustration: medicine] [illustration: four dolls] doctor raggedy andy raggedy andy, raggedy ann, uncle clem and henny were not given medicine. because, you see, they had no mouths. that is, mouths through which medicine could be poured. their mouths were either painted on, or were sewed on with yarn. sometimes the medicine spoon would be touched to their faces but none of the liquid be given them. except accidentally. but the french doll had a lovely mouth for taking medicine; it was open and showed her teeth in a dimpling smile. she also had soft brown eyes which opened and closed when she was tilted backward or forward. the medicine which was given the dolls had great curing properties. it would cure the most stubborn case of croup, measles, whooping cough or any other ailment the dolls had wished upon them by their little mistress. some days all the dolls would be put to bed with "measles" but in the course of half an hour they would have every other ailment in the doctor book. the dolls enjoyed it very much, for, you see, marcella always tried the medicine first to see if it was strong enough before she gave any to the dolls. [illustration: bandaged up] so the dolls really did not get as much of the medicine as their little mistress. the wonderful remedy was made from a very old recipe handed down from ancient times. this recipe is guaranteed to cure every ill a doll may have. the medicine was made from brown sugar and water. perhaps you may have used it for your dollies. the medicine was also used as "tea" and "soda water," except when the dolls were supposed to be ill. having nothing but painted or yarn mouths, the ailments of raggedy andy, raggedy ann, uncle clem and henny, the dutch doll, mostly consisted of sprained wrists, arms and legs, or perhaps a headache and a toothache. none of them knew they had the trouble until marcella had wrapped up the "injured" rag arm, leg or head, and had explained in detail just what was the matter. raggedy andy, raggedy ann, uncle clem, or henny were just as happy with their heads tied up for the toothache as they were without their heads tied up. not having teeth, naturally they could not have the toothache, and if they could furnish amusement for marcella by having her pretend they had the toothache, then that made them very happy. so this day, the french doll was quite ill. she started out with the "croup," and went through the "measles," "whooping cough," and "yellow fever" in an hour. the attack came on quite suddenly. the french doll was sitting quietly in one of the little red chairs, smiling the prettiest of dimpling smiles at raggedy andy, and thinking of the romp the dolls would have that night after the house grew quiet, when marcella discovered that the french doll had the "croup" and put her to bed. the french doll closed her eyes when put to bed, but the rest of her face did not change expression. she still wore her happy smile. [illustration: marcella caring for the sick] marcella mixed the medicine very "strong" and poured it into the french doll's open mouth. she was given a "dose" every minute or so. it was during the "yellow fever" stage that marcella was called to supper and left the dolls in the nursery alone. marcella did not play with them again that evening; so the dolls all remained in the same position until marcella and the rest of the folks went to bed. then raggedy andy jumped from his chair and wound up the little music box. "let's start with a lively dance!" he cried. when the music started tinkling he caught the french doll's hand, and danced 'way across the nursery floor before he discovered that her soft brown eyes remained closed as they were when she lay upon the "sick" bed. all the dolls gathered around raggedy andy and the french doll. "i can't open my eyes!" she said. raggedy andy tried to open the french doll's eyes with his soft rag hands, but it was no use. they shook her. this sometimes has the desired effect when dolls do not open their eyes. they shook her again and again. it was no use, her eyes remained closed. "it must be the sticky, sugary 'medicine'!" said uncle clem. "i really believe it must be!" the french doll replied. "the 'medicine' seemed to settle in the back of my head when i was lying down, and i can still feel it back there!" "that must be it, and now it has hardened and keeps your pretty eyes from working!" said raggedy ann. "what shall we do?" raggedy andy and raggedy ann walked over to a corner of the nursery and thought and thought. they pulled their foreheads down into wrinkles with their hands, so that they might think harder. [illustration: raggedy andy winds the music box] finally raggedy ann cried, "i've thought of a plan!" and went skipping from the corner out to where the other dolls sat about the french doll. "we must stand her upon her head, then the 'medicine' will run up into her hair, for there is a hole in the top of her head. i remember seeing it when her hair came off one time!" "no sooner said than done!" cried uncle clem, as he took the french doll by the waist and stood her upon her head. "that should be long enough!" raggedy ann said, when uncle clem had held the french doll in this position for five minutes. but when the french doll was again placed upon her feet her eyes still remained tightly closed. all this time, raggedy andy had remained in the corner, thinking as hard as his rag head would think. he thought and thought, until the yarn hair upon his head stood up in the air and wiggled. "if the 'medicine' did not run up into her hair when she stood upon her head," thought raggedy andy, "then it is because the 'medicine' could not run; so, if the medicine can not run, it is because it is too sticky and thick to run out the hole in the top of her head." he also thought a lot more. at last he turned to the others and said out loud, "i can't seem to think of a single way to help her open her eyes unless we take off her hair and wash the medicine from inside her china head." "why didn't i think of that?" raggedy ann asked. "that is just the way we shall have to do!" so raggedy ann caught hold of the french doll's feet, and raggedy andy caught hold of the french doll's lively curls, and they pulled and they pulled. then the other dolls caught hold of raggedy ann and raggedy andy and pulled and pulled, until finally, with a sharp "r-r-rip!" the french doll's hair came off, and the dolls who were pulling went tumbling over backwards. [illustration: shaking the french doll upside down] [illustration: hole in her head] laughingly they scrambled to their feet and sat the french doll up, so they might look into the hole in the top of her head. yes, the sticky "medicine" had grown hard and would not let the french doll's eyes open. raggedy andy put his hand inside and pushed on the eyes so that they opened. this was all right, only now the eyes would not close when the french doll lay down. she tried it. so raggedy andy ran down into the kitchen and brought up a small tin cup full of warm water and a tiny rag. with these he loosened the sticky "medicine" and washed the inside of the french doll's head nice and clean. there were lots of cooky and cracker crumbs inside her head, too. raggedy andy washed it all nice and clean, and then wet the glue which made the pretty curls stay on. so when her hair was placed upon her head again, the french doll was as good as new. "thank you all very much!" she said, as she tilted backwards and forwards, and found that her eyes worked very easily. raggedy andy again wound up the little music box and, catching the french doll about the waist, started a rollicking dance which lasted until the roosters in the neighborhood began their morning crowing. then, knowing the folks might soon be astir, the dolls left off their playing, and all took the same positions they had been in when marcella left them the night before. and so marcella found them. the french doll was in bed with her eyes closed, and her happy dimpling smile lighting up her pretty face. and to this day, the dollies' little mistress does not know that raggedy andy was the doctor who cured the french doll of her only ill. [illustration: raggedy andy dancing with the french doll] [illustration: dickie and raggedy andy] [illustration: where is raggedy andy's smile?] raggedy andy's smile raggedy andy's smile was gone. not entirely, but enough so that it made his face seem onesided. if one viewed raggedy andy from the left side, one could see his smile. but if one looked at raggedy andy from the right side, one could not see his smile. so raggedy andy's smile was gone. it really was not raggedy andy's fault. he felt just as happy and sunny as ever. and perhaps would not have known the difference had not the other dolls told him he had only one half of his cheery smile left. nor was it marcella's fault. how was she to know that dickie would feed raggedy andy orange juice and take off most of his smile? and besides taking off one half of raggedy andy's smile, the orange juice left a great brown stain upon his face. marcella was very sorry when she saw what dickie had done. dickie would have been sorry, too, if he had been more than two years old, but when one is only two years old, he has very few sorrows. dickie's only sorrow was that raggedy andy was taken from him, and he could not feed raggedy andy more orange juice. marcella kissed raggedy andy more than she did the rest of the dolls that night, when she put them to bed, and this made all the dolls very happy. it always gave them great pleasure when any of their number was hugged and kissed, for there was not a selfish doll among them. marcella hung up a tiny stocking for each of the dollies, and placed a tiny little china dish for each of the penny dolls beside their little spool box bed. for, as you probably have guessed, it was christmas eve, and marcella was in hopes santa claus would see the tiny stockings and place something in them for each dollie. then when the house was very quiet, the french doll told raggedy andy that most of his smile was gone. "indeed!" said raggedy andy. "i can still feel it! it must be there!" "oh, but it really is gone!" uncle clem said. "it was the orange juice!" "well, i still feel just as happy," said raggedy andy, "so let's have a jolly game of some sort! what shall it be?" "perhaps we had best try to wash your face!" said practical raggedy ann. she always acted as a mother to the other dolls when they were alone. "it will not do a bit of good!" the french doll told raggedy ann, "for i remember i had orange juice spilled upon a nice white frock i had one time, and the stain would never come out!" "that is too bad!" henny, the dutch doll, said. "we shall miss raggedy andy's cheery smile when he is looking straight at us!" "you will have to stand on my right side, when you wish to see my smile!" said raggedy andy, with a cheery little chuckle 'way down in his soft cotton inside. [illustration: raggedy andy's lopsided smile] [illustration: santa] "but i wish everyone to understand," he went on, "that i am smiling just the same, whether you can see it or not!" and with this, raggedy andy caught hold of uncle clem and henny, and made a dash for the nursery door, followed by all the other dolls. raggedy andy intended jumping down the stairs, head over heels, for he knew that neither he, uncle clem nor henny would break anything by jumping down stairs. but just as they got almost to the door, they dropped to the floor in a heap, for there, standing watching the whole performance, was a man. all the dolls fell in different attitudes, for it would never do for them to let a real person see that they could act and talk just like real people. raggedy andy, uncle clem and henny stopped so suddenly they fell over each other and raggedy andy, being in the lead and pulling the other two, slid right through the door and stopped at the feet of the man. a cheery laugh greeted this and a chubby hand reached down and picked up raggedy andy and turned him over. raggedy andy looked up into a cheery little round face, with a little red nose and red cheeks, and all framed in white whiskers which looked just like snow. then the little round man walked into the nursery and picked up all the dolls and looked at them. he made no noise when he walked, and this was why he had taken the dolls by surprise at the head of the stairs. the little man with the snow-white whiskers placed all the dolls in a row and from a little case in his pocket he took a tiny bottle and a little brush. he dipped the little brush in the tiny bottle and touched all the dolls' faces with it. he had purposely saved raggedy andy's face until the last. then, as all the dolls watched, the cheery little white-whiskered man touched raggedy andy's face with the magic liquid, and the orange juice stain disappeared, and in its place came raggedy andy's rosy cheeks and cheery smile. [illustration: santa repairs raggedy andy] and, turning raggedy andy so that he could face all the other dolls, the cheery little man showed him that all the other dolls had new rosy cheeks and newly-painted faces. they all looked just like new dollies. even susan's cracked head had been made whole. henny, the dutch doll, was so surprised he fell over backward and said, "squeek!" when the cheery little man with the white whiskers heard this, he picked henny up and touched him with the paint brush in the center of the back, just above the place where henny had the little mechanism which made him say "mama" when he was new. and when the little man touched henny and tipped him forward and backward, henny was just as good as new and said "mama" very prettily. then the little man put something in each of the tiny doll stockings, and something in each of the little china plates for the two penny dolls. then, as quietly as he had entered, he left, merely turning at the door and shaking his finger at the dolls in a cheery, mischievous manner. raggedy andy heard him chuckling to himself as he went down the stairs. raggedy andy tiptoed to the door and over to the head of the stairs. then he motioned for the other dolls to come. there, from the head of the stairs, they watched the cheery little white-whiskered man take pretty things from a large sack and place them about the chimneyplace. "he does not know that we are watching him," the dolls all thought, but when the little man had finished his task, he turned quickly and laughed right up at the dolls, for he had known that they were watching him all the time. then, again shaking his finger at them in his cheery manner, the little white-whiskered man swung the sack to his shoulder, and with a whistle such as the wind makes when it plays through the chinks of a window, he was gone--up the chimney. the dolls were very quiet as they walked back into the nursery and sat down to think it all over, and as they sat there thinking, they heard out in the night the "tinkle, tinkle, tinkle" of tiny sleigh bells, growing fainter and fainter as they disappeared in the distance. without a word, but filled with a happy wonder, the dolls climbed into their beds, just as marcella had left them, and pulled the covers up to their chins. and raggedy andy lay there, his little shoe button eyes looking straight towards the ceiling and smiling a joyful smile--not a "half smile" this time, but a "full size smile." [illustration: raggedy andy smiling a joyful smile] [illustration: raggedy andy and the wooden horse] [illustration: santa leaves the wooden horse] the wooden horse santa claus left a whole lot of toys. a wooden horse, covered with canton flannel and touched lightly with a paint brush dipped in black paint to give him a dappled gray appearance, was one of the presents. with the wooden horse came a beautiful red wagon with four yellow wheels. my! the paint was pretty and shiny. the wooden horse was hitched to the wagon with a patent leather harness; and he, himself, stood proudly upon a red platform running on four little nickel wheels. it was true that the wooden horse's eyes were as far apart as a camel's and made him look quite like one when viewed from in front, but he had soft leather ears and a silken mane and tail. he was nice to look upon, was the wooden horse. all the dolls patted him and smoothed his silken mane and felt his shiny patent leather harness the first night they were alone with him in the nursery. the wooden horse had a queer voice; the dolls could hardly understand him at first, but when his bashfulness wore off, he talked quite plainly. "it is the first time i have ever tried to talk," he explained when he became acquainted, "and i guess i was talking down in my stomach instead of my head!" "you will like it here in the nursery very much!" said raggedy andy. "we have such jolly times and love each other so much i know you will enjoy your new home!" "i am sure i shall!" the wooden horse answered. "where i came from, we--the other horses and myself--just stood silently upon the shelves and looked and looked straight ahead, and never so much as moved our tails." "see if you can move your tail now!" henny, the dutch doll, suggested. the wooden horse started to roll across the nursery floor and if raggedy ann had not been in the way, he might have bumped into the wall. as it was, the wooden horse rolled against raggedy ann and upset her but could go no further when his wheels ran against her rag foot. when the wooden horse upset raggedy ann, he stood still until uncle clem and henny and raggedy andy lifted him off raggedy ann's feet. "did i frisk my tail?" he asked when raggedy ann stood up and smoothed her apron. "try it again!" said raggedy ann. "i couldn't see!" she laughed her cheery rag doll laugh, for raggedy ann, no matter what happened, never lost her temper. the wooden horse started rolling backward at this and knocked henny over upon his back, causing him to cry "mama!" in his squeeky voice. uncle clem, raggedy ann, and the tin soldier all held to the wooden horse and managed to stop him just as he was backing out of the nursery door towards the head of the stairs. then the dolls pulled the wooden horse back to the center of the room. "it's funny" he said, "that i start moving backward or forward when i try to frisk my tail!" "i believe it is because you have stood so long upon the shelf without moving," raggedy andy suggested. "suppose you try moving forward!" uncle clem, who was standing in front of the wooden horse, jumped to one side so hastily his feet slipped out from under him, just as if he had been sliding upon slippery ice. [illustration: the wooden horse rolled over raggedy ann's foot] [illustration: the wooden horse and the dolls] the wooden horse did not start moving forward as uncle clem had expected; instead, his silken tail frisked gaily up over his back. "whee! there, you frisked your tail!" cried all the dolls as joyfully as if the wooden horse had done something truly wonderful. "it's easy now!" said the wooden horse. "when i wish to go forward or backward i'll try to frisk my tail and then i'll roll along on my shiny wheels; then when i wish to frisk my tail i'll try to roll forward or backward, like this!" but instead of rolling forward, the wooden horse frisked his tail. "i wanted to frisk my tail then!" he said in surprise. "now i'll roll forward!" and sure enough, the wooden horse rolled across the nursery floor. when he started rolling upon his shiny wheels, raggedy andy cried, "all aboard!" and, taking a short run, he leaped upon the wooden horse's back. uncle clem, raggedy ann, henny, the dutch doll and susan, the doll without a head, all scrambled up into the pretty red wagon. the wooden horse thought this was great fun and round and round the nursery he circled. his shiny wheels and the pretty yellow wheels of the red wagon creaked so loudly none of the dolls heard the cries of the tiny penny dolls who were too small to climb aboard. finally, as the wagon load of dolls passed the penny dolls, raggedy andy noticed the two little midgets standing together and missing the fun; so, leaning 'way over to one side as the horse swept by them, raggedy andy caught both the penny dolls in his strong rag arms and lifted them to a seat upon the broad back of the wooden horse. "hooray!" cried all the dolls when they saw raggedy andy's feat. "it was just like a wild west show!" "we must all have all the fun we can together!" said raggedy andy. "good for you!" cried uncle clem. "the more fun we can give each other, the more fun each one of us will have!" [illustration: the wooden horse pulls a cart] [illustration: raggedy andy and the penny dolls went clear over his head] the wooden horse made the circle of the nursery a great many times, for it pleased him very much to hear the gay laughter of the dolls and he thought to himself, "how happy i will be, living with such a jolly crowd." but just as he was about to pass the door, there was a noise upon the stairs and the wooden horse, hearing it, stopped so suddenly raggedy andy and the penny dolls went clear over his head and the dolls in the front of the wagon took raggedy andy's seat upon the horse's back. they lay just as they fell, for they did not wish anyone to suspect that they could move or talk. "ha! ha! ha! i knew you were having a lot of fun!" cried a cheery voice. at this, all the dolls immediately scrambled back into their former places, for they recognized the voice of the french dollie. but what was their surprise to see her dressed in a lovely fairy costume, her lovely curls flying out behind, as she ran towards them. raggedy andy was just about to climb upon the horse's back again when the french doll leaped there herself and, balancing lightly upon one foot, stood in this position while the wooden horse rolled around the nursery as fast as he could go. raggedy andy and the two penny dolls ran after the wagon and, with the assistance of uncle clem and raggedy ann, climbed up in back. when the wooden horse finally stopped the dolls all said, "this is the most fun we have had for a _long_ time!" the wooden horse, a thrill of happiness running through his wooden body, cried, "it is the most fun i have _ever_ had!" and the dolls, while they did not tell him so, knew that he had had the most fun because he had given _them_ the most pleasure. for, as you must surely know, they who are the most unselfish are the ones who gain the greatest joy; because they give happiness to others. [illustration: the french doll balanced lightly upon one foot] [illustration: in front of the toy stove] [illustration: four dolls] making "angels" in the snow "whee! it's good to be back home again!" said raggedy andy to the other dolls, as he stretched his feet out in front of the little toy stove and rubbed his rag hands briskly together, as if to warm them. all the dolls laughed at raggedy andy for doing this, for they knew there had never been a fire in the little toy stove in all the time it had been in the nursery. and that was a long time. "we are so glad and happy to have you back home again with us!" the dolls told raggedy andy. "for we have missed you very, very much!" "well," raggedy andy replied, as he held his rag hands over the tiny lid of the stove and rubbed them again, "i have missed all of you, too, and wished many times that you had been with me to join in and share in the pleasures and frolics i've had." and as raggedy andy continued to hold his hands over the little stove, uncle clem asked him why he did it. raggedy andy smiled and leaned back in his chair. "really," he said, "i wasn't paying any attention to what i was doing! i've spent so much of my time while i was away drying out my soft cotton stuffing it seems as though it has almost become a habit." "were you wet most of the time, raggedy andy?" the french doll asked. "nearly all the time!" raggedy andy replied. "first i would get sopping wet and then i'd freeze!" "freeze!" exclaimed all the dolls in one breath. "dear me, yes!" raggedy andy laughed. "just see here!" and raggedy andy pulled his sleeve up and showed where his rag arm had been mended. "that was quite a rip!" he smiled. "dear! dear! how in the world did it happen? on a nail?" henny, the dutch doll, asked as he put his arm about raggedy andy. "froze!" said raggedy andy. the dolls gathered around raggedy andy and examined the rip in his rag arm. "it's all right now!" he laughed. "but you should have seen me when it happened! i was frozen into one solid cake of ice all the way through, and when marcella tried to limber up my arm before it had thawed out, it went, 'pop!' and just bursted. "then i was placed in a pan of nice warm water until the icy cotton inside me had melted, and then i was hung up on a line above the kitchen stove, out at gran'ma's." "but how did you happen to get so wet and then freeze?" asked raggedy ann. "out across the road from gran'ma's home, 'way out in the country, there is a lovely pond," raggedy andy explained. "in the summer time pretty flowers grow about the edge, the little green frogs sit upon the pond lilies and beat upon their tiny drums all through the night, and the twinkling stars wink at their reflections in the smooth water. but when marcella and i went out to gran'ma's, last week, gran'ma met us with a sleigh, for the ground was covered with starry snow. the pretty pond was covered with ice, too, and upon the ice was a soft blanket of the white, white snow. it was beautiful!" said raggedy andy. [illustration: marcella and raggedy andy in the snow] [illustration: marcella on a sled] "gran'ma had a lovely new sled for marcella, a red one with shiny runners. "and after we had visited gran'ma a while, we went to the pond for a slide. "it was heaps of fun, for there was a little hill at one end of the pond so that when we coasted down, we went scooting across the pond like an arrow. "marcella would turn the sled sideways, just for fun, and she and i would fall off and go sliding across the ice upon our backs, leaving a clean path of ice, where we pushed aside the snow as we slid. then marcella showed me how to make 'angels' in the soft snow!" "oh, tell us how, raggedy andy!" shouted all the dollies. "it's very easy!" said raggedy andy. "marcella would lie down upon her back in the snow and put her hands back up over her head, then she would bring her hands in a circle down to her sides, like this." and raggedy andy lay upon the floor of the nursery and showed the dollies just how it was done. "then," he added, "when she stood up it would leave the print of her body and legs in the white, white snow, and where she had swooped her arms there were the 'angel's wings!'" "it must have looked just like an angel!" said uncle clem. "indeed it was very pretty!" raggedy andy answered. "then marcella made a lot of 'angels' by placing me in the snow and working my arms; so you see, what with falling off the sled so much and making so many 'angels,' we both were wet, but i was completely soaked through. my cotton just became soppy and i was ever so much heavier! then gran'ma, just as we were having a most delightful time, came to the door and 'ooh-hooed' to marcella to come and get a nice new doughnut. so marcella, thinking to return in a minute, left me lying upon the sled and ran through the snow to gran'ma's. and there i stayed and stayed until i began to feel stiff and could hear the cotton inside me go, 'tic! tic!' as it began to freeze. [illustration: raggedy andy on a sled at night] "i lay upon the sled until after the sun went down. two little chicadees came and sat upon the sled and talked to me in their cute little bird language, and i watched the sky in the west get golden red, then turn into a deep crimson purple and finally a deep blue, as the sun went farther down around the bend of the earth. after it had been dark for some time, i heard someone coming through the snow and could see the yellow light of a lantern. it was gran'ma. "she pulled the sled over in back of her house and did not see that i was upon it until she turned to go in the kitchen; then she picked me up and took me inside. 'he's frozen as stiff as a board!' she told marcella as she handed me to her. marcella did not say why she had forgotten to come for me, but i found out afterward that it was because she was so wet. gran'ma made her change her clothes and shoes and stockings and would not permit her to go out and play again. "well, anyway," concluded raggedy andy, "marcella tried to limber my arm and, being almost solid ice, it just burst. and that is the way it went all the time we were out at gran'ma's; i was wet nearly all the time. but i wish you could all have been with me to share in the fun." and raggedy andy again leaned over the little toy stove and rubbed his rag hands briskly together. uncle clem went to the waste paper basket and came back with some scraps of yellow and red paper. then, taking off one of the tiny lids, he stuffed the paper in part of the way as if the flames were "shooting up!" then, as all the dolls' merry laughter rang out, raggedy andy stopped rubbing his hands, and catching raggedy ann about the waist, he went skipping across the nursery floor with her, whirling so fast neither saw they had gone out through the door until it was too late. for coming to the head of the stairs, they both went head over heels, "blumpity, blump!" over and over, until they wound up, laughing, at the bottom. "last one up is a cocoa baby!" cried raggedy ann, as she scrambled to her feet. and with her skirts in her rag hands she went racing up the stairs to where the rest of the dollies stood laughing. "hurrah, for raggedy ann!" cried raggedy andy generously. "she won!" [illustration: raggedy ann racing up the stairs] [illustration: listening to the seashell] [illustration: the singing shell] the singing shell for years and years the beautiful shell had been upon the floor in gran'ma's front room. it was a large shell with many points upon it. these were coarse and rough, but the shell was most beautiful inside. marcella had seen the shell time and time again and often admired its lovely coloring, which could be seen when one looked inside the shell. so one day, gran'ma gave the beautiful shell to marcella to have for her very own, up in the nursery. "it will be nice to place before the nursery door so the wind will not blow the door to and pinch anyone's fingers!" gran'ma laughed. so marcella brought the shell home and placed it in front of the nursery door. here the dolls saw it that night, when all the house was still, and stood about it wondering what kind of toy it might be. "it seems to be nearly all mouth!" said henny, the dutch doll. "perhaps it can talk." "it has teeth!" the french doll pointed out. "it may bite!" "i do not believe it will bite," raggedy andy mused, as he got down upon his hands and knees and looked up into the shell. "marcella would not have it up here if it would bite!" and, saying this, raggedy andy put his rag arm into the lovely shell's mouth. "it doesn't bite! i knew it wouldn't!" he cried. "just feel how smooth it is inside!" all the dolls felt and were surprised to find it polished so highly inside, while the outside was so coarse and rough. with the help of uncle clem and henny, raggedy andy turned the shell upon its back, so that all the dolls might look in. the coloring consisted of dainty pinks, creamy whites and pale blues, all running together just as the coloring in an opal runs from one shade into another. raggedy andy, stooping over to look further up inside the pretty shell, heard something. "it's whispering!" he said, as he raised up in surprise. all the dolls took turns putting their ears to the mouth of the beautiful shell. yes, truly it whispered, but they could not catch just what it said. finally raggedy andy suggested that all the dolls lie down upon the floor directly before the shell and keep very quiet. "if we don't make a sound we may be able to hear what it says!" he explained. so the dolls lay down, placing themselves flat upon the floor directly in front of the shell and where they could see and admire its beautiful coloring. now the dolls could be very, very quiet when they really wished to be, and it was easy for them to hear the faint whispering of the shell. this is the story the shell told the dolls in the nursery that night: "a long, long time ago, i lived upon the yellow sand, deep down beneath the blue, blue waters of the ocean. pretty silken sea weeds grew around my home and reached their waving branches up, up towards the top of the water. [illustration: everyone listens] "through the pretty sea weeds, fishes of pretty colors and shapes darted here and there, playing at their games. "it was still and quiet 'way down where i lived, for even if the ocean roared and pounded itself into an angry mass of tumbling waves up above, this never disturbed the calm waters down where i lived. "many times, little fishes or other tiny sea people came and hid within my pretty house when they were being pursued by larger sea creatures. and it always made me very happy to give them this protection. "they would stay inside until i whispered that the larger creature had gone, then they would leave me and return to their play. "pretty little sea horses with slender, curving bodies often went sailing above me, or would come to rest upon my back. it was nice to lie and watch the tiny things curl their little tails about the sea weed and talk together, for the sea horses like one another and are gentle and kind to each other, sharing their food happily and smoothing their little ones with their cunning noses. "but one day a diver leaped over the side of a boat and came swimming head-first down, down to where i lay. my! how the tiny sea creatures scurried to hide from him. he took me within his hand and, giving his feet a thump upon the yellow sand, rose with me to the surface. "he poured the water from me, and out came all the little creatures who had been hiding there!" raggedy andy wiggled upon the floor, he was so interested. "did the tiny creatures get back into the water safely?" he asked the beautiful shell. "oh, yes!" the shell whispered in reply. "the man held me over the side of the boat, so the tiny creatures went safely back into the water!" "i am so glad!" raggedy andy said, with a sigh of relief. "he must have been a kindly man!" "yes, indeed!" the beautiful shell replied. "so i was placed along with a lot of other shells in the bottom of the boat and every once in a while another shell was placed amongst us. we whispered together and wondered where we were going. we were finally sold to different people and i have been at gran'ma's house for a long, long time." "you lived there when gran'ma was a little girl, didn't you?" raggedy ann asked. "yes," replied the shell, "i have lived there ever since gran'ma was a little girl. she often used to play with me and listen to me sing." "raggedy ann can play 'peter, peter, pumpkin eater' on the piano, with one hand," said uncle clem, "but none of us can sing. will you sing for us?" he asked the shell. "i sing all the time," the shell replied, "for i cannot help singing, but my singing is a secret and so is very soft and low. put your head close to the opening in my shell and listen!" the dolls took turns doing this, and heard the shell sing softly and very sweetly. "how strange and far away it sounds!" exclaimed the french doll. "like fairies singing in the distance! the shell must be singing the songs of the mermaids and the water-fairies!" "it is queer that anything so rough on the outside could be so pretty within!" said raggedy andy. "it must be a great pleasure to be able to sing so sweetly!" "indeed it is," replied the beautiful shell, "and i get a great happiness from singing all the time." "and you will bring lots of pleasure to us, by being so happy!" said raggedy andy. "for although you may not enter into our games, we will always know that you are happily singing, and that will make us all happy!" "i will tell you the secret of my singing," said the shell. "when anyone puts his ear to me and listens, he hears the reflection of his own heart's music, singing; so, you see, while i say that i am singing all the time, in reality i sing only when someone full of happiness hears his own singing as if it were mine." "how unselfish you are to say this!" said raggedy andy. "now we are ever so much more glad to have you with us. aren't we?" he asked, turning to the rest of the dolls. "yes, indeed!" came the answer from all the dolls, even the tiny penny dolls. "that is why the shell is so beautiful inside!" said raggedy ann. "those who are unselfish may wear rough clothes, but inside they are always beautiful, just like the shell, and reflect to others the happiness and sunny music within their hearts!" [illustration: the shell speaks] transcriber's notes: table of contents was added. punctuation was normalized. descriptions were added to the illustrations which in the original had no captions. (this file was produced from images generously made available by florida's publication of archival, library & museum materials (palmm)) [illustration] [illustration] dear santa claus charming holiday stories for boys and girls [illustration] handsomely illustrated copyright, , by w. b. conkey company chicago w. b. conkey company publishers [illustration] _the night before christmas._ [illustration] [illustration] 'twas the night before christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. the stockings were hung by the chimney with care, in the hope that st. nicholas soon would be there. the children were nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads. [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] and mamma in her kerchief, and i in my cap, had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap; when out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, i sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. away to the window i flew like a flash, tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. the moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow gave the lustre of midday to objects below-- when what to my wondering eyes should appear but a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer, with a little old driver so lively and quick, i knew in a moment it must be st. nick. [illustration] [illustration] more rapid than eagles his coursers they came, and he whistled and shouted and called them by name-- "now, dasher! now, dancer! now, prancer! now, vixen! on, comet! on, cupid! on, dunder and blixen! to the top of the porch, to the top of the wall! now, dash away! dash away! dash away! all!" as dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly, when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, so up to the house-top the coursers they flew with the sleigh full of toys, and st. nicholas, too. [illustration] [illustration] and then in a twinkling i heard on the roof the prancing and pawing of each tiny hoof. as i drew in my head, and was turning around, down the chimney st. nicholas came with a bound. [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] he was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot, and his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; a bundle of toys he had flung on his back, and he looked like a pedlar just opening his pack. his eyes--how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry! his cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry; his droll little mouth was drawn up in a bow, and the beard on his chin was as white as the snow. [illustration] he spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, and filled all the stockings--then turned with a jerk, and laying his finger aside of his nose, and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. he sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, and away they all flew, like the down of a thistle; but i heard him exclaim ere he drove out of sight, "merry christmas to all, and to all a good-night!" [illustration] _the night after christmas._ [illustration] 'twas the night after christmas, and all through the house not a creature was stirring--excepting a mouse. the stockings were flung in haste over the chair, for hopes of st. nicholas were no longer there. the children were restlessly tossing in bed, for the pie and the candy were heavy as lead; while mamma in her kerchief, and i in my gown, had just made up our minds that we would not lie down, when out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, i sprang from my chair to see what was the matter. away to the window i went with a dash, flung open the shutter, and threw up the sash. the moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow, gave the lustre of noon-day to objects below, i knew at a glance it must be dr. brough. i drew in my head, and was turning around, when upstairs came the doctor, with scarcely a sound. [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] he wore a thick overcoat, made long ago, and the beard on his chin was white with the snow. he spoke a few words, and went straight to his work; he felt all the pulses,--then turned with a jerk, and laying his finger aside of his nose, with a nod of his head to the chimney he goes:-- "a spoonful of oil, ma'am, if you have it handy; no nuts and no raisins, no pies and no candy. these tender young stomachs cannot well digest all the sweets that they get; toys and books are the best. but i know my advice will not find many friends, for the custom of christmas the other way tends. the fathers and mothers, and santa claus, too, are exceedingly blind. well, a good-night to you!" and i heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight: "these feastings and candies make doctors' bills right!" [illustration] nelly's visit one summer, nelly's auntie, who lived in the country, asked her to come and make a good, long visit, and you may be sure nelly was very glad to go. [illustration] she had always lived in the city, and she thought it great fun to feed the hens and chickens and calves, and to watch all the animals and talk to them. [illustration] cousin fred was about her own age, so it was very pleasant for them to play together. fred took her around the farm and told her about all the pets, and they soon knew her as well as though she had always lived there. milly, one of the horses, would eat out of a spoon, and nelly and her cousin took turns feeding her. when they went away, she whinnied for them to come back again, but nelly said, "you shall have some more to-morrow; you mustn't be a piggy-wiggy." [illustration] one day fred and nelly gathered flowers in the woods, and nelly made a wreath to put upon her cousin's head. "it seems just like fairyland out here," she said. "let's play it is fairyland, and i'm a fairy and you're a brownie." [illustration] fred thought that a very good game indeed, and they played that they lived in the flowers and could change themselves into birds, or squirrels, or people, whenever they wished. but bye and bye they got hungry, and they couldn't live on the honey from the flowers, as real fairies might; so they spread out the lunch which they had brought and decided to be children again. it seemed as though they had never tasted anything quite so good as that lunch. [illustration] [illustration] one day speckle, the big hen, made a great fuss because her brood of ducklings went into the water. she flew about here and there on the bank of the stream, and called to them to come back, but the ducklings were having great fun and paid no attention at all to her. [illustration] chanticleer seemed to think they were not very well behaved and needed a good scolding; so he began to strut about and talk at the top of his voice; but the ducklings had their swim and came out as happy as could be. nelly thought the little chicks were prettier. [illustration] shep, the dog, could hunt eggs as well as they could, and he always helped them. after he had found a nest, he took each egg carefully in his mouth, and laid it in the basket which the children had brought; and he never broke one. "i believe he could count them if he tried," said nelly. "of course he can count," said fred. "when we send him after the cows, he never leaves one behind, nor the sheep either. if one strays away, he hunts for it until he finds it. but he wouldn't hurt one of them for anything, no matter how hard he had to work to bring them in." [illustration] they watched the milking, and drank all the warm milk they wanted; and one day they helped churn. "i believe i could make butter, too," said nelly. "of course you could, dear," said her auntie; "it wouldn't take long for you to learn, either." nelly was delighted with this, and wanted to begin right away. fairy stories laura, eva, and susy are three sisters who are very fond of fairy stories, as most little girls are. laura is the oldest, and reads the stories aloud to the others, while humpty-dumpty, the kitten, sits near and listen--or, at least, he seems to be listening. [illustration] but sometimes he gets tired of sitting still and jumps right up on laura's book, so she has to stop. then they all have a great frolic, and very often little brother harry comes in to join in the fun, and they play until they are tired out. [illustration] [illustration] one story which they like very much is about a little girl who was lost in the woods and wandered about for a long, long time, until she was so tired that she fell asleep on the ground, with the flowers all around her and the birds singing. [illustration] but the birds were really fairies and were watching over her to see that she was not harmed, and they sang to her on purpose to lull her to sleep, for they knew how tired she was. [illustration] and when she wakened, she understood what they said to her and knew they were fairies, and they led her out of the forest and all the way to her home. they asked her to come and visit them again, too, and promised to take good care of her. [illustration] another of their favorite stories is about the flower fairies who come and dance and sing for little children in the forest when it is very still and the sun is shining brightly. [illustration] laura says she thinks she has almost heard them sometimes, talking to the birds; and they often sit very quiet indeed, with their dollies hugged tightly in their arms, and listen and watch. [illustration] once eva went to sleep when she was watching like this, out in the grove back of her home, and she dreamed that a fairy came and danced for her and sang the sweetest songs you ever heard. [illustration] "she was just like a little girl, too," said eva. "she was bare-footed and hadn't any hat on her head, and she wanted me to come and dance with her." [illustration] "did you?" asked little susy, breathlessly. [illustration] "of course!" said eva. "we danced and danced and had just a lovely time together, and then i had to go and wake up." "oh, oh, oh, i wish i could have a dream like that!" cried little susy; and she went and lay down on the couch right away, to see if she couldn't go to sleep and dream about fairies, too. [illustration] but when she wakened, she said that all she could dream about was just a lot of little frogs sitting up very straight on the bank of a brook, with a great, big frog on a great, big log talking to them. [illustration] "i think that was a lovely dream," said laura; and then little susy was happy. [illustration] "now let's read some more stories," said eva, and perhaps next time we'll see some really-truly fairies. _--fannie e. ostrander._ [illustration] [illustration] kate and dick had a good many pets. there were frisk and ponto and fuss and another little dog called fly. there was the pony, fleet, and the newest pet of all was a dear little colt that kate's papa had given to her for her very own because the pony she rode really belonged to dick. this colt she had named fairy, and she took great care of it. fly and fairy were good friends, and they had a funny way of looking at each other that made the children laugh. then the baby that they all loved lived here. her name was may, and she was kate's sister. she was a sweet little thing, just beginning to walk and to talk. she could say "chicky" quite plainly, and she liked to toddle out and watch the little girls feed the chickens. but i can't begin to tell you all the good times the children had that summer. they were happy all the time, and grandma said they were so good that it was really no trouble at all to have them there. [illustration] but at last one saturday evening, papa, who always came out from the city to spend sunday with them, said they must start for home the next monday. they did want to stay longer, but papa laughed and said, "christmas is coming now, you know, and santa claus couldn't bring things way out here as easy as he could get them to you in town." then the children began to think of christmas and to tease grandpa and grandma to come and spend it with them, and of course papa and mamma teased too; so at last they promised, and the children said good-by to their pets and to kate and may and dick and went away shouting? "good-by, grandma. now remember you promised!" [illustration] [illustration] after the children reached home they talked of grandma's nearly all the time when they were not talking of christmas, and bessie wrote a letter to santa claus asking him to be sure and bring a pair of his nicest gold-bowed spectacles for grandma because she had lost her old ones, and not to forget a gold-headed cane for grandpa. at last christmas eve came, and grandma and grandpa were there, and the children hung up their stockings, and bessie said that grandma and grandpa must be sure and hang up theirs too; then, after they had gone to bed, the smaller children whispered for a long time about santa claus and listened to hear his sleigh bells on the roof. "i don't see how he can get down the chimney," whispered bessie. "you know he's so fat in all his pictures." "maybe he takes off his coat," whispered clara, "then he wouldn't be quite so big." but she didn't see how he could get down the chimney, either. once or twice they were sure they heard him on the roof, and they covered up their heads so he wouldn't think they were peeping, and at last they went to sleep before they knew it. willie and tom were just as anxious as the little girls, and whispered just as much, and they all dreamed of santa claus. [illustration] bessie and clara were the first ones up. they shouted with delight when they looked in their stockings. there was a dear little dolly in each stocking--a dolly with real hair and eyes that opened and shut, and the dollies were dressed very prettily. they were too large to go into the stockings, so they just stood in them, looking as though they were ready to jump down. willie found the funniest jumping-jack in his stocking, and tom pulled a flute out of his. he had everybody awake in no time after that. grace was happy when she looked in her stocking. there was a little plush box in it, and in the box was a lovely gold watch; while harry found just what he wanted too--a pair of skates. but grandma and grandpa were surprised when they discovered the spectacles and the cane. "who in the world could have told santa what we wanted most?" said grandma. grandpa said he couldn't understand it either, and then bessie had to tell the secret. she ran up to each of them and whispered, "i wrote to him myself!" then how they kissed her. all day long the library was kept closed; not a child was allowed to peep in. but what fun they had all day, and what a christmas dinner, with a plum pudding as big as a pumpkin. in the evening the library door was opened, and there was the prettiest christmas tree, all blazing with candles and hung with pretty things; while piled around it were books and toys and everything that everybody wanted most. and just think of it! there, lying in front of the tree and looking as happy as the children themselves, was a great, big, noble dog, who got up and came to meet them as they trooped in. "ooo! ooo! ooo!" cried bessie, bending to pat his head. "what's your name, you great, big darling? ooo! ooo! whose is he, papa?" "ask santa claus," said papa; and sure enough, santa claus stepped out from behind the tree. "his name is on his collar," said santa claus. then the children all rushed for him for they knew it was grandpa dressed up like santa claus. [illustration] afterwards bessie spelled out the dog's name, "c-a-r-l-o," on his collar, and her own name on a card which was tied to it, and she was the happiest little girl in the world. but everyone else was happy too, and they all said it was the very merriest christmas they had ever seen, and clara and bessie dreamed that santa claus told them he himself had never had so much fun before. _fannie e. ostrander._ off on the wheels one summer alma and her brother philip spent their vacation with their auntie, who lived in a beautiful village, so near the pretty country that they could take a ride out into it on their wheels, at any time they wished. [illustration] they both rode very well indeed, and they were always finding pretty little spots along the road-side, where they played camp out; for auntie let them take a lunch if they wanted to, and the air was so fresh and pure that they were hungry almost all the time. [illustration] one morning they started off quite early with their wheels and their lunch, and they rode out into the country on a pretty road where they had never been before. [illustration] it had great trees along the side and a little river winding along with it, and they saw the cattle and horses in the fields, and the hens and chickens and turkeys and geese along the road-side, and once they got off their wheels to talk to a pretty bossy and her calf that were very near the fence. [illustration] the bossy was a little afraid they might hurt her baby, so she wasn't quite friendly. but she didn't try to drive them away. [illustration] at one side of a farm-house near, a big dog was lying in his kennel, and a great black cat came up to him very slyly and tapped him on the nose with one paw. it was funny to see the dog jump up. [illustration] the birds sang, and the hens and chickens talked to each other, and once or twice they stopped to let a flock of geese cross the road in front of them. [illustration] then they came upon a big flock of turkeys, and the gobbler put on airs and pretended he was going to stop them; but they flew past and laughed at him. [illustration] by the side of the road in one place, a big, fat, clean-looking pig was standing, sunning himself; but when he saw them, he ran away, squealing. [illustration] "you needn't run from us," philip called after him; "we don't want any pork to-day--we've got chicken for our lunch." [illustration] "yes," said alma, "and nice, fresh strawberries, and everything good." they saw a big dog lying near a chicken-coop, with the chickens running over him just as they pleased, and philip called out again, "be careful, you little fellows, or you might happen to run down his throat." [illustration] [illustration] they got off their wheels and walked for a little while just for fun; and all at once, as they were passing a barn, alma cried, "look! did you see that cat after the mouse?" philip said he didn't; but pretty soon mrs pussy came out. [illustration] "you didn't get it, did you?" said alma. "well, you're fat enough now; you don't need to catch mice." they stopped to eat their lunch under a clump of trees not very far from a pleasant farm-house. there was a cunning little fat dog lying in front of the house, and as they watched him, up came a bee and lit on his nose. [illustration] the little doggy jumped up and barked at the bee; then he sat down and put up his nose in a friendly way, to see what it was. [illustration] "look out, sir!" cried philip. "you'll get hurt!" but he spoke just a little too late, for puppy-dog found out his mistake, and the next minute he was running away and yelping at the top of his voice. [illustration] "the poor little thing!" said alma. "wasn't that too bad?" "yes," said philip, "but he'll get over it pretty quick, and i can't help laughing, it did look so funny." [illustration] when they went back to their auntie's, they told her that was the best bicycle ride they had ever had. [illustration] --_fannie e. ostrander._ [illustration] raggedy ann stories written & illustrated by johnny gruelle [illustration] little simon new york london toronto sydney [illustration] preface and dedication as i write this, i have before me on my desk, propped up against the telephone, an old rag doll. dear old raggedy ann! the same raggedy ann with which my mother played when a child. there she sits, a trifle loppy and loose-jointed, looking me squarely in the face in a straightforward, honest manner, a twinkle where her shoe-button eyes reflect the electric light. evidently raggedy has been to a "tea party" today, for her face is covered with chocolate. she smiles happily and continuously. true, she has been nibbled by mice, who have made nests out of the soft cotton with which she has been stuffed, but raggedy smiled just as broadly when the mice nibbled at her, for her smile is painted on. what adventures you must have had, raggedy! what joy and happiness you have brought into this world! and no matter what treatment you have received, how patient you have been! what lessons of kindness and fortitude you might teach could you but talk; you with your wisdom of fifty-nine years. no wonder rag dolls are the best beloved! you are so kindly, so patient, so lovable. the more you become torn, tattered and loose-jointed, rag dolls, the more you are loved by children. who knows but that fairyland is filled with old, lovable rag dolls--soft, loppy rag dolls who ride through all the wonders of fairyland in the crook of dimpled arms, snuggling close to childish breasts within which beat hearts filled with eternal sunshine. so, to the millions of children and grown-ups who have loved a rag doll, i dedicate these stories of raggedy ann. johnny gruelle. [illustration] [illustration] introduction marcella liked to play up in the attic at grandma's quaint old house, 'way out in the country, for there were so many old forgotten things to find up there. one day when marcella was up in the attic and had played with the old spinning wheel until she had grown tired of it, she curled up on an old horse-hair sofa to rest. "i wonder what is in that barrel, 'way back in the corner?" she thought, as she jumped from the sofa and climbed over two dusty trunks to the barrel standing back under the eaves. it was quite dark back there, so when marcella had pulled a large bundle of things from the barrel she took them over to the dormer window where she could see better. there was a funny little bonnet with long white ribbons. marcella put it on. in an old leather bag she found a number of tin-types of queer looking men and women in old-fashioned clothes. and there was one picture of a very pretty little girl with long curls tied tightly back from her forehead and wearing a long dress and queer pantaloons which reached to her shoe-tops. and then out of the heap she pulled an old rag doll with only one shoe-button eye and a painted nose and a smiling mouth. her dress was of soft material, blue with pretty little flowers and dots all over it. forgetting everything else in the happiness of her find, marcella caught up the rag doll and ran downstairs to show it to grandma. "well! well! where did you find it?" grandma cried. "it's old raggedy ann!" she went on as she hugged the doll to her breast. "i had forgotten her. she has been in the attic for fifty years, i guess! well! well! dear old raggedy ann! i will sew another button on her right away!" and grandma went to the machine drawer and got her needle and thread. marcella watched the sewing while grandma told how she had played with raggedy ann when she was a little girl. "now!" grandma laughed, "raggedy ann, you have two fine shoe-button eyes and with them you can see the changes that have taken place in the world while you have been shut up so long in the attic! for, raggedy ann, you have a new playmate and mistress now, and i hope you both will have as much happiness together as you and i used to have!" then grandma gave raggedy ann to marcella, saying very seriously, "marcella, let me introduce my very dear friend, raggedy ann. raggedy, this is my grand-daughter, marcella!" and grandma gave the doll a twitch with her fingers in such a way that the rag doll nodded her head to marcella. "oh, grandma! thank you ever and ever so much!" marcella cried as she gave grandma a hug and kiss. "raggedy ann and i will have just loads of fun." and this is how raggedy ann joined the doll family at marcella's house, where she began the adventures of raggedy ann, told in the following stories. [illustration] [illustration] raggedy ann learns a lesson one day the dolls were left all to themselves. their little mistress had placed them all around the room and told them to be nice children while she was away. and there they sat and never even so much as wiggled a finger, until their mistress had left the room. then the soldier dolly turned his head and solemnly winked at raggedy ann. and when the front gate clicked and the dollies knew they were alone in the house, they all scrambled to their feet. "now let's have a good time!" cried the tin soldier. "let's all go in search of something to eat!" "yes! let's all go in search of something to eat!" cried all the other dollies. "when mistress had me out playing with her this morning," said raggedy ann, "she carried me by a door near the back of the house and i smelled something which smelled as if it would taste delicious!" "then you lead the way, raggedy ann!" cried the french dolly. "i think it would be a good plan to elect raggedy ann as our leader on this expedition!" said the indian doll. at this all the other dolls clapped their hands together and shouted, "hurrah! raggedy ann will be our leader." so raggedy ann, very proud indeed to have the confidence and love of all the other dollies, said that she would be very glad to be their leader. "follow me!" she cried as her wobbly legs carried her across the floor at a lively pace. the other dollies followed, racing about the house until they came to the pantry door. "this is the place!" cried raggedy ann, and sure enough, all the dollies smelled something which they knew must be very good to eat. but none of the dollies was tall enough to open the door and, although they pushed and pulled with all their might, the door remained tightly closed. the dollies were talking and pulling and pushing and every once in a while one would fall over and the others would step on her in their efforts to open the door. finally raggedy ann drew away from the others and sat down on the floor. when the other dollies discovered raggedy ann sitting there, running her rag hands through her yarn hair, they knew she was thinking. "sh! sh!" they said to each other and quietly went over near raggedy ann and sat down in front of her. "there must be a way to get inside," said raggedy ann. "raggedy says there must be a way to get inside!" cried all the dolls. "i can't seem to think clearly to-day," said raggedy ann. "it feels as if my head were ripped." at this the french doll ran to raggedy ann and took off her bonnet. "yes, there is a rip in your head, raggedy!" she said and pulled a pin from her skirt and pinned up raggedy's head. "it's not a very neat job, for i got some puckers in it!" she said. "oh that is ever so much better!" cried raggedy ann. "now i can think quite clearly." "now raggedy can think quite clearly!" cried all the dolls. "my thoughts must have leaked out the rip before!" said raggedy ann. [illustration] [illustration] "they must have leaked out before, dear raggedy!" cried all the other dolls. "now that i can think so clearly," said raggedy ann, "i think the door must be locked and to get in we must unlock it!" "that will be easy!" said the dutch doll who says "mamma" when he is tipped backward and forward, "for we will have the brave tin soldier shoot the key out of the lock!" "i can easily do that!" cried the tin soldier, as he raised his gun. "oh, raggedy ann!" cried the french dolly. "please do not let him shoot!" "no!" said raggedy ann. "we must think of a quieter way!" after thinking quite hard for a moment, raggedy ann jumped up and said: "i have it!" and she caught up the jumping jack and held him up to the door; then jack slid up his stick and unlocked the door. then the dollies all pushed and the door swung open. my! such a scramble! the dolls piled over one another in their desire to be the first at the goodies. they swarmed upon the pantry shelves and in their eagerness spilled a pitcher of cream which ran all over the french dolly's dress. the indian doll found some corn bread and dipping it in the molasses he sat down for a good feast. a jar of raspberry jam was overturned and the dollies ate of this until their faces were all purple. the tin soldier fell from the shelf three times and bent one of his tin legs, but he scrambled right back up again. never had the dolls had so much fun and excitement, and they had all eaten their fill when they heard the click of the front gate. [illustration] they did not take time to climb from the shelves, but all rolled or jumped off to the floor and scrambled back to their room as fast as they could run, leaving a trail of bread crumbs and jam along the way. just as their mistress came into the room the dolls dropped in whatever positions they happened to be in. "this is funny!" cried mistress. "they were all left sitting in their places around the room! i wonder if fido has been shaking them up!" then she saw raggedy ann's face and picked her up. "why raggedy ann, you are all sticky! i do believe you are covered with jam!" and mistress tasted raggedy ann's hand. "yes! it's jam! shame on you, raggedy ann! you've been in the pantry and all the others, too!" and with this the dolls' mistress dropped raggedy ann on the floor and left the room. when she came back she had on an apron and her sleeves were rolled up. she picked up all the sticky dolls and putting them in a basket she carried them out under the apple tree in the garden. there she had placed her little tub and wringer and she took the dolls one at a time, and scrubbed them with a scrubbing brush and soused them up and down and this way and that in the soap suds until they were clean. then she hung them all out on the clothes-line in the sunshine to dry. there the dolls hung all day, swinging and twisting about as the breeze swayed the clothes-line. "i do believe she scrubbed my face so hard she wore off my smile!" said raggedy ann, after an hour of silence. [illustration] [illustration] "no, it is still there!" said the tin solder, as the wind twisted him around so he could see raggedy. "but i do believe my arms will never work without squeaking, they feel so rusted," he added. just then the wind twisted the little dutch doll and loosened his clothes-pin, so that he fell to the grass below with a sawdusty bump and as he rolled over he said, "mamma!" in a squeaky voice. late in the afternoon the back door opened and the little mistress came out with a table and chairs. after setting the table she took all the dolls from the line and placed them about the table. they had lemonade with grape jelly in it, which made it a beautiful lavender color, and little "baby-teeny-weeny-cookies" with powdered sugar on them. after this lovely dinner, the dollies were taken in the house, where they had their hair brushed and nice clean nighties put on. then they were placed in their beds and mistress kissed each one good night and tiptoed from the room. all the dolls lay as still as mice for a few minutes, then raggedy ann raised up on her cotton-stuffed elbows and said: "i have been thinking!" "sh!" said all the other dollies, "raggedy has been thinking!" "yes," said raggedy ann, "i have been thinking; our mistress gave us the nice dinner out under the trees to teach us a lesson. she wished us to know that we could have had all the goodies we wished, whenever we wished, if we had behaved ourselves. and our lesson was that we must never take without asking what we could always have for the asking! so let us all remember and try never again to do anything which might cause those who love us any unhappiness!" "let us all remember," chimed all the other dollies. [illustration] and raggedy ann, with a merry twinkle in her shoe-button eyes, lay back in her little bed, her cotton head filled with thoughts of love and happiness. [illustration] [illustration] raggedy ann and the washing "why, dinah! how could you!" mamma looked out of the window and saw marcella run up to dinah and take something out of her hand and then put her head in her arm and commence crying. "what is the trouble, dear?" mamma asked, as she came out the door and knelt beside the little figure shaking with sobs. marcella held out raggedy ann. but such a comical looking raggedy ann! mamma had to smile in spite of her sympathy, for raggedy ann looked ridiculous! dinah's big eyes rolled out in a troubled manner, for marcella had snatched raggedy ann from dinah's hand as she cried, "why, dinah! how could you?" dinah could not quite understand and, as she dearly loved marcella, she was troubled. raggedy ann was not in the least downhearted and while she felt she must look very funny she continued to smile, but with a more expansive smile than ever before. raggedy ann knew just how it all happened and her remaining shoe-button eye twinkled. she remembered that morning when marcella came to the nursery to take the nighties from the dolls and dress them she had been cross. raggedy ann thought at the time "perhaps she had climbed out of bed backwards!" for marcella complained to each doll as she dressed them. and when it came raggedy's time to be dressed, marcella was very cross for she had scratched her finger on a pin when dressing the french doll. so, when marcella heard the little girl next door calling to her, she ran out of the nursery and gave raggedy ann a toss from her as she ran. now it happened raggedy lit in the clothes hamper and there she lay all doubled up in a knot. a few minutes afterwards dinah came through the hall with an armful of clothes and piled them in the hamper on top of raggedy ann. then dinah carried the hamper out in back of the house where she did the washing. dinah dumped all the clothes into the boiler and poured water on them. the boiler was then placed upon the stove. when the water began to get warm, raggedy ann wiggled around and climbed up amongst the clothes to the top of the boiler to peek out. there was too much steam and she could see nothing. for that matter, dinah could not see raggedy ann, either, on account of the steam. so dinah, using an old broom handle, stirred the clothes in the boiler and the clothes and raggedy ann were stirred and whirled around until all were thoroughly boiled. when dinah took the clothes a piece at a time from the boiler and scrubbed them, she finally came upon raggedy ann. now dinah did not know but that marcella had placed raggedy in the clothes hamper to be washed, so she soaped raggedy well and scrubbed her up and down over the rough wash-board. [illustration] two buttons from the back of raggedy's dress came off and one of raggedy ann's shoe-button eyes was loosened as dinah gave her face a final scrub. [illustration] then dinah put raggedy ann's feet in the wringer and turned the crank. it was hard work getting raggedy through the wringer, but dinah was very strong. and of course it happened! raggedy ann came through as flat as a pancake. it was just then, that marcella returned and saw raggedy. "why, dinah! how could you!" marcella had sobbed as she snatched the flattened raggedy ann from the bewildered dinah's hand. mamma patted marcella's hand and soon coaxed her to quit sobbing. when dinah explained that the first she knew of raggedy being in the wash was when she took her from the boiler, marcella began crying again. "it was all my fault, mamma!" she cried. "i remember now that i threw dear old raggedy ann from me as i ran out the door and she must have fallen in the clothes hamper! oh dear! oh dear!" and she hugged raggedy ann tight. mamma did not tell marcella that she had been cross and naughty for she knew marcella felt very sorry. instead mamma put her arms around her and said, "just see how raggedy ann takes it! she doesn't seem to be unhappy!" and when marcella brushed her tears away and looked at raggedy ann, flat as a pancake and with a cheery smile upon her painted face, she had to laugh. and mamma and dinah had to laugh, too, for raggedy ann's smile was almost twice as broad as it had been before. "just let me hang miss raggedy on the line in the bright sunshine for half an hour," said dinah, "and you won't know her when she comes off!" so raggedy ann was pinned to the clothes-line, out in the bright sunshine, where she swayed and twisted in the breeze and listened to the chatter of the robins in a nearby tree. [illustration] every once in a while dinah went out and rolled and patted raggedy until her cotton stuffing was soft and dry and fluffy and her head and arms and legs were nice and round again. then she took raggedy ann into the house and showed marcella and mamma how clean and sweet she was. marcella took raggedy ann right up to the nursery and told all the dolls just what had happened and how sorry she was that she had been so cross and peevish when she dressed them. and while the dolls said never a word they looked at their little mistress with love in their eyes as she sat in the little red rocking chair and held raggedy ann tightly in her arms. and raggedy ann's remaining shoe-button eye looked up at her little mistress in rather a saucy manner, but upon her face was the same old smile of happiness, good humor and love. [illustration] [illustration] raggedy ann and the kite raggedy ann watched with interest the preparations. a number of sticks were being fastened together with strings and covered with light cloth. raggedy ann heard some of the boys talk of "the kite," so raggedy ann knew this must be a kite. when a tail had been fastened to the kite and a large ball of heavy twine tied to the front, one of the boys held the kite up in the air and another boy walked off, unwinding the ball of twine. there was a nice breeze blowing, so the boy with the twine called, "let 'er go" and started running. marcella held raggedy up so that she could watch the kite sail through the air. how nicely it climbed! but suddenly the kite acted strangely, and as all the children shouted advice to the boy with the ball of twine, the kite began darting this way and that, and finally making four or five loop-the-loops, it crashed to the ground. "it needs more tail on it!" one boy shouted. then the children asked each other where they might get more rags to fasten to the tail of the kite. "let's tie raggedy ann to the tail!" suggested marcella. "i know she would enjoy a trip 'way up in the sky!" the boys all shouted with delight at this new suggestion. so raggedy ann was tied to the tail of the kite. this time the kite rose straight in the air and remained steady. the boy with the ball of twine unwound it until the kite and raggedy ann were 'way, 'way up and far away. how raggedy ann enjoyed being up there! she could see for miles and miles! and how tiny the children looked! suddenly a great puff of wind came and carried raggedy ann streaming 'way out behind the kite! she could hear the wind singing on the twine as the strain increased. suddenly raggedy ann felt something rip. it was the rag to which she was tied. as each puff of wind caught her the rip widened. when marcella watched raggedy ann rise high above the field, she wondered how much raggedy ann enjoyed it, and wished that she, too, might have gone along. but after the kite had been up in the air for five or ten minutes, marcella grew restless. kites were rather tiresome. there was more fun in tea parties out under the apple tree. "will you please pull down the kite now?" she asked the boy with the twine. "i want raggedy ann." "let her ride up there!" the boy replied. "we'll bring her home when we pull down the kite! we're going to get another ball of twine and let her go higher!" marcella did not like to leave raggedy ann with the boys, so she sat down upon the ground to wait until they pulled down the kite. but while marcella watched raggedy ann, a dot in the sky, she could not see the wind ripping the rag to which raggedy was tied. suddenly the rag parted and raggedy ann went sailing away as the wind caught in her skirts. marcella jumped from the ground, too surprised to say anything. the kite, released from the weight of raggedy ann began darting and swooping to the ground. [illustration] [illustration] "we'll get her for you!" some of the boys said when they saw marcella's troubled face, and they started running in the direction raggedy ann had fallen. marcella and the other girls ran with them. they ran, and they ran, and they ran, and at last they found the kite upon the ground with one of the sticks broken, but they could not find raggedy ann anywhere. "she must have fallen almost in your yard!" a boy said to marcella, "for the kite was directly over here when the doll fell!" marcella was heartbroken. she went in the house and lay on the bed. mamma went out with the children and tried to find raggedy ann, but raggedy ann was nowhere to be seen. when daddy came home in the evening he tried to find raggedy, but met with no success. marcella had eaten hardly any dinner, nor could she be comforted by mamma or daddy. the other dolls in the nursery lay forgotten and were not put to bed that night, for marcella lay and sobbed and tossed about her bed. finally she said a little prayer for raggedy ann, and went to sleep. and as she slept marcella dreamed that the fairies came and took raggedy ann with them to fairyland for a visit, and then sent raggedy ann home to her. she awakened with a cry. of course mamma came to her bed right away and said that daddy would offer a reward in the morning for the return of raggedy. "it was all my fault, mamma!" marcella said. "i should not have offered the boys dear old raggedy ann to tie on the tail of the kite! but i just know the fairies will send her back." mamma took her in her arms and soothed her with cheering words, although she felt indeed that raggedy ann was truly lost and would never be found again. now, where do you suppose raggedy ann was all this time? [illustration] when raggedy ann dropped from the kite, the wind caught in her skirts and carried her along until she fell in the fork of the large elm tree directly over marcella's house. when raggedy ann fell with a thud, face up in the fork of the tree, two robins who had a nest near by flew chattering away. presently the robins returned and quarreled at raggedy ann for laying so close to their nest, but raggedy ann only smiled at them and did not move. when the robins quieted down and quit their quarreling, one of them hopped up closer to raggedy ann in order to investigate. it was mamma robin. she called to daddy robin and told him to come. "see the nice yarn! we could use it to line the nest with," she said. so the robins hopped closer to raggedy ann and asked if they might have some of her yarn hair to line their nest. raggedy ann smiled at them. so the two robins pulled and tugged at raggedy ann's yarn hair until they had enough to line their nest nice and soft. evening came and the robins sang their good night songs, and raggedy ann watched the stars come out, twinkle all night and disappear in the morning light. in the morning the robins again pulled yarn from raggedy ann's head, and loosened her so she could peep over the side of the limb, and when the sun came up raggedy ann saw she was in the trees in her own yard. now before she could eat any breakfast, marcella started out to find raggedy ann. and, it was marcella herself who found her. and this is how she did it. mamma robin had seen marcella with raggedy ann out in the yard many times, so she began calling "cheery! cheery!" and daddy robin started calling "cheery! cheery! cheer up! cheer up! cheerily cheerily! cheery! cheery!" and marcella looking up into the tree above the house to see the robins, discovered raggedy ann peeping over the limb at her. [illustration] oh, how her heart beat with happiness. "here is raggedy ann," she shouted. and mamma and daddy came out and saw raggedy smiling at them, and daddy got the clothes prop and climbed out of the attic window and poked raggedy ann out of the tree and she fell right into marcella's arms where she was hugged in a tight embrace. "you'll never go up on a kite again, raggedy ann!" said marcella, "for i felt so lost without you. i will never let you leave me again." so raggedy ann went into the house and had breakfast with her little mistress and mamma and daddy smiled at each other when they peeped through the door into the breakfast room, for raggedy ann's smile was wide and very yellow. marcella, her heart full of happiness, was feeding raggedy ann part of her egg. [illustration] [illustration] raggedy ann rescues fido it was almost midnight and the dolls were asleep in their beds; all except raggedy ann. raggedy lay there, her shoe-button eyes staring straight up at the ceiling. every once in a while raggedy ann ran her rag hand up through her yarn hair. she was thinking. when she had thought for a long, long time, raggedy ann raised herself on her wabbly elbows and said, "i've thought it all out." at this the other dolls shook each other and raised up saying, "listen! raggedy has thought it all out!" "tell us what you have been thinking, dear raggedy," said the tin soldier. "we hope they were pleasant thoughts." "not very pleasant thoughts!" said raggedy, as she brushed a tear from her shoe-button eyes. "you haven't seen fido all day, have you?" "not since early this morning," the french dolly said. "it has troubled me," said raggedy, "and if my head was not stuffed with lovely new white cotton, i am sure it would have ached with the worry! when mistress took me into the living-room this afternoon she was crying, and i heard her mamma say, 'we will find him! he is sure to come home soon!' and i knew they were talking of fido! he must be lost!" the tin soldier jumped out of bed and ran over to fido's basket, his tin feet clicking on the floor as he went. "he is not here," he said. "when i was sitting in the window about noon-time," said the indian doll, "i saw fido and a yellow scraggly dog playing out on the lawn and they ran out through a hole in the fence!" "that was priscilla's dog, peterkins!" said the french doll. "i know poor mistress is very sad on account of fido," said the dutch doll, "because i was in the dining-room at supper-time and i heard her daddy tell her to eat her supper and he would go out and find fido; but i had forgotten all about it until now." "that is the trouble with all of us except raggedy ann!" cried the little penny doll, in a squeaky voice, "she has to think for all of us!" "i think it would be a good plan for us to show our love for mistress and try and find fido!" exclaimed raggedy. "it is a good plan, raggedy ann!" cried all the dolls. "tell us how to start about it." "well, first let us go out upon the lawn and see if we can track the dogs!" said raggedy. "i can track them easily!" the indian doll said, "for indians are good at trailing things!" "then let us waste no more time in talking!" said raggedy ann, as she jumped from bed, followed by the rest. the nursery window was open, so the dolls helped each other up on the sill and then jumped to the soft grass below. they fell in all sorts of queer attitudes, but of course the fall did not hurt them. at the hole in the fence the indian doll picked up the trail of the two dogs, and the dolls, stringing out behind, followed him until they came to peterkins' house. peterkins was surprised to see the strange little figures in white nighties come stringing up the path to the dog house. [illustration] [illustration] peterkins was too large to sleep in the nursery, so he had a nice cozy dog-house under the grape arbor. "come in," peterkins said when he saw and recognized the dolls, so all the dollies went into peterkins' house and sat about while raggedy told him why they had come. "it has worried me, too!" said peterkins, "but i had no way of telling your mistress where fido was, for she cannot understand dog language! for you see," peterkins continued, "fido and i were having the grandest romp over in the park when a great big man with a funny thing on the end of a stick came running towards us. we barked at him and fido thought he was trying to play with us and went up too close and do you know, that wicked man caught fido in the thing at the end of the stick and carried him to a wagon and dumped him in with a lot of other dogs!" "_the dog catcher!_" cried raggedy ann. "yes!" said peterkins, as he wiped his eyes with his paws. "it was the dog catcher! for i followed the wagon at a distance and i saw him put all the dogs into a big wire pen, so that none could get out!" "then you know the way there, peterkins?" asked raggedy ann. "yes, i can find it easily," peterkins said. "then show us the way!" raggedy ann cried, "for we must try to rescue fido." so peterkins led the way up alleys and across streets, the dolls all pattering along behind him. it was a strange procession. once a strange dog ran out at them, but peterkins told him to mind his own business and the strange dog returned to his own yard. at last they came to the dog catcher's place. some of the dogs in the pen were barking at the moon and others were whining and crying. [illustration] there was fido, all covered with mud, and his pretty red ribbon dragging on the ground. my, but he was glad to see the dolls and peterkins! all the dogs came to the side of the pen and twisted their heads from side to side, gazing in wonder at the queer figures of the dolls. "we will try and let you out," said raggedy ann. at this all the dogs barked joyfully. then raggedy ann, the other dolls and peterkins went to the gate. the catch was too high for raggedy ann to reach, but peterkins held raggedy ann in his mouth and stood up on his hind legs so that she could raise the catch. when the catch was raised, the dogs were so anxious to get out they pushed and jumped against the gate so hard it flew open, knocking peterkins and raggedy ann into the mud. such a yapping and barking was never heard in the neighborhood as when the dogs swarmed out of the enclosure, jumping over one another and scrambling about in the mad rush out the gate. fido picked himself up from where he had been rolled by the large dogs and helped raggedy ann to her feet. he, peterkins, and all the dolls ran after the pack of dogs, turning the corner just as the dog catcher came running out of the house in his nightgown to see what was causing the trouble. he stopped in astonishment when he saw the string of dolls in white nighties pattering down the alley, for he could not imagine what they were. well, you may be sure the dolls thanked peterkins for his kind assistance and they and fido ran on home, for a faint light was beginning to show in the east where the sun was getting ready to come up. when they got to their own home they found an old chair out in the yard and after a great deal of work they finally dragged it to the window and thus managed to get into the nursery again. fido was very grateful to raggedy ann and the other dolls and before he went to his basket he gave them each a lick on the cheek. [illustration] the dolls lost no time in scrambling into bed and pulling up the covers, for they were very sleepy, but just as they were dozing off, raggedy ann raised herself and said, "if my legs and arms were not stuffed with nice clean cotton i feel sure they would ache, but being stuffed with nice clean white cotton, they do not ache and i could not feel happier if my body were stuffed with sunshine, for i know how pleased and happy mistress will be in the morning when she discovers fido asleep in his own little basket, safe and sound at home." and as the dollies by this time were all asleep, raggedy ann pulled the sheet up to her chin and smiled so hard she ripped two stitches out of the back of her rag head. [illustration] [illustration] raggedy ann and the painter when housecleaning time came around, mistress' mamma decided that she would have the nursery repainted and new paper put upon the walls. that was why all the dolls happened to be laid helter-skelter upon one of the high shelves. mistress had been in to look at them and wished to put them to bed, but as the painters were coming again in the early morning, mamma thought it best that their beds be piled in the closet. so the dolls' beds were piled into the closet, one on top of another and the dolls were placed upon the high shelf. when all was quiet that night, raggedy ann who was on the bottom of the pile of dolls spoke softly and asked the others if they would mind moving along the shelf. "the cotton in my body is getting mashed as flat as a pancake!" said raggedy ann. and although the tin soldier was piled so that his foot was pressed into raggedy's face, she still wore her customary smile. so the dolls began moving off to one side until raggedy ann was free to sit up. "ah, that's a great deal better!" she said, stretching her arms and legs to get the kinks out of them, and patting her dress into shape. "well, i'll be glad when morning comes!" she said finally, "for i know mistress will take us out in the yard and play with us under the trees." so the dolls sat and talked until daylight, when the painters came to work. one of the painters, a young fellow, seeing the dolls, reached up and took raggedy ann down from the shelf. "look at this rag doll, jim," he said to one of the other painters, "she's a daisy," and he took raggedy ann by the hands and danced with her while he whistled a lively tune. raggedy ann's heels hit the floor thumpity-thump and she enjoyed it immensely. the other dolls sat upon the shelf and looked straight before them, for it would never do to let grown-up men know that dolls were really alive. "better put her back upon the shelf," said one of the other men. "you'll have the little girl after you! the chances are that she likes that old rag doll better than any of the others!" but the young painter twisted raggedy ann into funny attitudes and laughed and laughed as she looped about. finally he got to tossing her up in the air and catching her. this was great fun for raggedy and as she sailed up by the shelf the dolls all smiled at her, for it pleased them whenever raggedy ann was happy. but the young fellow threw raggedy ann up into the air once too often and when she came down he failed to catch her and she came down _splash_, head first into a bucket of oily paint. "i told you!" said the older painter, "and now you are in for it!" "my goodness! i didn't mean to do it!" said the young fellow, "what had i better do with her?" "better put her back on the shelf!" replied the other. so raggedy was placed back upon the shelf and the paint ran from her head and trickled down upon her dress. [illustration] [illustration] after breakfast, mistress came into the nursery and saw raggedy all covered with paint and she began crying. the young painter felt sorry and told her how it had happened. "if you will let me," he said, "i will take her home with me and will clean her up tonight and will bring her back day after tomorrow." so raggedy was wrapped in a newspaper that evening and carried away. all the dolls felt sad that night without raggedy ann near them. "poor raggedy! i could have cried when i saw her all covered with paint!" said the french doll. "she didn't look like our dear old raggedy ann at all!" said the tin soldier, who wiped the tears from his eyes so that they would not run down on his arms and rust them. "the paint covered her lovely smile and nose and you could not see the laughter in her shoe-button eyes!" said the indian doll. and so the dolls talked that night and the next. but in the daytime when the painters were there, they kept very quiet. the second day raggedy was brought home and the dolls were all anxious for night to come so that they could see and talk with raggedy ann. at last the painters left and the house was quiet, for mistress had been in and placed raggedy on the shelf with the other dolls. "tell us all about it, raggedy dear!" the dolls cried. "oh i am so glad i fell in the paint!" cried raggedy, after she had hugged all the dolls, "for i have had the happiest time. the painter took me home and told his mamma how i happened to be covered with paint and she was very sorry. she took a rag and wiped off my shoe-button eyes and then i saw that she was a very pretty, sweet-faced lady and she got some cleaner and wiped off most of the paint on my face. [illustration] "but you know," raggedy continued, "the paint had soaked through my rag head and had made the cotton inside all sticky and soggy and i could not think clearly. and my yarn hair was all matted with paint. "so the kind lady took off my yarn hair and cut the stitches out of my head, and took out all the painty cotton. "it was a great relief, although it felt queer at first and my thoughts seemed scattered. "she left me in her work-basket that night and hung me out upon the clothes-line the next morning when she had washed the last of the paint off. "and while i hung out on the clothes-line, what do you think?" "we could never guess!" all the dolls cried. "why a dear little jenny wren came and picked enough cotton out of me to make a cute little cuddly nest in the grape arbor!" "wasn't that sweet!" cried all the dolls. "yes indeed it was!" replied raggedy ann, "it made me very happy. then when the lady took me in the house again she stuffed me with lovely nice new cotton, all the way from my knees up and sewed me up and put new yarn on my head for hair and--and--and it's a secret!" said raggedy ann. "oh tell us the secret!" cried all the dolls, as they pressed closer to raggedy. "well, i know you will not tell anyone who would not be glad to know about it, so i will tell you the secret and why i am wearing my smile a trifle broader!" said raggedy ann. the dolls all said that raggedy ann's smile was indeed a quarter of an inch wider on each side. [illustration] "when the dear lady put the new white cotton in my body," said raggedy ann "she went to the cupboard and came back with a paper bag. and she took from the bag ten or fifteen little candy hearts with mottos on them and she hunted through the candy hearts until she found a beautiful red one which she sewed up in me with the cotton! so that is the secret, and that is why i am so happy! feel here," said raggedy ann. all the dolls could feel raggedy ann's beautiful new candy heart and they were very happy for her. after all had hugged each other good night and had cuddled up for the night, the tin soldier asked, "did you have a chance to see what the motto on your new candy heart was, raggedy ann?" "oh yes," replied raggedy ann, "i was so happy i forgot to tell you. it had printed upon it in nice blue letters, 'i love you.'" [illustration] [illustration] raggedy ann's trip on the river when marcella had a tea party out in the orchard, of course all of the dolls were invited. raggedy ann, the tin soldier, the indian doll and all the others--even the four little penny dolls in the spool box. after a lovely tea party with ginger cookies and milk, of course the dolls were very sleepy, at least marcella thought so, so she took all except raggedy ann into the house and put them to bed for the afternoon nap. then marcella told raggedy ann to stay there and watch the things. as there was nothing else to do, raggedy ann waited for marcella to return. and as she watched the little ants eating cookie crumbs marcella had thrown to them, she heard all of a sudden the patter of puppy feet behind her. it was fido. the puppy dog ran up to raggedy ann and twisted his head about as he looked at her. then he put his front feet out and barked in raggedy ann's face. raggedy ann tried to look very stern, but she could not hide the broad smile painted on her face. "oh, you want to play, do you?" the puppy dog barked, as he jumped at raggedy ann and then jumped back again. the more raggedy ann smiled, the livelier fido's antics became, until finally he caught the end of her dress and dragged her about. this was great fun for the puppy dog, but raggedy ann did not enjoy it. she kicked and twisted as much as she could, but the puppy dog thought raggedy was playing. he ran out the garden gate and down the path across the meadow, every once in a while stopping and pretending he was very angry. when he pretended this, fido would give raggedy ann a great shaking, making her yarn head hit the ground "ratty-tat-tat." then he would give his head a toss and send raggedy ann high in the air where she would turn over two or three times before she reached the ground. by this time, she had lost her apron and now some of her yarn hair was coming loose. as fido neared the brook, another puppy dog came running across the foot-bridge to meet him. "what have you there, fido?" said the new puppy dog as he bounced up to raggedy ann. "this is raggedy ann," answered fido. "she and i are having a lovely time playing." you see, fido really thought raggedy enjoyed being tossed around and whirled high up in the air. but of course she didn't. however, the game didn't last much longer. as raggedy ann hit the ground the new puppy dog caught her dress and ran with her across the bridge, fido barking close behind him. in the center of the bridge, fido caught up with the new puppy dog and they had a lively tug-of-war with raggedy ann stretched between then. as they pulled and tugged and flopped raggedy ann about, somehow she fell over the side of the bridge into the water. the puppy dogs were surprised, and fido was very sorry indeed, for he remembered how good raggedy ann had been to him and how she had rescued him from the dog-pound. but the current carried raggedy ann right along and all fido could do was to run along the bank and bark. [illustration] [illustration] now, you would have thought raggedy ann would sink, but no, she floated nicely, for she was stuffed with clean white cotton and the water didn't soak through very quickly. after a while, the strange puppy and fido grew tired of running along the bank and the strange puppy scampered home over the meadow, with his tail carried gaily over his back as if he had nothing to be ashamed of. but fido walked home very sorry indeed. his little heart was broken to think that he had caused raggedy ann to be drowned. but raggedy ann didn't drown--not a bit of it. in fact, she even went to sleep on the brook, for the motion of the current was very soothing as it carried her along--just like being rocked by marcella. so, sleeping peacefully, raggedy ann drifted along with the current until she came to a pool where she lodged against a large stone. raggedy ann tried to climb upon the stone, but by this time the water had thoroughly soaked through raggedy ann's nice, clean, white cotton stuffing and she was so heavy she could not climb. so there she had to stay until marcella and daddy came along and found her. you see, they had been looking for her. they had found pieces of her apron all along the path and across the meadow where fido and the strange puppy dog had shaken them from raggedy ann. so they followed the brook until they found her. when daddy fished raggedy ann from the water, marcella hugged her so tightly to her breast the water ran from raggedy ann and dripped all over marcella's apron. but marcella was so glad to find raggedy ann again she didn't mind it a bit. she just hurried home and took off all of raggedy ann's wet clothes and placed her on a little red chair in front of the oven door, and then brought all of the other dolls in and read a fairy tale to them while raggedy ann steamed and dried. [illustration] when raggedy ann was thoroughly dry, mamma said she thought the cake must be finished and she took from the oven a lovely chocolate cake and gave marcella a large piece to have another tea party with. that night when all the house was asleep, raggedy ann raised up in bed and said to the dolls who were still awake, "i am so happy i do not feel a bit sleepy. do you know, i believe the water soaked me so thoroughly my candy heart must have melted and filled my whole body, and i do not feel the least bit angry with fido for playing with me so roughly!" so all the other dolls were happy, too, for happiness is very easy to catch when we love one another and are sweet all through. [illustration] [illustration] raggedy ann and the strange dolls raggedy ann lay just as marcella had dropped her--all sprawled out with her rag arms and legs twisted in ungraceful attitudes. her yarn hair was twisted and lay partly over her face, hiding one of her shoe-button eyes. raggedy gave no sign that she had heard, but lay there smiling at the ceiling. perhaps raggedy ann knew that what the new dolls said was true. but sometimes the truth may hurt and this may have been the reason raggedy ann lay there so still. "did you ever see such an ungainly creature!" "i do believe it has shoe buttons for eyes!" "and yarn hair!" "mercy, did you ever see such feet!" the dutch doll rolled off the doll sofa and said "mamma" in his quavery voice, he was so surprised at hearing anyone speak so of beloved raggedy ann--dear raggedy ann, she of the candy heart, whom all the dolls loved. uncle clem was also very much surprised and offended. he walked up in front of the two new dolls and looked them sternly in the eyes, but he could think of nothing to say so he pulled at his yarn mustache. marcella had only received the two new dolls that morning. they had come in the morning mail and were presents from an aunt. marcella had named the two new dolls annabel-lee and thomas, after her aunt and uncle. annabel-lee and thomas were beautiful dolls and must have cost heaps and heaps of shiny pennies, for both were handsomely dressed and had _real_ hair! annabel's hair was of a lovely shade of auburn and thomas' was golden yellow. annabel was dressed in soft, lace-covered silk and upon her head she wore a beautiful hat with long silk ribbons tied in a neat bow-knot beneath her dimpled chin. thomas was dressed in an oliver twist suit of dark velvet with a lace collar. both he and annabel wore lovely black slippers and short stockings. they were sitting upon two of the little red doll chairs where marcella had placed them and where they could see the other dolls. when uncle clem walked in front of them and pulled his mustache they laughed outright. "tee-hee-hee!" they snickered, "he has holes in his knees!" quite true. uncle clem was made of worsted and the moths had eaten his knees and part of his kiltie. he had a kiltie, you see, for uncle clem was a scotch doll. uncle clem shook, but he felt so hurt he could think of nothing to say. he walked over and sat down beside raggedy ann and brushed her yarn hair away from her shoe-button eye. the tin soldier went over and sat beside them. "don't you mind what they say, raggedy!" he said, "they do not know you as we do!" "we don't care to know her!" said annabel-lee as she primped her dress, "she looks like a scarecrow!" "and the soldier must have been made with a can opener!" laughed thomas. [illustration] [illustration] "you should be ashamed of yourselves!" said the french dolly, as she stood before annabel and thomas, "you will make all of us sorry that you have joined our family if you continue to poke fun at us and look down upon us. we are all happy here together and share in each others' adventures and happiness." now, that night marcella did not undress the two new dolls, for she had no nighties for them, so she let them sit up in the two little red doll chairs so they would not muss their clothes. "i will make nighties for you tomorrow!" she said as she kissed them good night. then she went over and gave raggedy ann a good night hug. "take good care of all my children, raggedy!" she said as she went out. annabel and thomas whispered together, "perhaps we have been too hasty in our judgment!" said annabel-lee. "this raggedy ann seems to be a favorite with the mistress and with all the dolls!" "there must be a reason!" replied thomas, "i am beginning to feel sorry that we spoke of her looks. one really cannot help one's looks after all." now, annabel-lee and thomas were very tired after their long journey and soon they fell asleep and forgot all about the other dolls. when they were sound asleep, raggedy ann slipped quietly from her bed and awakened the tin soldier and uncle clem and the three tiptoed to the two beautiful new dolls. they lifted them gently so as not to awaken them and carried them to raggedy ann's bed. raggedy ann tucked them in snugly and lay down upon the hard floor. the tin soldier and uncle clem both tried to coax raggedy ann into accepting their bed (they slept together), but raggedy ann would not hear of it. "i am stuffed with nice soft cotton and the hard floor does not bother me at all!" said raggedy. [illustration] at daybreak the next morning annabel and thomas awakened to find themselves in raggedy ann's bed and as they raised up and looked at each other each knew how ashamed the other felt, for they knew raggedy ann had generously given them her bed. there raggedy ann lay; all sprawled out upon the hard floor, her rag arms and legs twisted in ungraceful attitudes. "how good and honest she looks!" said annabel. "it must be her shoe-button eyes!" "how nicely her yarn hair falls in loops over her face!" exclaimed thomas, "i did not notice how pleasant her face looked last night!" "the others seem to love her ever and ever so much!" mused annabel. "it must be because she is so kind." both new dolls were silent for a while, thinking deeply. "how do you feel?" thomas finally asked. "very much ashamed of myself!" answered annabel, "and you, thomas?" "as soon as raggedy ann awakens, i shall tell her just how much ashamed i am of myself and if she can, i want her to forgive me!" thomas said. "the more i look at her, the better i like her!" said annabel. "i am going to kiss her!" said thomas. "you'll awaken her if you do!" said annabel. but thomas climbed out of bed and kissed raggedy ann on her painted cheek and smoothed her yarn hair from her rag forehead. and annabel-lee climbed out of bed, too, and kissed raggedy ann. then thomas and annabel-lee gently carried raggedy ann and put her in her own bed and tenderly tucked her in, and then took their seats in the two little red chairs. after a while annabel said softly to thomas, "i feel ever and ever so much better and happier!" [illustration] "so do i!" thomas replied. "it's like a whole lot of sunshine coming into a dark room, and i shall always try to keep it there!" fido had one fuzzy white ear sticking up over the edge of his basket and he gave his tail a few thumps against his pillow. raggedy ann lay quietly in bed where thomas and annabel had tucked her. and as she smiled at the ceiling, her candy heart (with "i love you" written on it) thrilled with contentment, for, as you have probably guessed, raggedy ann had not been asleep at all! [illustration] [illustration] raggedy ann and the kittens raggedy ann had been away all day. marcella had come early in the morning and dressed all the dolls and placed them about the nursery. some of the dolls had been put in the little red chairs around the little doll table. there was nothing to eat upon the table except a turkey, a fried egg and an apple, all made of plaster of paris and painted in natural colors. the little teapot and other doll dishes were empty, but marcella had told them to enjoy their dinner while she was away. the french dolly had been given a seat upon the doll sofa and uncle clem had been placed at the piano. marcella picked up raggedy ann and carried her out of the nursery when she left, telling the dolls to "be real good children, while mamma is away!" when the door closed, the tin soldier winked at the dutch-boy doll and handed the imitation turkey to the penny dolls. "have some nice turkey?" he asked. "no thank you!" the penny dolls said in little penny-doll, squeaky voices, "we have had all we can eat!" "shall i play you a tune?" asked uncle clem of the french doll. at this all the dolls laughed, for uncle clem could not begin to play any tune. raggedy ann was the only doll who had ever taken lessons, and she could play peter-peter-pumpkin-eater with one hand. in fact, marcella had almost worn out raggedy ann's right hand teaching it to her. "play something lively!" said the french doll, as she giggled behind her hand, so uncle clem began hammering the eight keys on the toy piano with all his might until a noise was heard upon the stairs. quick as a wink, all the dolls took the same positions in which they had been placed by marcella, for they did not wish really truly people to know that they could move about. but it was only fido. he put his nose in the door and looked around. all the dolls at the table looked steadily at the painted food, and uncle clem leaned upon the piano keys looking just as unconcerned as when he had been placed there. then fido pushed the door open and came into the nursery wagging his tail. he walked over to the table and sniffed, in hopes marcella had given the dolls real food and that some would still be left. "where's raggedy ann?" fido asked, when he had satisfied himself that there was no food. "mistress took raggedy ann and went somewhere!" all the dolls answered in chorus. "i've found something i must tell raggedy ann about!" said fido, as he scratched his ear. "is it a secret?" asked the penny dolls. "secret nothing," replied fido, "it's kittens!" "how lovely!" cried all the dolls, "really live kittens?" "really live kittens!" replied fido, "three little tiny ones, out in the barn!" "oh, i wish raggedy ann was here!" cried the french doll. "she would know what to do about it!" [illustration] "that's why i wanted to see her," said fido, as he thumped his tail on the floor, "i did not know there were any kittens and i went into the barn to hunt for mice and the first thing i knew mamma cat came bouncing right at me with her eyes looking green! i tell you i hurried out of there!" [illustration] "how did you know there were any kittens then?" asked uncle clem. "i waited around the barn until mamma cat went up to the house and then i slipped into the barn again, for i knew there must be something inside or she would not have jumped at me that way! we are always very friendly, you know." fido continued. "and what was my surprise to find three tiny little kittens in an old basket, 'way back in a dark corner!" "go get them, fido, and bring them up so we can see them!" said the tin soldier. "not me!" said fido, "if i had a suit of tin clothes on like you have i might do it, but you know cats can scratch very hard if they want to!" "we will tell raggedy when she comes in!" said the french doll, and then fido went out to play with a neighbor dog. so when raggedy ann had been returned to the nursery the dolls could hardly wait until marcella had put on their nighties and left them for the night. then they told raggedy ann all about the kittens. raggedy ann jumped from her bed and ran over to fido's basket; he wasn't there. then raggedy suggested that all the dolls go out to the barn and see the kittens. this they did easily, for the window was open and it was but a short jump to the ground. they found fido out near the barn watching a hole. "i was afraid something might disturb them," he said, "for mamma cat went away about an hour ago." all the dolls, with raggedy ann in the lead, crawled through the hole and ran to the basket. [illustration] just as raggedy ann started to pick up one of the kittens there was a lot of howling and yelping and fido came bounding through the hole with mamma cat behind him. when mamma cat caught up with fido he would yelp. when fido and mamma cat had circled the barn two or three times fido managed to find the hole and escape to the yard; then mamma cat came over to the basket and saw all the dolls. "i'm s'prised at you, mamma cat!" said raggedy ann, "fido has been watching your kittens for an hour while you were away. he wouldn't hurt them for anything!" "i'm sorry, then," said mamma cat. "you must trust fido, mamma cat!" said raggedy ann, "because he loves you and anyone who loves you can be trusted!" "that's so!" replied mamma cat. "cats love mice, too, and i wish the mice trusted us more!" the dolls all laughed at this joke. "have you told the folks up at the house about your dear little kittens?" raggedy ann asked. "oh, my, no!" exclaimed mamma cat. "at the last place i lived the people found out about my kittens and do you know, all the kittens disappeared! i intend keeping this a secret!" "but all the folks at this house are very kindly people and would dearly love your kittens!" cried all the dolls. "let's take them right up to the nursery!" said raggedy ann, "and mistress can find them there in the morning!" "how lovely!" said all the dolls in chorus. "do, mamma cat! raggedy ann knows, for she is stuffed with nice clean white cotton and is very wise!" so after a great deal of persuasion, mamma cat finally consented. raggedy ann took two of the kittens and carried them to the house while mamma cat carried the other. raggedy ann wanted to give the kittens her bed, but fido, who was anxious to prove his affection, insisted that mamma cat and the kittens should have his nice soft basket. [illustration] the dolls could hardly sleep that night; they were so anxious to see what mistress would say when she found the dear little kittens in the morning. raggedy ann did not sleep a wink, for she shared her bed with fido and he kept her awake whispering to her. in the morning when marcella came to the nursery, the first thing she saw was the three little kittens. she cried out in delight and carried them all down to show to mamma and daddy. mamma cat went trailing along, arching her back and purring with pride as she rubbed against all the chairs and doors. mamma and daddy said the kittens could stay in the nursery and belong to marcella, so marcella took them back to fido's basket while she hunted names for them out of a fairy tale book. marcella finally decided upon three names; prince charming for the white kitty, cinderella for the maltese and princess golden for the kitty with the yellow stripes. so that is how the three little kittens came to live in the nursery. and it all turned out just as raggedy ann had said, for her head was stuffed with clean white cotton, and she could think exceedingly wise thoughts. and mamma cat found out that fido was a very good friend, too. she grew to trust him so much she would even let him help wash the kittens' faces. [illustration] [illustration] raggedy ann and the fairies' gift all the dolls were tucked snugly in their little doll-beds for the night and the large house was very still. every once in a while fido would raise one ear and partly open one eye, for his keen dog sense seemed to tell him that something was about to happen. finally he opened both eyes, sniffed into the air and, getting out of his basket and shaking himself, he trotted across the nursery to raggedy ann's bed. fido put his cold nose in raggedy ann's neck. she raised her head from the little pillow. "oh! it's you, fido!" said raggedy ann. "i dreamed the tin soldier put an icicle down my neck!" "i can't sleep," fido told raggedy ann. "i feel that something is about to happen!" "you have been eating too many bones lately, fido, and they keep you awake," raggedy replied. "no, it isn't that. i haven't had any bones since the folks had beef last sunday. it isn't that. listen, raggedy!" raggedy ann listened. there was a murmur as if someone were singing, far away. "what is it?" asked fido. "sh!" cautioned raggedy ann, "it's music." it was indeed music, the most beautiful music raggedy ann had ever heard. it grew louder, but still seemed to be _far_ away. raggedy ann and fido could hear it distinctly and it sounded as if hundreds of voices were singing in unison. "please don't howl, fido," raggedy ann said as she put her two rag arms around the dog's nose. fido usually "sang" when he heard music. but fido did not sing this time; he was filled with wonder. it seemed as if something very nice was going to happen. raggedy ann sat upright in bed. the room was flooded with a strange, beautiful light and the music came floating in through the nursery window. raggedy ann hopped from her bed and ran across the floor, trailing the bed clothes behind her. fido followed close behind and together they looked out the window across the flower garden. there among the flowers were hundreds of tiny beings, some playing on tiny reed instruments and flower horns, while others sang. this was the strange, wonderful music raggedy and fido had heard. "it's the fairies!" said raggedy ann. "to your basket quick, fido! they are coming this way!" and raggedy ann ran back to her bed, with the bed clothes trailing behind her. fido gave three jumps and he was in his basket, pretending he was sound asleep, but one little black eye was peeping through a chink in the side. raggedy jumped into her bed and pulled the covers to her chin, but lay so that her shoe-button eyes could see towards the window. [illustration] little fairy forms radiant as silver came flitting into the nursery, singing in far away voices. they carried a little bundle. a beautiful light came from this bundle, and to raggedy ann and fido it seemed like sunshine and moonshine mixed. it was a soft mellow light, just the sort of light you would expect to accompany fairy folk. [illustration] as raggedy watched, her candy heart went pitty-pat against her cotton stuffing, for she saw a tiny pink foot sticking out of the bundle of light. the fairy troop sailed across the nursery and through the door with their bundle and raggedy ann and fido listened to their far away music as they went down the hall. presently the fairies returned without the bundle and disappeared through the nursery window. raggedy ann and fido again ran to the window and saw the fairy troop dancing among the flowers. the light from the bundle still hung about the nursery and a strange lovely perfume floated about. when the fairies' music ceased and they had flown away, raggedy ann and fido returned to raggedy's bed to think it all out. when old mister sun peeped over the garden wall and into the nursery, and the other dolls awakened, raggedy ann and fido were still puzzled. "what is it, raggedy ann?" asked the tin soldier and uncle clem, in one voice. before raggedy ann could answer, marcella came running into the nursery, gathered up all the dolls in her arms, and ran down the hall, fido jumping beside her and barking shrilly. "be quiet!" marcella said to fido, "it's asleep and you might awaken it!" mamma helped marcella arrange all the dolls in a circle around the bed so that they could all see what was in the bundle. mamma gently pulled back the soft covering and the dolls saw a tiny little fist as pink as coral, a soft little face with a cunning tiny pink nose, and a little head as bald as the french dolly's when her hair came off. my, how the dollies all chattered when they were once again left alone in the nursery! [illustration] "a dear cuddly baby brother for mistress!" said uncle clem. "a beautiful bundle of love and fairy sunshine for everybody in the house!" said raggedy ann, as she went to the toy piano and joyously played "peter-peter-pumpkin-eater" with one rag hand. [illustration] [illustration] raggedy ann and the chickens when marcella was called into the house she left raggedy sitting on the chicken yard fence. "now you sit quietly and do not stir," marcella told raggedy ann, "if you move you may fall and hurt yourself!" so, raggedy ann sat quietly, just as marcella told her, but she smiled at the chickens for she had fallen time and again and it had never hurt her in the least. she was stuffed with nice soft cotton, you see. so, there she sat until a tiny little humming-bird, in search of flower honey hummed close to raggedy ann's head and hovered near the tall hollyhocks. raggedy ann turned her rag head to see the humming-bird and lost her balance--_plump!_ she went, down amongst the chickens. the chickens scattered in all directions, all except old ironsides, the rooster. he ruffled his neck feathers and put his head down close to the ground, making a queer whistling noise as he looked fiercely at raggedy ann. but raggedy ann only smiled at old ironsides, the rooster, and ran her rag hand through her yarn hair for she did not fear him. and then something strange happened, for when she made this motion the old rooster jumped up in the air and kicked his feet out in front, knocking raggedy ann over and over. when raggedy ann stopped rolling she waved her apron at the rooster and cried, "shoo!" but instead of "shooing," old ironsides upset her again. now, two old hens who had been watching the rooster jump at raggedy ran up and as one old hen placed herself before the rooster, the other old hen caught hold of raggedy's apron and dragged her into the chicken-coop. it was dark inside and raggedy could not tell what was going on as she felt herself being pulled up over the nests. but, finally raggedy could sit up, for the old hen had quit pulling her, and as her shoe-button eyes were very good, she soon made out the shape of the old hen in front of her. "my! that's the hardest work i have done in a long time!" said the old hen, when she could catch her breath. "i was afraid mr. rooster would tear your dress and apron!" "that was a queer game he was playing, mrs. hen," said raggedy ann. the old hen chuckled 'way down in her throat, "gracious me! he wasn't playing a game, he was fighting you!" "fighting!" cried raggedy ann in surprise. "oh yes, indeed!" the old hen answered, "old ironsides, the rooster, thought you intended to harm some of the children chickens and he was fighting you!" "i am sorry that i fell inside the pen, i wouldn't harm anything," raggedy ann said. "if we tell you a secret you must promise not to tell your mistress!" said the old hens. "i promise! cross my candy heart!" said raggedy ann. then the two old hens took raggedy ann 'way back in the farthest corner of the chicken coop. there, in back of a box, they had built two nests and each old hen had ten eggs in her nest. "if your folks hear of it they will take the eggs!" said the hens, "and then we could not raise our families!" [illustration] [illustration] raggedy ann felt the eggs and they were nice and warm. "we just left the nests when you fell into the pen!" explained the old hens. "but how can the eggs grow if you sit upon them?" said raggedy. "if fido sits on any of the garden, the plants will not grow, mistress says!" "eggs are different!" one old hen explained. "in order to make the eggs hatch properly, we must sit on them three weeks and not let them get cold at any time!" "and at the end of the three weeks do the eggs sprout?" asked raggedy ann. "you must be thinking of eggplant!" cried one old hen. "these eggs hatch at the end of three weeks--they don't sprout--and then we have a lovely family of soft downy chickies; little puff balls that we can cuddle under our wings and love dearly!" "have you been sitting upon the eggs very long?" raggedy asked. "neither one of us has kept track of the time," said one hen. "so we do not know! you see, we never leave the nests only just once in a while to get a drink and to eat a little. so we can hardly tell when it is day and when it is night." "we were going out to get a drink when you fell in the pen!" said one old hen. "now we will have to sit upon the eggs and warm them up again!" the two old hens spread their feathers and nestled down upon the nests. "when you get them good and warm, i would be glad to sit upon the eggs to keep them warm until you get something to eat and drink!" said raggedy. so the two old hens walked out of the coop to finish their meal which had been interrupted by raggedy's fall and while they were gone, raggedy ann sat quietly upon the warm eggs. suddenly down beneath her she heard something go, "pick, pick!" "i hope it isn't a mouse!" raggedy ann said to herself, when she felt something move. "i wish the old hens would come back." but when they came back and saw the puzzled expression on her face, they cried, "what is it?" [illustration] raggedy ann got to her feet and looked down and there were several little fluffy, cuddly baby chickies, round as little puff-balls. "cheep! cheep! cheep!" they cried when raggedy stepped out of the nest. "baby chicks!" raggedy cried, as she stooped and picked up one of the little puff-balls. "they want to be cuddled!" the two old hens, their eyes shining with happiness, got upon the nests and spread out their soft warm feathers, "the other eggs will hatch soon!" said they. so, for several days raggedy helped the two hens hatch out the rest of the chickies and just as they finished, marcella came inside looking around. "how in the world did you get in here, raggedy ann?" she cried. "i have been looking all about for you! did the chickens drag you in here?" both old hens down behind the box clucked softly to the chickies beneath them and marcella overheard them. she lifted the box away and gave a little squeal of surprise and happiness. "oh you dear old hennypennies!" she cried, lifting both old hens from their nests. "you have hidden your nests away back here and now you have one, two, three, four--twenty chickies!" and as she counted them, marcella placed them in her apron; then catching up raggedy ann, she placed her over the new little chickies. "come on, old hennypennies!" she said, and went out of the coop with the two old hens clucking at her heels. marcella called daddy and daddy rolled two barrels out under one of the trees and made a nice bed in each. then he nailed slats across the front, leaving a place for a door. each hennypennie was then given ten little chickies and shut up in the barrel. and all the dolls were happy when they heard of raggedy's adventure and they did not have to wait long before they were all taken out to see the new chickies. [illustration] raggedy ann and the mouse jeanette was a new wax doll, and like henny, the dutch doll, she could say "mamma" when anyone tipped her backward or forward. she had lovely golden brown curls of real hair. it could be combed and braided, or curled or fluffed without tangling, and raggedy ann was very proud when jeanette came to live with the dolls. but now raggedy ann was very angry--in fact, raggedy ann had just ripped two stitches out of the top of her head when she took her rag hands and pulled her rag face down into a frown (but when she let go of the frown her face stretched right back into her usual cheery smile). and _you_ would have been angry, too, for something had happened to jeanette. something or someone had stolen into the nursery that night when the dolls were asleep and nibbled all the wax from jeanette's beautiful face--and now all her beauty was gone! "it really is a shame!" said raggedy ann as she put her arms about jeanette. "something must be done about it!" said the french doll as she stamped her little foot. "if i catch the culprit, i will--well, i don't know what i will do with him!" said the tin soldier, who could be very fierce at times, although he was seldom cross. "here is the hole he came from!" cried uncle clem from the other end of the nursery. "come, see!" all the dolls ran to where uncle clem was, down on his hands and knees. "this must be the place!" said raggedy ann. "we will plug up the hole with something, so he will not come out again!" the dolls hunted around and brought rags and pieces of paper and pushed them into the mouse's doorway. "i thought i heard nibbling last night," one of the penny dolls said. "you know i begged for an extra piece of pie last evening, when mistress had me at the table and it kept me awake!" while the dolls were talking, marcella ran down-stairs with jeanette and told daddy and mamma, who came up-stairs with marcella and hunted around until they discovered the mouse's doorway. "oh, why couldn't it have chewed on me?" raggedy ann asked herself when she saw marcella's sorrowful face, for raggedy ann was never selfish. "daddy will take jeanette down-town with him and have her fixed up as good as new," said mamma, so jeanette was wrapped in soft tissue paper and taken away. later in the day marcella came bouncing into the nursery with a surprise for the dolls. it was a dear fuzzy little kitten. marcella introduced the kitten to all the dolls. "her name is boots, because she has four little white feet!" said marcella. so boots, the happy little creature, played with the penny dolls, scraping them over the floor and peeping out from behind chairs and pouncing upon them as if they were mice and the penny dolls enjoyed it hugely. when marcella was not in the nursery, raggedy ann wrestled with boots and they would roll over and over upon the floor, boots with her front feet around raggedy ann's neck and kicking with her hind feet. [illustration] then boots would arch her back and pretend she was very angry and walk sideways until she was close to raggedy. then she would jump at her and over and over they would roll, their heads hitting the floor bumpity-bump. boots slept in the nursery that night and was lonely for her mamma, for it was the first time she had been away from home. even though her bed was right on top of raggedy ann, she could not sleep. but raggedy ann was very glad to have boots sleep with her, even if she was heavy, and when boots began crying for her mamma, raggedy ann comforted her and soon boots went to sleep. one day jeanette came home. she had a new coating of wax on her face and she was as beautiful as ever. now, by this time boots was one of the family and did not cry at night. besides boots was told of the mouse in the corner and how he had eaten jeanette's wax, so she promised to sleep with one eye open. late that night when boots was the only one awake, out popped a tiny mouse from the hole. boots jumped after the mouse, and hit against the toy piano and made the keys tinkle so loudly it awakened the dolls. they ran over to where boots sat growling with the tiny mouse in her mouth. my! how the mouse was squeaking! raggedy ann did not like to hear it squeak, but she did not wish jeanette to have her wax face chewed again, either. so, raggedy ann said to the tiny little mouse, "you should have known better than to come here when boots is with us. why don't you go out in the barn and live where you will not destroy anything of value?" "i did not know!" squeaked the little mouse, "this is the first time i have ever been here!" "aren't you the little mouse who nibbled jeanette's wax face?" raggedy ann asked. "no!" the little mouse answered. "i was visiting the mice inside the walls and wandered out here to pick up cake crumbs! i have three little baby mice at home down in the barn. i have never nibbled at anyone's wax face!" "are you a mamma mouse?" uncle clem asked. "yes!" the little mouse squeaked, "and if the kitten will let me go i will run right home to my children and never return again!" "let her go, boots!" the dolls all cried, "she has three little baby mice at home! please let her go!" "no, sir!" boots growled, "this is the first mouse i have ever caught and i will eat her!" at this the little mamma mouse began squeaking louder than ever. "if you do not let the mamma mouse go, boots, i shall not play with you again!" said raggedy ann. "raggedy will not play with boots again!" said all of the dolls in an awed tone. not to have raggedy play with them would have been sad, indeed. but boots only growled. the dolls drew to one side, where raggedy ann and uncle clem whispered together. and while they whispered boots would let the little mamma mouse run a piece, then she would catch it again and box it about between her paws. this she did until the poor little mamma mouse grew so tired it could scarcely run away from boots. boots would let it get almost to the hole in the wall before she would catch it, for she knew it would not escape her. as she watched the little mouse crawling towards the hole scarcely able to move, raggedy ann could not keep the tears from her shoe-button eyes. finally as boots started to spring after the little mouse again, raggedy ann threw her rag arms around the kitten's neck. "run, mamma mouse!" raggedy ann cried, as boots whirled her over and over. uncle clem ran and pushed the mamma mouse into the hole and then she was gone. when raggedy ann took her arms from around boots, the kitten was very angry. she laid her ears back and scratched raggedy ann with her claws. but raggedy ann only smiled--it did not hurt her a bit for raggedy was sewed together with a needle and thread and if that did not hurt, how could the scratch of a kitten? finally boots felt ashamed of herself and went over and lay down by the hole in the wall in hopes the mouse would return, but the mouse never returned. even then mamma mouse was out in the barn with her children, warning them to beware of kittens and cats. raggedy ann and all the dolls then went to bed and raggedy had just dozed off to sleep when she felt something jump upon her bed. it was boots. she felt a warm little pink tongue caress her rag cheek. raggedy ann smiled happily to herself, for boots had curled up on top of raggedy ann and was purring herself to sleep. then raggedy ann knew she had been forgiven for rescuing the mamma mouse and she smiled herself to sleep and dreamed happily of tomorrow. [illustration] [illustration] raggedy ann's new sisters marcella was having a tea party up in the nursery when daddy called to her, so she left the dollies sitting around the tiny table and ran down stairs carrying raggedy ann with her. mama, daddy and a strange man were talking in the living room and daddy introduced marcella to the stranger. the stranger was a large man with kindly eyes and a cheery smile, as pleasant as raggedy ann's. he took marcella upon his knee and ran his fingers through her curls as he talked to daddy and mamma, so, of course, raggedy ann liked him from the beginning. "i have two little girls," he told marcella. "their names are virginia and doris, and one time when we were at the sea-shore they were playing in the sand and they covered up freddy, doris' boy-doll in the sand. they were playing that freddy was in bathing and that he wanted to be covered with the clean white sand, just as the other bathers did. and when they had covered freddy they took their little pails and shovels and went farther down the beach to play and forgot all about freddy. "now when it came time for us to go home, virginia and doris remembered freddy and ran down to get him, but the tide had come in and freddy was 'way out under the water and they could not find him. virginia and doris were very sad and they talked of freddy all the way home." "it was too bad they forgot freddy," said marcella. "yes, indeed it was!" the new friend replied as he took raggedy ann up and made her dance on marcella's knee. "but it turned out all right after all, for do you know what happened to freddy?" "no, what did happen to him?" marcella asked. "well, first of all, when freddy was covered with the sand, he enjoyed it immensely. and he did not mind it so much when the tide came up over him, for he felt virginia and doris would return and get him. "but presently freddy felt the sand above him move as if someone was digging him out. soon his head was uncovered and he could look right up through the pretty green water, and what do you think was happening? the tide fairies were uncovering freddy! "when he was completely uncovered, the tide fairies swam with freddy 'way out to the undertow fairies. the undertow fairies took freddy and swam with him 'way out to the roller fairies. the roller fairies carried freddy up to the surface and tossed him up to the spray fairies who carried him to the wind fairies." "and the wind fairies?" marcella asked breathlessly. "the wind fairies carried freddy right to our garden and there virginia and doris found him, none the worse for his wonderful adventure!" "freddy must have enjoyed it and your little girls must have been very glad to get freddy back again!" said marcella. "raggedy ann went up in the air on the tail of a kite one day and fell and was lost, so now i am very careful with her!" "would you let me take raggedy ann for a few days?" asked the new friend. marcella was silent. she liked the stranger friend, but she did not wish to lose raggedy ann. [illustration] "i will promise to take very good care of her and return her to you in a week. will you let her go with me, marcella?" marcella finally agreed and when the stranger friend left, he placed raggedy ann in his grip. "it is lonely without raggedy ann!" said the dollies each night. "we miss her happy painted smile and her cheery ways!" they said. and so the week dragged by.... but, my! what a chatter there was in the nursery the first night after raggedy ann returned. all the dolls were so anxious to hug raggedy ann they could scarcely wait until marcella had left them alone. when they had squeezed raggedy ann almost out of shape and she had smoothed out her yarn hair, patted her apron out and felt her shoe-button eyes to see if they were still there, she said, "well, what have you been doing? tell me all the news!" "oh we have just had the usual tea parties and games!" said the tin soldier. "tell us about yourself, raggedy dear, we have missed you so much!" "yes! tell us where you have been and what you have done, raggedy!" all the dolls cried. but raggedy ann just then noticed that one of the penny dolls had a hand missing. "how did this happen?" she asked as she picked up the doll. "i fell off the table and lit upon the tin soldier last night when we were playing. but don't mind a little thing like that, raggedy ann," replied the penny doll. "tell us of yourself! have you had a nice time?" "i shall not tell a thing until your hand is mended!" raggedy ann said. so the indian ran and brought a bottle of glue. "where's the hand?" raggedy asked. "in my pocket," the penny doll answered. [illustration] when raggedy ann had glued the penny doll's hand in place and wrapped a rag around it to hold it until the glue dried, she said, "when i tell you of this wonderful adventure, i know you will all feel very happy. it has made me almost burst my stitches with joy." the dolls all sat upon the floor around raggedy ann, the tin soldier with his arm over her shoulder. "well, first when i left," said raggedy ann, "i was placed in the stranger friend's grip. it was rather stuffy in there, but i did not mind it; in fact i believe i must have fallen asleep, for when i awakened i saw the stranger friend's hand reaching into the grip. then he lifted me from the grip and danced me upon his knee. 'what do you think of her?' he asked to three other men sitting nearby. "i was so interested in looking out of the window i did not pay any attention to what they said, for we were on a train and the scenery was just flying by! then i was put back in the grip. "when next i was taken from the grip i was in a large, clean, light room and there were many, many girls all dressed in white aprons. "the stranger friend showed me to another man and to the girls who took off my clothes, cut my seams and took out my cotton. and what do you think! they found my lovely candy heart had not melted at all as i thought. then they laid me on a table and marked all around my outside edges with a pencil on clean white cloth, and then the girls re-stuffed me and dressed me. "i stayed in the clean big light room for two or three days and nights and watched my sisters grow from pieces of cloth into rag dolls just like myself!" "your sisters!" the dolls all exclaimed in astonishment, "what do you mean, raggedy?" "i mean," said raggedy ann, "that the stranger friend had borrowed me from marcella so that he could have patterns made from me. and before i left the big clean white room there where hundreds of rag dolls so like me you would not have been able to tell us apart." "we could have told _you_ by your happy smile!" cried the french dolly. "but all of my sister dolls have smiles just like mine!" replied raggedy ann. "and shoe-button eyes?" the dolls all asked. "yes, shoe-button eyes!" raggedy ann replied. "i would tell you from the others by your dress, raggedy ann," said the french doll, "your dress is fifty years old! i could tell you by that!" "but my new sister rag dolls have dresses just like mine, for the stranger friend had cloth made especially for them exactly like mine." "i know how we could tell you from the other rag dolls, even if you all look exactly alike!" said the indian doll, who had been thinking for a long time. "how?" asked raggedy ann with a laugh. "by feeling your candy heart! if the doll has a candy heart then it is you, raggedy ann!" raggedy ann laughed, "i am so glad you all love me as you do, but i am sure you would not be able to tell me from my new sisters, except that i am more worn, for each new rag doll has a candy heart, and on it is written, '_i love you_' just as is written on my own candy heart." "and there are hundreds and hundreds of the new rag dolls?" asked the little penny dolls. "hundreds and hundreds of them, all named raggedy ann," replied raggedy. "then," said the penny dolls, "we are indeed happy and proud for you! for wherever one of the new raggedy ann dolls goes there will go with it the love and happiness that _you_ give to others." [illustration] [transcriber's notes: there are a few variations in hyphenation between the introduction and the stories themselves. "today" and "downstairs" occur in the introduction, while "to-day" and "down-stairs" are in the stories. chicken coop is spelled once with and once without the hyphen.] here and now story book here and now story book two- to seven-year-olds experimental stories written for the children of the city and country school (formerly the play school) and the nursery school of the bureau of educational experiments. _by_ lucy sprague mitchell _illustrated by_ hendrik willem van loon [illustration: logo - classics to grow on] _published by e. p. dutton & company, inc., for_ parents' institute, inc. publishers of parents' magazine and approved publications for young people vanderbilt avenue, new york copyright, , by e. p. dutton & company, inc. copyright (renewal) by lucy sprague mitchell _all rights reserved_ _printed in the united states of america_ contents page foreword: by caroline pratt ix introduction _content_: its educational and psychological basis _form_: its patterns in words, sentences and stories stories: _two-year-olds_: types to be adjusted to individual children. content, personal activities, told in motor and sense terms. form reduced to a succession of few simple patterns. marni takes a ride marni gets dressed in the morning _three-year-olds_: content based on enumeration of familiar sense and motor associations and simple familiar chronological sequences. some attempt to give opportunity for own contribution or for "motor enjoyment." the room with the window looking out on the garden the many horse stable my kitty the rooster and the hens the little hen and the rooster _jingles_: my horse, old dan horsie goes jog-a-jog auto, auto _four- and five-year-olds_: content, simple relationships between familiar moving objects, stressing particularly the idea of use. emphasis on sound. attempt to make verse patterns carry the significant points in the narrative. how spot found a home the dinner horses the grocery man the journey pedro's feet how the engine learned the knowing song the fog boat story hammer, saw, and plane the elephant how the animals move the sea-gull the farmer tries to sleep wonderful-cow-that-never-was things that loved the lake how the singing water got to the tub the children's new dresses old dan gets the coal _six- and seven-year-olds_: content, relationships further removed from the personal and immediate and extended to include social significance of simple familiar facts. longer-span pattern which has become organic with beginning, middle and end. the subway car boris takes a walk and finds many different kinds of trains boris walks every way in new york speed five little babies once the barn was full of hay the wind the leaf story a locomotive moon, moon automobile song silly will eben's cows the sky scraper foreword our school has always assumed that children are interested in and will work with or give expression to those things which are familiar to them. this is not new: the kindergarten gives domestic life a prominent place with little children. but with the kindergarten the present and familiar is abandoned in most schools and emphasis is placed upon that which is unfamiliar and remote. it is impossible to conceive of children working their own way from the familiar to the unknown unless they develop a method in understanding the familiar which will apply to the unfamiliar as well. this method is the method of art and science--the method of experimentation and inquiry. we can almost say that children are born with it, so soon do they begin to show signs of applying it. as they have been in the past and as they are in the present to a very great extent, schools make no attempt to provide for this method; in fact they take pains to introduce another. they are disposed to set up a rigid program which answers inquiries before they are made and supplies needs before they have been felt. we try to keep the children upon present day and familiar things until they show by their attack on materials and especially upon information that they are ready to work out into the unknown and unfamiliar. in the matter of stories and verse which fit into such a program we have always felt an almost total void. whether other schools feel this would depend upon their intentional program. surely no school would advise giving classical literature without the setting which would make the stories and verse understandable. it is a question whether the fact of desirable literature has not in the past and does not still govern our whole school program more than many educators would be willing to admit. what seems to be more logical is to set up that which is psychologically sound so far as we know it and create if need be a new literature to help support the structure. in the presence of art, schools have always taken a modest attitude. for some reason or other they seem to think it out of their province. they regard children as potential scientists, professional men and women, captains of industry, but scarcely potential artists. to what school of design, what academy of music, what school of literary production, do our common schools lead? we are not fitting our children to compose, to create, but at our best to appreciate and reproduce. mrs. mitchell as story teller in this new sense of writing stories, rather than merely telling them, is having an influence in the school which has not been altogether unlooked for. the children look upon themselves as composers in language and language thus becomes not merely a useful medium of expression but also an art medium. they regard their own content, gathered by themselves in a perfectly familiar setting as fit for use as art material. that is, just as the children draw and show power to compose with crayons and paints, they use language to compose what they term stories or occasionally, verse. often these "stories" are a mere rehearsal of experiences, but in so far as they are vivid and have some sort of fitting ending they pass as a childish art expression just as their compositions in drawing do. so far as content is concerned the school gives the children varied opportunities to know and express what they find in their environment. mrs. mitchell finds this content in the school. it is being used, it is even being expressed in language. what she particularly does is to show the possibility of using this same content as art in language. she does this both by writing stories herself and by helping the children to write. the children are not by any means read to, so much as they are encouraged to tell their own stories. these are taken down verbatim by the teachers of the younger groups. through skilful handling of several of the older groups what the children call "group stories" are produced as well as individual ones. we hope this book will bring to parents and teachers what it has to us, a new method of approach to literature for little children, and to children the joy our children have in the stories themselves. caroline pratt the city and country school july, here and now story book here and now story book introduction these stories are experiments,--experiments both in content and in form. they were written because of a deep dissatisfaction felt by a group of people working experimentally in a laboratory school, with the available literature for children. i am publishing them not because i feel they have come through to any particularly noteworthy achievement, but because they indicate a method of work which i believe to be sound where children are concerned. they must always be regarded as experiments, but experiments which have been strictly limited to lines suggested to me by the children themselves. both the stuff of the stories and the mould in which they are cast are based on suggestions gained directly from children. i have tried to put aside my notions of what was "childlike." i have tried to ignore what i, as an adult, like. i have tried to study children's interests not historically but through their present observations and inquiries, and their sense of form through their spontaneous expressions in language, and to model my own work strictly on these findings. i have forced myself throughout to be deliberate, conscious, for fear i should slip back to adult habits of thought and expression. i can give here only samples of the many stories and questions i have gathered from the children which form the basis of my own stories. suffice it that my own stories attempt to follow honestly the leads which here and now the children themselves indicate in content and in form, no matter how difficult or strange the going for adult feet. first, as to the stuff of which the story is made,--the content. i have assumed that anything to which a child gives his spontaneous attention, anything which he questions as he moves around the world, holds appropriate material about which to talk to him either in speech or in writing. i have assumed that the answers to these his spontaneous inquiries should be given always in terms of a relationship which is natural and intelligible at his age and which will help him to order the familiar facts of his own experiences. thus the answers will themselves lead him on to new inquiries. for they will give him not so much new facts as a new method of attack. i have further assumed that any of this material which by taking on a pattern form can thereby enhance or deepen its intrinsic quality is susceptible of becoming literature. material which does not lend itself to some sort of intentional design or form, may be good for informational purposes but not for stories as such. the task, then, is to examine first the things which get the spontaneous attention of a two-year-old, a three-year-old and so up to a seven-year-old; and then to determine what relationships are natural and intelligible at these ages. obviously to determine the mere subject of attention is not enough. children of all ages attend to engines. but the two-year-old attends to certain things and the seven-year-old to quite different ones. the relationships through which the two-year-old interprets his observations may make of the engine a gigantic extension of his own energy and movement; whereas the relationships through which the seven-year-old interprets his observations may make of the engine a scientific example of the expansion of steam or of the desire of men to get rapidly from one place to another. what relationship he is relying on we can get only by watching the child's own activities. the second part of the task is to discover what _is_ pattern to the untrained but unspoiled ears, eyes, muscles and minds of the little folk who are to consume the stories. each part of the task has its peculiar difficulties. but fortunately in each, children do point the way if we have the courage to forget our own adult way and follow theirs. content in looking for content for these stories i followed the general lines of the school for which they were written. the school gives the children the opportunity to explore first their own environment and gradually widens this environment for them along lines of their own inquiries. consequently i did not seek for material outside the ordinary surroundings of the children. on the contrary, i assumed that in stories as in other educational procedure, the place to begin is the point at which the child has arrived,--to begin and lead out from. with small children this point is still within the "here" and the "now," and so stories must begin with the familiar and the immediate. but also stories must lead children out from the familiar and immediate, for that is the method both of education and of art. here and now stories mean to me stories which include the children's first-hand experiences as a starting point, not stories which are literally limited to these experiences. therefore to get my basis for the stories i went to the environment in which a child of each age naturally finds himself and there i watched him. i tried to see what in his home, in his school, in the streets, he seized upon and how he made this his own. i tried to determine what were the relationships he used to order his experiences. fortunately for the purposes of writing stories i did not have to get behind the baffling eyes and the inscrutable sounds of a small baby. yet i learned much for understanding the twos by watching even through the first months. what "the great, big, blooming, buzzing confusion" (as james describes it) means to an infant, i fancy we grown-ups will really never know. but i suppose we may be sure that existence is to him largely a stream of sense impressions. also i suppose we are reasonably safe in saying that whatever the impression that reaches him he tends to translate it into action. at what age a child accomplishes what can be called a "thought" or what these first thoughts are, is surely beyond our present powers to describe. but that his early thoughts have a discernible muscular expression, i fancy we may say. it may well be that thought is merely associative memory as loeb maintains. it may well be that behaviorists are right and that thought is just "the rhythmic mimetic rehearsal of the first hand experience in motor terms." if the act of thinking is itself motor, its expression is somewhat attenuated in adults. be that as it may, a small child's expressions are still in unmistakable motor terms. it is obviously through the large muscles that a baby makes his responses. and even a three-year-old can scarcely think "engine" without showing the pull of his muscles and the puff-puffing of exertion. nor can he observe an object without making some movement towards it. he takes in through his senses; and he interprets through his muscles. for our present purposes this characteristic has an important bearing. the world pictured for the child must be a world of sounds and smells and tastes and sights and feeling and contacts. above all his early stories must be of activities and they must be told in motor terms. often we are tempted to give him reasons in response to his incessant "why?" but when he asks "why?" he really is not searching for reasons at all. a large part of the time he is not even asking a question. he merely enjoys this reciperative form of speech and is indignant if your answer is not what he expects. one of my children enjoyed this antiphonal method of following his own thoughts to such an extent that for a time he told his stories in the form of questions telling me each time what to answer! his questions had a social but no scientific bearing. and even when a three-year-old asks a real question he wants to be answered in terms of action or of sense impressions and not in terms of reasons why. how could it be otherwise since he still thinks with his senses and his muscles and not with that generalizing mechanism which conceives of cause and effect? the next time a three-year-old asks you "why you put on shoes?" see if he likes to be told "mother wears shoes when she goes out because it is cold and the sidewalks are hard," or if he prefers, "mother's going to go outdoors and take a big bus to go and buy something:" or "you listen and in a minute you'll hear mother's shoes going pat, pat, pat downstairs and then you'll hear the front door close bang! and mother won't be here any more!" "why?" really means, "please talk to me!" and naturally he likes to be talked to in terms he can understand which are essentially sensory and motor. now what activities are appropriate for the first stories? i think the answer is clear. his, the child's, own! the first activities which a child knows are of course those of his own body movements whether spontaneous or imposed upon him by another. everything is in terms of himself. again i think none of us would like to hazard a guess as to when the child comes through to a sharp distinction between himself and other things or other persons. but we are sure, i think, that this distinction is a matter of growth which extends over many years and that at two, three, and even four, it is imperfectly apprehended. we all know how long a child is in acquiring a correct use of the pronouns "me" and "you." and we know that long after he has this language distinction, he still calls everything he likes "mine." "this is my cow, this is my tree!" the only way to persuade him that it is _not_ his is to call it some one else's. possessed it must be. he knows the world only in personal terms. that is, his early sense of relationship is that of himself to his concrete environment. this later evolves into a sense of relationship between other people and their concrete environment. at first, then, a child can not transcend himself or his experiences. nor should he be asked to. a two-year-old's stories must be completely his stories with his own familiar little person moving in his own familiar background. they should vivify and deepen the sense of the one relationship he does feel keenly,--that of himself to something well-known. now a two-year-old's range of experiences is not large. at least the experiences in which he takes a real part are not many. so his stories must be of his daily routine,--his eating, his dressing, his activities with his toys and his home. these are the things to which he attends: they make up his world. and they must be his very own eating and dressing and home, and not eating and dressing and homes in general. stories which are not intimately his own, i believe either pass by or strain a two-year-old; and i doubt whether many three-year-olds can participate with pleasure and without strain in any experience which has not been lived through in person. he may of course get pleasure from the sound of the story apart from its meaning much earlier. just now we are thinking solely of the content. i well remember the struggles of my three-year-old boy to get outside himself and view a baby chicken's career objectively. he checked up each step in my story by this orienting remark, "that the baby chicken in the shell, not me! the baby chicken go scritch-scratch, not me!" was not this an evident effort to comprehend an extra-personal relationship? again just as at first a small child can not get outside himself, so he can not get outside the immediate. at first he can not by himself recall even a simple chronological sequence. he is still in the narrowest, most limiting sense, too entangled in the "here" and the "now." the plot sense emerges slowly. indeed there is slight plot value in most children's stories up to eight years. plot is present in embryonic form in the omnipresent personal drama: "where's baby? peek-a-boo! there she is!" it can be faintly detected in the pleasure a child has in an actual walk. but the pleasure he derives from the sense of completeness, the sense that a walk or a story has a beginning and a middle and an end, the real plot pleasure, is negligible compared with the pleasure he gets in the action itself. small children's experiences are and should be pretty much continuous flows of more or less equally important episodes. their stories should follow their experiences. they should have no climaxes, no sense of completion. the episodes should be put together more like a string of beads than like an organic whole. almost any section of a child's experience related in simple chronological sequence makes a satisfactory story. this can be pressed even further. there is another kind of relationship by which little children interpret their environment. it is the early manifestation of the associational process which in our adult life so largely crowds out the sensory and motor appreciation of the world. it runs way back to the baby's pleasure in recognizing things, certainly long before the period of articulate questions. we all retain vestiges of this childlike pleasure in our joyful greeting of a foreign word that is understood or in any new application of an old thought or design. as a child acquires a few words he adds the pleasure of naming,--an extension of the pleasure of recognition. this again develops into the joy of enumerating objects which are grouped together in some close association, usually physical juxtaposition. for instance a two-or three-year-old likes to have every article he ate for breakfast rehearsed or to have every member of the family named at each episode in a story which concerns the group! earlier he likes to have his five little toes checked off as pigs or merely numbered. this is closely tied up with the child's pattern sense which we shall discuss at length under "form." now the pleasure of enumeration, like that of a refrain, is in part at least a pleasure in muscle pattern. my two-year-old daughter composed a song which well illustrates the fascination of enumeration. the refrain "tick-tock" was borrowed from a song which had been sung to her. "tick-tock marni's nose, tick-tock marni's eyes, tick-tock marni's mouth, tick-tock marni's teeth, tick-tock marni's chin, tick-tock marni's romper, tick-tock marni's stockings, tick-tock marni's shoes," etc., etc. this she sang day after day, enumerating such groups as her clothes, the objects on the mantel and her toys. walt whitman has given us glorified enumerations of the most astounding vitality. if some one would only pile up equally vigorous ones for children! but it is not easy for an adult to gather mere sense or motor associations without a plot thread to string them on. the children's response to the two i have attempted in this collection, "old dan" and "my kitty," make me eager to see it tried more commonly. all this means that the small child's attention and energy are absorbed in developing a technique of observation and control of his immediate surroundings. the functioning of his senses and his muscles engrosses him. ideally his stories should happen currently along with the experience they relate or the object they reproduce, merely deepening the experience by giving it some pleasurable expression. at first the stories will have to be of this running and partly spontaneous type. but soon a child will like to have the story to recall an experience recently enjoyed. the living over of a walk, a ride, the sight of a horse or a cow, will give him a renewed sense of participation in a pleasurable activity. this is his first venture in vicarious experiences. and he must be helped to it through strong sense and muscular recalls. i have felt that these fairly literal recalls of every day details _did_ deepen his sense of relationships since by himself he cannot recapture these familiar details even in a simple chronological sequence. but if stories for a two or a three-year-old need to be of himself they must be written especially for him. those written for another two-year-old may not fit. consequently the first three stories in this collection are given as types rather than as independent narratives. "marni takes a ride" is so elementary in its substance and its form as to be hardly recognizable as a "story" at all. and yet the appeal is the same as in the more developed narratives. it falls between the embryonic story stage of "peek-a-boo!" and marni's second story. it was first told during the actual ride. repeated later it seemed to give the child a sense of adventure,--an inclusion of and still an extension of herself beyond the "here" and "now" which is the essence of a story. both of marni's stories are given as types for a mother to write for her two-year-old; the "room with the window in it" (written for the play school group) is given as a type for a teacher to write for her three-year-old group. i cannot leave the subject of the "familiar" for children without looking forward a few years. this process of investigating and trying to control his immediate surroundings, this appreciation of the world through his senses and his muscles, does not end when the child has gained some sense of his own self as distinguished from the world,--of the "me" and the "not me,"--or achieved some ability to expand temporarily the "here" and the "now" into the "there" and the "then." the process is a precious one and should not be interrupted and confused by the interjection of remote or impersonal material. he still thinks and feels primarily through his own immediate experiences. if this is interfered with he is left without his natural material for experimentation for he cannot yet experiment easily in the world of the intangible. moreover to the child the familiar _is_ the interesting. and it remains so i believe through that transition period,--somewhere about seven years,--when the child becomes poignantly aware of the world outside his own immediate experience,--of an order, physical or social, which he does not determine, and so gradually develops a sense of standards of what is to be expected in the world of nature or of his fellows along with a sense of workmanship. it is only the blind eye of the adult that finds the familiar uninteresting. the attempt to amuse children by presenting them with the strange, the bizarre, the unreal, is the unhappy result of this adult blindness. children do not find the unusual piquant until they are firmly acquainted with the usual; they do not find the preposterous humorous until they have intimate knowledge of ordinary behavior; they do not get the point of alien environments until they are securely oriented in their own. too often we mistake excitement for genuine interest and give the children stimulus instead of food. the fairy story, the circus, novelty hunting, delight the sophisticated adult; they excite and confuse the child. red riding-hood and circus indians excite the little child; cinderella confuses him. not one clarifies any relationship which will further his efforts to order the world. nonsense when recognized and enjoyed as such is more than legitimate; it is a part of every one's heritage. but nonsense which is confused with reality is vicious,--the more so because its insinuations are subtle. so far as their content is concerned, it is chiefly as a protest against this confusing presentation of unreality, this substitution of excitement for legitimate interest, that these stories have been written. it is not that a child outgrows the familiar. it is rather that as he matures, he sees new relationships in the old. if our stories would follow his lead, they should not seek for unfamiliar and strange stuff in intrigue him; they should seek to deepen and enrich the relationships by which he is dimly groping to comprehend and to order his familiar world. but to return to the younger children. children of four are not nearly so completely ego-centric as those of three. there has seemed to me to be a distinct transition at this age to a more objective way of thinking. a four-year-old does not to the same extent have to be a part of every situation he conceives of. ordinarily, too, he moves out from his own narrowly personal environment into a slightly wider range of experiences. now, what in this wider environment gets his spontaneous attention? what does he take from the street life, for instance, to make his own? surely it is moving things. he is still primarily motor in his interest and expression and remains so certainly up to six years. engines, boats, wagons with horses, all animals, his own moving self,--these are the things he notices and these are the things he interprets in his play activities. transportation and animals and himself. do not these pretty well cover the field of his interests? if conceived of as motor and personal do they not hold all the material a four-or five-year-old needs for stories? if we bring in inanimate unmoving things, we must do with them what he does. we must endow them with life and motion. we need not be afraid of personification. this is the age when anthropomorphism flourishes. the five-year-old is still motor; his conception of cause is still personal. he thinks through his muscles; he personifies in his thought and his play. nevertheless there is very real danger in anthropomorphism,--in thus leaving the world of reality. there is danger of confusing the child. we must be sure our personifications are built on relationships which our child can understand and which have an objective validity. we must be sure that a wolf remains a wolf and an engine an engine, though endowed with human speech. now, what are the typical relationships which a four-or five-year-old uses to bind together his world into intelligible experiences? we have already noted the personal relationship which persists in modified form. but does not the grouping of things because of physical juxtaposition now give way to a conception of "use"? does he not think of the world largely in terms of active functioning? has not the typical question of this age become "what's it for?" even his early definitions are in terms of use which has a strong motor implication. "a table is to eat off"; "a spoon is to eat in"; "a river means where you get drinks out of water, and catch fish, and throw stones." (waddle: introduction to child psychology, p. .) it was only consistent with his general conception of relationships in the world to have a little boy of my acquaintance examine a very small man sitting beside him in the subway and then turn to his father with the question, "what is that little man for?" stories which are offered to small children must be assessed from this two-fold point of view. what relationships are they based on? and in what terms are they told? fairy stories should not be exempted. we are inclined to accept them uncritically, feeling that they do not cramp a child as does reality. we cling to the idea that children need a fairy world to "cultivate their imaginations." in the folk tales we are intrigued by the past,--by the sense that these embodiments of human experience, having survived the ages, should be exempt from modern analysis. if, however, we do commit the sacrilege of looking at them alongside of our educational principles, i think we find a few precious ones that stand the test. for children under six, however, even these precious few contribute little in content, but much through their matchless form. on the other hand, we find that many of the human experiences which these old tales embody are quite unsuitable for four-and five-year-olds. cruelty, trickery, economic inequality,--these are experiences which have shaped and shaken adults and alas! still continue to do so. but do we wish to build them into a four-year-old's thinking? some of these experiences run counter to the trends of thinking we are trying to establish in other ways; some merely confuse them. we seem to identify imagination with gullibility or vague thinking. but surely true imagination is not based on confusion. imagination is the basis of art. but confused art is a contradiction of terms. now, the ordinary fairy tale which is the chief story diet of the four-and five-year-olds, i believe does confuse them; not because it does not stick to reality (for neither do the children) but because it does not deal with the things with which they have had first-hand experience and does not attempt to present or interpret the world according to the relationships which the child himself employs. rather it gives the child material which he is incapable of handling. much in these tales is symbolic and means to the adult something quite different from what it bears on its face. and much, i believe, is confused even to the grown-up. now a confused adult does not make a child! nor does it ever help a child to give him confusion. when my four-year-old personified a horse for one whole summer, he lived the actual life of a horse as far as he knew it. his bed was always "a stall," his food was always "hay," he always brushed his "mane" and "put on his harness" for breakfast. it was only when real horse information gave out that he supplied experiences from his own life. he was not limited by reality. he was exercising his imagination. this is quite different from the adult mixtures of the animal, the social, and the moral worlds. does not cinderella interject a social and economic situation which is both confusing and vicious? does not red riding-hood in its real ending plunge the child into an inappropriate relationship of death and brutality or in its "happy ending" violate all the laws that can be violated in regard to animal life? does not "jack and the beanstalk" delay a child's rationalizing of the world and leave him longer than is desirable without the beginnings of scientific standards? the growth of the sense of reality is a growth of the sense of relations. from the time when the child begins to relate isolated experiences, when he groups together associations, when he begins to note the sequence, the order of things, from this time he is beginning to think scientifically. it is preëminently the function of education to further the growth of the sense of reality, to give the child the sense of relationship between facts, material or social: that is, to further scientific conceptions. stories, if they are to be a part of an educational process, must also further the growth of the sense of reality, must help the child to interpret the relationships in the world around him and help him to develop a scientific process of thinking. it is not important that he know this or that particular fact; it _is_ important that he be able to fit any particular fact into a rational scheme of thought. accordingly, the relationships which a story clarifies are of much greater import than the facts it gives. all this, of course, concerns the content of stories--the intentional material it presents to the child and has nothing to do with the pleasure of the presentation,--the relish which comes from the form of the story. i do not wish this to be interpreted to mean that i think all fairy stories forever harmful. from the beginning innocuous tales like the "gingerbread man" should be given for the pattern as should the "old woman and her pig." moreover, after a child is somewhat oriented in the physical and social world, say at six or seven,--i think he can stand a good deal of straight fairy lore. it will sweep him with it. he will relish the flight the more for having had his feet on the ground. but for brutal tales like red riding-hood or for sentimental ones like cinderella i find no place in any child's world. obviously, fairy stories cannot be lumped and rejected en masse. i am merely pleading not to have them accepted en masse on the ground that they "have survived the ages" and "cultivate the imagination." for a child's imagination, since it is his native endowment, will surely flourish if he is given freedom for expression, without calling upon the stimulus of adult fancies. it is only the jaded adult mind, afraid to trust to the children's own fresh springs of imagination, that feels for children the need of the stimulus of magic. the whole question of myths and sagas together with the function of personification must be taken up with the older children. for the present we are still concerned with four-and five-year-olds. two sets of stories told by four-and five-year-old children in the school seem to me to show what emphasizing unrealities may do at this age. the first child in each set is thinking disjunctively; the second has his facts organized into definite relationships. can one think that the second child enjoyed his ordered world less than the first enjoyed his confusion? two stories by four-year-olds once there was a table and he was taking a walk and he fell into a pond of water and an alligator bit him and then he came up out of the pond of water and he stepped into a trap that some hunters had set for him, and turned a somersault on his nose. * * * there was a new engine and it didn't have any headlight--its light wasn't open in its headlight so its engineer went and put some fire in the wires and made a light. and then it saw a lot of other engines on the track in front of it. so when it wanted to puff smoke and go fast it told its engineer and he put some coal in the coal car. and then the other engines told their engineers to put coal in their coal cars and then they all could go. (the child then played a song by a "'lectric" engine on the piano and tried to write the notes.) two stories by five-year-olds once upon a time there was a clown and the clown jumped on the bed and the bed jumped on the cup. then the clown took a pencil and drawed on his face. and the clown said, "oh, i guess i'll sit in a rocking chair." so the rocking chair said, "ha! ha!" and it tumbled away. then a little pig came along and he said, "could you throw me up and throw an apple down?" so the clown threw him so far that he was dead. he was on the track. * * * there was a big factory where all the men made engines. and one man made a smoke stack. and one man made a tender. and one man made a cab. and one man made a bell. and one man made a wheel. and then another man came and put them all together and made a great big engine. and this man said, "we haven't any tracks!" and then a man came and made the tracks. and then another man said, "we haven't any station!" so many men came and built a big station. and they said, "let's have the station in washington square." so they pulled down the arch and they pulled up all the sidewalks. and they built a big station. and they left all the houses; for where would we live else? (in a sequel he says: so they knocked down the arch and chopped up all the pieces. and they chopped all around the trees but they didn't chop them down because they looked so pretty with our station!) i am far from meaning that five-year-olds should be confined to their literal experiences. they have made considerable progress in separating themselves from their environment though at times they seem still to think of the things around them more or less as extensions of themselves. their inquiries still emanate from their own personal experiences; but they do not end there. a child of this age has a genuine curiosity about where things come from and where they go to. "what's it for?" indeed, implies a dim conception beyond the "here" and the "now," a conception which his stories should help him to clarify. if we try to escape the pitfall of "fairy stories,"--abandoning a child in unrealities,--we must not fall into the opposite pitfall and continue the easy habit of merely recounting a series of events, neither significant in themselves nor, as in the earlier years, significant because they are personal experiences. "arabella and araminta" and their like give a five-year-old no real food. they are saved, if saved they are, not by their content, but by a daring and skilful use of repetition and of sound quality. no, our stories must add something to the children's knowledge and must take them beyond the "here" and the "now." but this "something," as i have already said, is not so much new information as it is a new relationship among already familiar facts. in each of the stories for four-and five-year-olds i have attempted to clarify known facts by showing them in a relationship a little beyond the children's own experience. all the stories came from definite inquiries raised by some child. they attempt to answer these inquiries and to raise others. "how the engine learned the knowing song," "the fog boat story," "hammer and saw and plane," "how the singing water gets to the tub," "things that loved the lake," "the children's new dresses," "how animals move,"--all are based on definite relationships, largely physical, between simple physical facts. interest in these relationships,--inquiries which hold the germ of physical science, continue and increase with each year. in addition, a little later, children seem to begin questioning things social and to be ready for the simpler social relationships which underlie and determine the physical world of their acquaintance. "what's it for?" still dominates, but a six-year-old is on the way to becoming a conscious member of society. he now likes his answers to be in human terms. he takes readily to such conceptions as congestion as the cause for subways and elevated trains; the desire for speed as the cause of change in transportation; the dependence of man on other living things,--all of which i have made the bases of stories. to the children the material in "the subway car," "speed," "silly will," is familiar; the relationships in which it appears are new. somewhere about seven years, there seems to be another transition period. psychologists, whether in or out of schools, generally agree in this. children of this age are acquiring a sense of social values,--a consciousness of _others_ as sharply distinguished from themselves. they are also acquiring a sense of workmanship, of technique,--of _things_ as sharply distinguished from themselves. they seek information in and for itself,--not merely in its immediate application to themselves. their inquiries take on the character of "how?" this means, does it not, that the children have oriented themselves in their narrow personal world and that they are reaching out for experience in larger fields? it means that the "not-me" which was so shadowy in the earlier years has gained in social and in physical significance. and this again means that opportunity for exploration in ever-widening circles should be given. stories should follow this general trend and open up the relationships in larger and larger environments until at last a child is capable of seeing relationships for himself and of regarding the whole world in its infinite physical and social complexity, as his own environment. probably the first extra-personal excursions should be into alien scenes or experiences which lead back or contribute directly to their old familiar world. stories of unknown raw material which turn into well-known products are of this type,--cattle raising in texas, dairy farms in new england, lumbering in minnesota, sheep raising in california. it is a happy coincidence that raw materials are often produced under semi-primitive conditions, so that a vicarious participation in their production gives to children something of that thrilling contact with the elemental that does the life of primitive men, and this without sending them into the remote and, for modern children, "unnatural" world of unmodified nature. the danger here is that the story will be sacrificed to the information. indeed it can hardly be otherwise, if the aim is to give an adequate picture of some process of production. this, of course, is a legitimate aim,--but for the encyclopedia, not for the story. what i have in mind is a dramatic situation which has this process as a background, so that the child becomes interested in the process because of the part it plays in the drama just as he would if the process were a background in his own life. i am thinking of the opportunities which these comparatively primitive situations give for adventure rather than for the detailed elucidation of a process of production. it is the peculiar function of a story to raise inquiries, not to give instruction. a story must stimulate not merely inform. this is the trouble with our "informational literature" for children, of which very little is worthy of the name. indeed, i am not sure it is not a contradiction of terms. it is frankly didactic. it aims to make clear certain facts, not to stimulate thought. it assumes that if a child swallows a fact it must nourish him. to give the child material with which to experiment,--this lies outside its present range. reaction from the unloveliness of this didactic writing has produced a distressing result. the misunderstood and misapplied educational principle that children's work should interest them has developed a new species of story,--a sort of pseudo-literary thing in which the medicinal facts are concealed by various sugar-coating devices. children will take this sort of story,--what will their eager little minds not take? and like encyclopedias and other books of reference this type has its place in a child's world. but it should never be confused with literature. literature must give a sense of adventure. this sense of adventure, of excursion into the unknown, must be furnished to children of every age. as i have said before, i think "peek-a-boo, there's the baby!" is the elementary expression of this love of adventure. the baby disappears into the unknown vastness behind the handkerchief and to her, her reappearance is a thrilling experience. children's stories,--as indeed all stories,--have been largely founded on this. the "prudy" and "dotty dimple" books though keyed so low in the scale seem adventurous because of the meagre background of their young readers. but children of the age we are considering,--who have left the narrowly personal and predominantly play period demand something higher in the scale of adventure. to them are offered the great variety of tales of adventure and danger of which the boy scout is the latest example. every child in reading these becomes a hero. and every child (and grown-up) enjoys being a hero. higher still comes "kidnapped" and so up to stanley weyman and "the three musketeers" which differ in their art, not in their appeal. now is it not possible to give children these adventurous excursions which they crave and should have, without so much killing of animals or men, and so many blood-thirsty excitements, and so much fake heroism? what relationships do such tales interpret? what truths do they give a child upon which to base his thinking? the relation of life to life is a delicate and difficult thing to interpret. but surely we can do better at an interpretation than tales of hunting, of impossible heroisms, and of war. or at least, we can protest against having these almost the sole interpretations of adventure which are offered to children. the world of industry holds possibilities for adventure as thrilling as the world of high-colored romance. we must look with fresh eyes to see it. when once we see it, we shall be able to give the children a new type of the "story of adventure." of all the experiments which the stories in this collection represent, this attempt to find and picture the romance and adventure in our world here and now, i consider the most important and difficult. in such stories as "boris" and "eben's cows" and "the sky scraper," i have made experimental attempts to give children a sense of adventure by presenting social relations in this new way. the cultured world has yet another answer to the question, "how shall we give our children adventure?" it points to the wealth of classical myths, of iliads, sagas, of fairy-stories which are practically folk-lore, semi-magic, semi-allegorical, semi-moral tales which express the ideals and experiences of a different and younger world than ours of today. and it replies, "give them these." it feels in the sternness of saga stuff and in the humanity of folk-lore, a validity and a dignity and a simplicity which seem to make them suitable for children. these tales tell of beliefs of folk less experienced than we: we have outgrown them. they must be suited to the less experienced: give them to children. thus runs the common argument. and so we find hawthorne's "tanglewood tales," Ã�sop's "fables," various indian myths and celtic legends, and even the "niebelungen lied" often given to quite young children. but do we find this reasoning valid when we examine these tales free from the glamour which adult sophistication casts around them? remember we are thinking now of children in that delicate seven-to eight-year-old transition period. i have already told how i believe these children are but just beginning to have conceptions of laws,--social and physical. they are groping their way, regimenting their experiences, seeing dim generalizations and abstractions. but they are not firmly oriented. they are beginners in the world of physical or social science and can be easily side-tracked or confused. a child of twelve or even ten is quite a different creature, often with clear if not articulate conceptions of the make-up of the physical and human world. he has something to measure against, some standards to cling to. but we are talking about children still in the early plastic stages of standards who will take the relationships we offer them through stories and build them into the very fabric of their thinking. now, how much of the classical literature follows the lead of the children's own inquiries? how much of it stimulates fruitful inquiries? what are the relationships which sagas, myths and folk-lore interpret? and what are the interpretations? this is a vast question and can be answered only briefly with the full consciousness that there is much lumping of dissimilar material with resulting injustices and superficiality. also there is no attempt to use the words "myth," "saga" and "folk-lore" in technical senses.[a] i have merely taken the dominant characteristic of any piece of literature as determining its class. [a] for a clear exposition of this field of literature for children see "literature in the elementary school," by porter lander macclintock, university of chicago press, . myths, properly, are slow-wrought beliefs which embody a people's effort to understand their relations to the great unknown. they are essentially religious, symbolic, mystic, subtle, full of fears and propitiations, involved, often based on the forgotten,--altogether unlike in their approach to the ingenuous and confident child. they are full of the struggle of life. hardly before the involved introspections and theories of adolescence can we expect the real beauty and poignancy of a genuine myth to be even dimly understood. and why offer the shell without the spirit? it is likely to remain a shell forever if we do. and indeed, such an empty thing to most of us is the great myth of prometheus or of the garden of eden. but sagas! are they not of exactly the heroic stuff for little children? in essence the relationships with which they deal are human,--social. the story of siegfried, of achilles, of abraham,--these are great sagas. each is a tremendous picture of a human experience, the first two under heroic, enlarged conditions, the last under a human culture picturesquely different from our own. but even as straight tales of adventure they do not carry for little children. the environment is too remote, the world to be conquered too unknown to carry a convincing sense of heroism to small children. the same is true of the heroic tales of romance,--of arthur and all the legends which cluster around his name. magic, the children will get from these tales but little else. but if the tales should succeed in taking a child with them in their strange exploits into a strange land, they would surely fail to take him into the turgid human drama they picture. and as surely we should wish them to fail. the sagas, like most genuine folk-lore deal with the great elemental human facts, life and death, love, sexual passion and its consequences, marriage, motherhood, fatherhood. we grasp at them for our children, i believe, just _because_ they deal with these fundamental things,--the very things we are afraid of unless they come to us concealed in strange clothing. but what kind of a foundation for interpreting these great elemental facts will the stories of achilles and briseus, of jason and medea, pluto and proserpina, of guinevere and launcelot make? what do we expect a child to get from these pictures of sexual passion on the part of the man,--even though a god,--and of social dependence of woman? do greek draperies make prostitution suitable for children? does the glamour of chivalry explain illicit love? most parents and schools who unhesitatingly hand over these social pictures to their children have never tried,--and neither care nor dare to try,--to face these elemental facts with their children. can we really wish to avoid a frank statement of the _positive_ in sex relations, of the facts of parenthood, of the institution of marriage, of the mutual companionship between man and woman, and give the _negative_, the unfulfilled, the distorted? this is preposterous and no one would uphold it. it must be the beauty of the tale, and not the significance we are after. but _are_ these tales beautiful except as we endow them with the subtleties of a classical civilization, as we read into them piquant contrasts of a sensitive, expressive race still primitive in its social thinking and social habits,--that elusive thing which we mean by "greek"? and can children get this without its background, particularly as they have yet no social background in their own world to hold it up against? and can children do any better with the perplexing ideals of the chivalrous knight swept by a human passion? and in the same way can a child really get the beauty of siegfried? what can he make out of the incestuous love of siegmund and sieglinda? and of siegfried's naïve passion on his first glimpse of a woman? what do we want him to make of it? is that the way we wish to introduce him to sex? and as for the rest, the allegory of the ring itself, the sword, the dragon's blood, what do little children get from this except the excitement of magic? what _we_ get because of what we have to put into it, is a different matter and should never be confused with the straight question of what children get. outgrown adult thinking in social matters is no more suitable to children than outgrown thinking on physical facts. we do not teach that the world is flat because grown-ups once believed it was. we are not afraid of a round earth so we tell the truth about it. but we come near to teaching "spontaneous generation" with our endless evasions. we are afraid of a reproducing world, and so we fall back on curious mixtures of sex fables,--on storks and fairy godmothers and leave the mysteries of sex to be interpreted by achilles and siegfried and guinevere! to emasculate these tales is to insult them,--to strip them of their significance and individuality. is it not wiser to wait until children will not be confused by all their straight vigor and beauty? there is other folk-lore less gripping in its human intensity. through this may not children safely gain their needed adventures? and here we come again to the real "märchen,"--the fairy tales. they take us into a lovely world of unreality where magic and luck hold sway and where the child is safe from human problems and from scientific laws alike. i have already said in talking of the younger children that i feel it unsafe to loose a child in this unsubstantial world before he is fairly well grounded in a sense of reality. once he has his bearings there is a good deal he will enjoy without confusion. the common defense that the mystery of fairy tales answers to a legitimate need in children, i believe holds good for children of six or seven, or even five, who have had opportunities for rational experiences. we all know how children revel in a secret. they like to live in a world of surprises. to give the children this sense of mystery i do not believe it is at all necessary to turn to vicious tales of giants, of ogres, and bluebeards, or to the no less vicious pictures of the beautiful princess and the wicked stepmother. even after rejecting the brutal and sentimental we have a good deal left,--a good deal that is intrinsically amusing as in "the musicians of bremen" or "prudent hans" or charming as in "briar rose." symbolic or primitive attempts to explain the physical world,--as in the indian legend of "tavwots" i have never found held great appeal for the modern six- or seven-year-old scientists. also the burden of symbolic morality rests on a good many of the traditional tales which usually neither adds nor detracts for the child and satisfies an adult yearning. allegories like Ã�sop's "fables" and "the lion of androcles" have a certain right to a hearing because of their historic prestige, apart from any reform they may accomplish in the way of character building. and in our own day many animals have achieved what i believe is a permanent place in child literature. "the elephant's child," the wild creatures of the "jungle book," "raggylug" and even the little mole in the "wind in the willows,"--these are animals to trust any child with. yet even in these exquisitely drawn tales, i doubt if children enjoy what we adults wish them to enjoy either in content or in form. and i doubt if we should accept even some of kipling's matchless tales if the faultless form did not intrigue us and make us oblivious of the content. it is just here that most of us fail to be discriminating. most of the classical literature, most of the legends, or the folk tales that i have been discussing have a compelling charm through their form. but unfortunately that does not make their content suitable! their place in the world's thinking and feeling and their transcription into their present forms by really great artists give them a permanent place in the world's literature. this i do not question. it is partly because i believe this so intensely that i wish them kept for fuller appreciation. it is as formative factors in a young child's thinking that i am afraid of them. neither am i afraid of all of them. there are some old conceptions of life and death and human relations which the race has not outgrown, perhaps never will outgrow. the mystery and pathos of the pied piper, the humor of prudent hans, the cleverness of the boy david, the heroism of the little dutch boy stopping the hole in the dyke, the love of the queer little baker, and the greed and grief of midas are eternal. in spite of these and many more, i maintain that for the most part, myths, sagas, folk-lore depend for their significance and beauty alike upon a grasp of present social values which a young child cannot have and that our first attention should be to give him those values in terms intelligible to him. after we have done that he is safe. it matters little what we give him so long as it is good: for he will have standards by which to judge our offerings for himself. yet after all is said and done, we may be reduced to giving children some of the stories we think inappropriate, for lack of something better. but a recognition of the need may evoke a great writer for children. i maintain we have never had one of the first order. the best books that we have for children are throw-offs from artists primarily concerned with adults,--kipling and stevenson stand in this group,--or child versions of adult literature,--from charles and mary lamb down. the world has yet to see a genuinely great creator whose real vision is for children. when children have _their_ psalmist, _their_ shakespeare, _their_ keats, they will not be offered diluted adult literature. so after we have gathered what we can from the world's store for children of this seven-to-eight-year old period i think we shall find many unfilled gaps. most attempts at humor, for instance, are on the level of the comic sheet of the sunday supplement or the circus. there is little except a few of the "drolls" which give the child pure fun unmixed with excitement or confusion. even "alice in wonderland" when first read to a six-year-old who was used to rational thinking and talking was pronounced "too funny!" this same boy, however, went back to alice again and again. he always relished such bits as: "speak roughly to your little boy, and beat him when he sneezes, he only does it to annoy because he knows it teases." no child's world is complete without humor. and children have a sense of the preposterous, the inappropriate all their own. lewis carroll and a few others have occasionally found it. still, i think much remains to be done in the way of studying the things that children themselves find amusing. this is true for the younger ones as well. i give several younger children's stories which appeared both to the tellers and their audiences to be convulsing. the humor is strangely physical and amazingly simple. and it is all fresh. stories by four-year-olds i dreamed i was asleep in a tomato and just scrambled around until i'd eaten it up. * * * once there was a cow and he was in a wagon and he jumped over the wagon's edge. * * * sesame the cat she lived with a nice man, a candy man, and she was at the gate watching the cattle go by and the men were digging under some caramel bricks and he called sesame the cat and she came banging and almost jumped on the man's head. she jumped like a merry balloon. oh, he got angry! * * * story by five-year-old once there was a fly. and he went out walking on a little boy's face. he came to a kind of a soft hump. "what is this?" thought the fly. "oh, i guess it's the little boy's eye!" then he came to a lot of kind of wiggly things that went down with him. "what is this?" thought the fly. "oh, i guess it's the little boy's hair!" then he slipped and fell into a deep hole. it was the little boy's ear. and he couldn't get out. he tried and he tried. but he staid there until the little boy's ear got all sore! * * * stories by six-year-olds once upon a time there was a fox and a skunk, and the fox was walking down the path with a lot of prickly bushes on the side of the path. then he saw a skunk coming along. he said, "will you let me throw my little bag of perfume on you?" and then she (it was a lady fox) she backed and backed and backed and backed and backed and backed, and she backed so far she backed into the bushes, and she got her skirt torn on the prickly bushes. * * * once upon a time there was a boy and the boy was awfully funny. and one day the boy went to the store to buy some eggs and he got the eggs and ran so fast with the eggs home,--he stumbled and broke the eggs. so he took the eggs, and took the shell and fixed it like the same egg. and he walked off slowly to his home. and his mother was going to beat the eggs and she just opened the shell and no egg was there, and she couldn't make no cake that night. there is still another kind of story which i believe children of this transition period and a little older seek and for the most part seek in vain. these children are beginning to generalize, to marshal their facts and experiences along lines which in their later developments we call "laws." they like these wide-spreading conceptions which order the world for them. but they cannot always take them as bald scientific statements. moreover there are certain general truths which tie together isolated familiar facts which can be most simply pictured through some device such as personification,--for at this age personification is recognized and enjoyed as a device and not, as in earlier years, as a necessary expression of thought. this uniting bond, this underlying relation may be a physical law like the dependence of life on life; it may be a social law like the division of labor in modern industry. any dramatic statement of these laws is a simplification as is a diagram or map. and like a diagram or map, it is in a way artificial since it gives weight to one element at the expense of the others. but again like the diagram or map, the thing it shows is a fact, a fact which is more readily grasped by this artificial device than by bald statement. maps do not take the place of photographs, nevertheless they have their own peculiar place in making intelligible the make-up of the physical world. in the same way, personification does not take the place of science. nevertheless it has its own peculiar place in making clear to the child some simplifying principle,--physical or social,--which unifies his multitudinous experiences. so long as personification elucidates a true, a scientific principle, so long as it is not pressed to tortuous lengths which actually give false impressions, so long as it is kept within the bounds of æsthetic decency, so long as it is recognized as a play device and does not confuse a child's thinking,--so long as it is justified. no more. it is a useful intellectual tool and a charming device for play. kipling is preëminently the master here. it is a dangerous tool in lesser hands. yet i have dared to use it and without scruple in "speed," in "once the barn was full of hay" and in "silly will." here again i feel sure that study of children's questions and stories would bring rich suggestions as to how to fill this large gap in their present literature. gaps there are, and many and large ones. still, taken all in all, the field for the seven- to eight-year-old transition period is not as completely barren as the field for the earlier years. for these children are evolving from the stage where they need "here and now" stories. they are beginning to take on adult modes of thought and to appreciate and understand the peculiar language which adults use no matter how young a child they address! so much for the content of children's stories. and at best the content is but half. form if content is but half, form is the other half of stories and not the easier half, either. every story, to be worthy of the name, must have a pattern, a pattern which is both pleasing and comprehensible. this design, this composition, this pattern, whether it be of a story as a whole or of a sentence or a phrase, is as essential to a piece of writing as is the design or composition to a picture. it satisfies the emotional need of the child which is as essential in real education as is the intellectual. without this design, language remains on the utilitarian level,--where, to be sure, we usually find it in modern days. now what kind of pattern is adapted to a small child,--say a three-year-old? what kind does he like? more, what kind can he perceive? herein the expression as fatally as in the content has the adult shaped the mould to his own liking. or rather, the case is even worse. the adult more often than not has presented his stories and verse to children in forms which the children could not like because they literally could not hear them! the pattern, as such, did not exist for them. but what have we to guide us in creating suitable patterns for these little children who can help us neither by analysis nor by articulate remonstrance? we have two sources of help and both of them come straight from the children. the first are the children's own spontaneous art forms; the second are the story and verse patterns which make an almost universal appeal to little children. even a superficial study of these two sources,--and where shall we find a thorough study?--suggests two fundamental principles. they sound obvious and perhaps they are. but how often is the obvious ignored in the treatment of children! the first is that the individual units whether ideas, sentences or phrases must be simple. the second is that these simple units must be put close together. as the quickest and most eloquent exemplification of both these principles i give four stories. the first was told by a little girl of twenty-two months, a singularly articulate little person,--as she looked at the blank wall where had hung a picture of a baby (she supposed her little brother), a cow and a donkey. the second was a story told by a little girl of two and a half after a summer on the seashore. the third was achieved by a boy of three,--a child, in general, unsensitive to music. the fourth was told in school by a four-year-old girl. story by twenty-two-months-old child where cow? where donk? where little aa? cow gone away! donk gone away! little aa gone away! like cow! like donk! like little aa! come back cow! come back donk! come back little aa! story by two-and-a-half-year-old i fell in water. man fell in water. john fell in water. for' fell in water. aunt carrie fell in water. i pull boat out. man pull boat out. john pull boat out. for' pull boat out. aunt carrie pull boat out. i go in that boat. man go in that boat. john go in that boat. for' go in that boat. aunt carrie go in that boat. story by three-year-old and father went down, down, down into the hole and the bull-frog, he went up, up, up into the sky! and then the bull-frog, he went down, down, down into the hole and then father, he went up, up, up, way into the sky! and then the bull-frog he went down, down, down into the hole and up, up into the sky! and then he went down into the hole and up into the sky! and he went down and up and down and up and down and up and down and up and down and up and down and up and down and up and down and up and down and up down and up---- (to wordless song.) story by a four-year-old baby bye, baby bye here's a fly you'd better be careful else he will sting you and here's a spider too. and if you hurt him he will sting you and don't you hurt him and his pattern on the wall. certainly all have form,--spontaneous native art form. indeed they strongly suggest that to the child, the pleasure lay in the form rather than in the content. the patterns of the first two are somewhat alike,--variations of a simple statement. in content the younger child keeps her attention on one point, so to speak, while the older child allows a slight movement like an embryonic narrative. the pattern of the three-year-old's is considerably more complex. the phrases shorten, the tempo quickens, until the whole swings off into wordless melody. the fourth probably started from some remembered lullaby but quickly became the child's own. i give two more examples of stories. in the first, does not this five-year-old girl give us her vivid impressions in marvelously simple sense and motor terms? and does not the six-year-old boy in the second show that imagination can spring from real experiences? stories by five-year-olds i am going to tell you a story about when i went to falmouth with my mother. we had to go all night on the train and this is the way it sounded, (moving her hand on the table and intoning in different keys) thum, thum, thum, thum, thum, thum, thum, thum, _new ark!_ thum, thum, thum, thum, thum, thum, thum, thum, thum, thum, falmouth! and then we got off and we took a trolley car and the trolley car went clipperty, clipperty, clipperty, zip, zip. and another trolley car came in the other direction (again with hands) and one came along saying clipperty, clipperty, clipperty, zip, zip and the other came along saying clipperty, clipperty, clipperty, zip, zip, zip, bang! and they hit in the middle and they got stuck and they tried to pull them apart and they stuck and they stuck and they stuck and finally they got them apart and then we went again. and when we got off we had to take a subway and the subway went rockety-rockety-rockety-rock. you know a subway makes a terrible noise! it made a _terrible_ noise it sounded like rockety-rockety-rockety-rockety-rock. and at last we got there and when we came up in the streets of falmouth it was so still that i didn't know what to do. you know the streets of falmouth are just so terribly quiet and then we had to walk millions and millions of miles almost to get to our little cottage. and when we got there i put on my bathing suit and i went in bathing and i shivered just like this because it was a rainy day, the day i went to falmouth with my mother. the talk of the brook o brook, o brook, that sings so loud, o brook, o brook, that goes all day, o brook, o brook, that goes all night and forever. splashes and waves, girls and boys are playing with you and in you. some with shoes off and some with shoes on, and some are crying because they fell in you. o brook, o brook, have you an end ever? or do you go forever? technically in all these stories the child exemplifies the two rules. he attends to but one thing at a time. and his steps from one point to the next are short and clear. when we look at the forms which have been presented to children with these their spontaneous patterns fresh in mind, we can see, i think, why mother goose has been taken as a child's own and eugene field and even stevenson rejected as unintelligible. i do not believe there is anything in the content of mother goose to win the child. i believe it is the form that makes the appeal. vachel lindsay, whose daring play with words has made him an object of suspicion to the reluctant of mind, has given us one poem in pattern singularly like the children's own and in content full of interest and charm. again i give examples as the quickest of arguments. and i give them in verse where the form is more obvious and can be shown in briefer space than in stories. jack and jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water. jack fell down and broke his crown and jill came tumbling after. time to rise a birdie with a yellow bill hopped upon the window sill, cocked his shining eye and said: "ain't you shamed, you sleepy head?" --_stevenson._ the little turtle (a recitation for martha wakefield, three years old) there was a little turtle. he lived in a box. he swam in a puddle. he climbed on the rocks. he snapped at a musquito. he snapped at a flea. he snapped at a minnow. and he snapped at me. he caught the musquito. he caught the flea. he caught the minnow. but he didn't catch me. --_vachel lindsay._ from the dinkey-bird so when the children shout and scamper and make merry all the day, when there's naught to put a damper to the ardor of their play; when i hear their laughter ringing, then i'm sure as sure can be that the dinkey-bird is singing in the amfalula tree. --_eugene field._ of the two "jack and jill" and "birdie with the yellow bill," surely stevenson's is the more charming to the adult ear. but when i have read it to three-year-olds, i have felt that they were lost. they could not sustain the long grammatical suspense, could not carry over "a birdie" from the first line to the conclusion and so actually did not know who was saying "ain't you shamed, you sleepy-head!" mother goose repeats her subject. the span to carry is two phrases in mother goose as against four in stevenson. the vachel lindsay i have found is as easily remembered and as much enjoyed as mother goose, though it is a pity it is about an unfamiliar animal. as for the dinkey-bird even a seven-year-old can hardly _hear_ the rhyme even if intellectually he could follow the adult vocabulary and the complicated sentence with its long postponed subject. it is the same with stories. the classic tales which have held small children,--"the gingerbread man," "the three little pigs," "goldylocks,"--have patterns so obvious and so simple that they cannot be missed. in "the gingerbread man" the pattern is one of increasing additions. it belongs to the aptly called "cumulative" tales. the refrains act like sign-posts to help the child to mark the progress. this is simply a skilful way of making the continuity close, of showing the ladder rungs for the child's feet. i venture to say that any good story-teller consciously or unconsciously puts up sign-posts to help the children. if he is skilful, he makes a pattern of them so that they are not merely intellectually helpful but charming as well. so kipling in his "just so stories" uses his sign-posts,--which are sometimes words, sometimes phrases, sometimes situations,--in such a way that they ring musically and give a pleasant sense of pattern even to children too young to find them intellectually helpful. in other words, the little child is not equipped psychologically to hear complicated units. i wish some one could determine how the average four-year-old hears the harmony of a chord on the piano. is it much except confusion? in the same way, he is not equipped to leap a span between units. i wish some one would determine the four-year-old's memory span for rhymes, for instance. the involutions, the suggestiveness so attractive to adult ears, he cannot hear. even an adult ear, untutored, can scarcely hear the intermingling rhythms and overlapping rhymes which blend like overtones of a chord in such verse as patmore's ode "the toys." i feel sure the small child cannot hear complexities; he cannot leap gaps. and so he cannot understand when even simple ideas are given in complex and discontinuous form. this explains his notorious love of repetition. repetition is the simplest of patterns, simple enough to be enjoyed as pattern. i have found that almost any simple phrase of music or words repeated slowly and with a kind of ceremonious attention, enthralls a year-old child. if the unit is simple enough to be remembered he will inevitably enjoy recognizing it as it recurs and recurs. this is the embryonic pattern sense. this pattern enjoyment too is motor in its basis. his early repetitions of sounds are probably largely pleasure in muscle patterns. we all know that a child uses first his large muscles,--arm, leg and back,--and that he early enjoys any regular recurrent use of these muscles. so at the time when the vocal muscles tend to become his means of expression, he enjoys repeating the same sounds over and over. and soon he gets enjoyment from listening to repetitions or rhythmic language,--a vicarious motor enjoyment. surely it is important that stories should furnish him this exercise and pleasure. three- and four-year-olds will enjoy a positively astounding amount of repetition. in the arabella and araminta stories a large proportion of the sentences are given in duplicate by the simple device of having twins who do and say the same things and by telling the remarks and actions of each. the selection quoted is repeated entire four times, the variation being only in the flower picked: and arabella picked a poppy, and araminta picked a poppy, and arabella picked a poppy, and araminta picked a poppy, and arabella picked a poppy, and araminta picked a poppy, and arabella picked a poppy, and araminta picked a poppy, and arabella picked a poppy, and araminta picked a poppy, until they each had a great big bunch (i should say a very large bunch), and then they ran back to the house. arabella got a glass and put her poppies in it, and araminta got a glass and put her poppies in it. and arabella clapped her hands and danced around the table. and araminta clapped her hands and danced around the table. adult ears repudiate anything as obvious as this; they still, however, enjoy a ballad refrain. just as small children cannot hear complications, so they cannot grasp details if the movement is swift. we must give time for a child's slow reactions. we usually fail to do this in ordinary social situations and are often surprised to hear our three-year-old say "good-bye" long after the front door is closed and our guest well on his way down the street. in stories we must take a leisurely pace. we must also read very slowly allowing ample time for a child to give the full motor expression to his thought for the art of abbreviation he has not yet learned. it is not enough to recognize that since a child attends to but one thing at a time the units must be simple. here in the form as in the content, must the motor quality of a child's thinking be held constantly in mind. in trying to find the general subject matter appropriate for little children i said that they think through their muscles. this motor expression of small children has its direct application in the concrete method of telling of any happening. the story child who is experiencing, should go through the essential muscular performances which the real listening child would go through if he were actually experiencing himself. for he thinks through these muscular expressions. as an example, when a group of four-year-olds heard a story about a little boy who saw the elevated train approach and pass above him, they thought the child might have been run over. the words "up" and "above" and "overhead" had been used but the children failed to get the idea of "upness." unquestionably they would have understood if i had made the little boy _throw back his head and look up_. small children act with big gestures and with big muscles. and they think through the same mechanisms. these two principles, simplicity and continuity, apply concretely to sentence and phrase structure as well. the effort to obtain continuity for the child explains the colloquial "the little boy who lived in this house, _he_ did so and so----" you help your child back to the subject, "the little boy" by the grammatically redundant "he" after his mind has gone off on "this house." this same need for continuity also explains why a child's own stories are characteristically one continuous sentence strung together with "ands" and "thens" and "buts." he sees and hears and consequently thinks in a simple, rhythmic, continuous flow. if we would have him see and hear and think with us, we must give him his stories and verse in simple units closely and obviously linked together. but after all is said and done, why should we give children stories at all? is it to instruct and so should we pay attention to the content? is it to delight and so should we pay attention to the form? both things, information and relish, have their place in justifying stories for children. but both to my mind are of minor importance compared to a third and quite different thing,--and this is to get children to create stories of their own, to play with words. "to get" is an unhappy phrase for it suggests that children must be coaxed to the task. this i do not believe though i cannot prove it. i do believe that children play with words naturally and spontaneously just as they play with any material that comes to their creative hands. and further i believe,--though this too i cannot prove,--that we adults kill this play with words just as we kill their creative play with most things. most of us have forgotten how to play with anything, most of all with words. we are utilitarian, we are executive, we are didactic, we are earth-tied, we are hopelessly adult! actually children use their ears and noses and fingers much more than do we adults. our stories rely mainly upon visual recalls. we forget to listen even to birds whose message is pure melody. and how many of us _hear_ the city sounds which surround us, the characteristic whirr of revolving wheels, the vibrating rhythm of horses' feet, the crunch of footsteps in the snow? noises we hear, the warning shriek of the fire engine or the honk! honk! of the automobile. but the subtler, finer reverberations we are not sensitive to. yet little children love to listen and develop another method of sensing and appreciating their world by this pleasurable use of their hearing. it surely is an unused opportunity for story-tellers. i have tried to use it in "pedro's feet" which is an attempt to give them an ordinary story by means of sounds. and even less than to city sounds do we listen for the cadences in language. we listen only for the _meaning_ and forget the sensuous delight of sound. but happily children are not so determined to wring a meaning out of every sight and every sound. children play. play is a child's own technique. through it he seizes the strange unknown world around him and fashions it into his very own. he recreates through play. and through creating, he learns and he enjoys. there is no better play material in the world than words. they surround us, go with us through our work-a-day tasks, their sound is always in our ears, their rhythms on our tongue. why do we leave it to special occasions and to special people to use these common things as precious play material? because we are grown-ups and have closed our ears and our eyes that we may not be distracted from our plodding ways! but when we turn to the children, to hearing and seeing children, to whom all the world is as play material, who think and feel through play, can we not then drop our adult utilitarian speech and listen and watch for the patterns of words and ideas? can we not care for the _way_ we say things to them and not merely _what_ we say? can we not speak in rhythm, in pleasing sounds, even in song for the mere sensuous delight it gives us and them, even though it adds nothing to the content of our remark? if we can, i feel sure children will not lose their native use of words: more, i think those of six and seven and eight who have lost it in part,--and their stories show they have,--will win back to their spontaneous joy in the play of words. this is the ultimate test of stories and verse,--whether they help children to retain their native gift of play with language and with thought. in the city and country school where my experiments in language have been carried on, we have not gone far enough to offer convincing proof along these lines. but i submit two stories told by a six-year-old class which are at least suggestive. the first is the best story told to me by any member of the class before any effort had been made to get the children to listen to the sound of their words or to think of their ideas as all pointing in one direction and giving a single impression. the second was told by the class as a whole while looking at willebeek le mair's illustration of "twinkle, twinkle, little star." they said the picture made them feel sleepy and that they would say only things that made them sleepy and use only words that made them sleepy. between the two stories i had met with them seven times. i had read them sounding and rhythmic verse. they had become interested in the sound of language apart from its meaning. they had become interested in the sound of the rain and the fire. they were thinking through their ears. am i mistaken in believing this shows in their language and in their thought? story by a six-year-old once upon a time there was a little boy named peter and a little boy named boris. and peter took him out for a walk and took him all around school. then i took him out to my house and saw all my play things. and then i took him to central park and showed him sea lions and the giraffe and the elephant and i showed how they eat by their trunks. and he thought it was queer. and he said he was afraid of animals and so i took him home. i told him to tell his mother about it and his mother said, "you want to go for another walk?" and he said, "yes, but not where the wild animals are." i said, "do you want to go to central park?" and he said, "yes." you see he got fooled! he didn't know about the wild animals. joint story by six-year-old class i like it when the boy and the girl look at the sky. they look at the trees and they are sleepy. it is dark outside. it is night and the sky is dark blue. and it is kind of whitish and the trees are next to the blue sky. the bright evening star is out. the star is so far up in the sky that you can hardly see it. the children are looking at the sky before they go to bed and they are praying to god. they have their nightgowns on. the bed is all nice so they couldn't have just got up. the clothes are hanging on the bed. they sleep in their own bed together. when they go to bed they have their door closed. "the leaf story" and "the wind story" i have incorporated with my stories, though they are almost entirely the work of children. in both cases the organization is beyond the children. but the content and the phraseology bear their unmistakable imprint. the same is true of "the sea gull." because of the pattern, the play aspect of language, i believe in written stories even for very little ones. if we loved our language better and played with its sound in our ordinary speech, perhaps stories for two- and three-year-olds would not be needed. but as it is, we need to present them with something more intentional, more thought out than is possible with most of us in a story told. if the patterns of our ideas or of our speech are to have charm, if they are to fit the occasion with nicety, if they are to flow easily and are to be continuous enough to be comprehended by little children, they will need careful attention,--attention that cannot be given under the emergency of telling a story, not, at least, by the uninspired of us. inevitably, with our utilitarian tendencies, we shall be drawn off to an undue regard of the content to the neglect of the expression. and yet, for very little children, there is unquestionably something lost by the formality and fixity of a written story. a story told has more spontaneity, allows more leeway to include the chance happenings or remarks of the children; it can be more intimately personal, more adapted to the particular occasion and to the particular child. perhaps some time we shall achieve a fortunate compromise, a stepping stone between the story told and the story read. perhaps we shall work out happy or characteristic phrases about familiar things,--little personal things about the clothes and habits of each child, general familiar things like autos and wagons and horses on the street, coal going down the hole in the sidewalk, the squabbling of sparrows in the dirt, the drift of snow on the roofs,--perhaps we shall learn to use such thought-out phrases or refrains like blocks for building many stories. if we could work out some such technique as this, we could keep the intimacy, the flexibility, the waywardness of the spoken story and still give the children the charm of careful thinking and careful phrasing. many such phrases have been fashioned by people sensitive to the quality of sound. every nursery has had its rooster crow: "cock-a-doodle-doo!" but few have given its children that delightful epitome of the songs of spring birds which has piped with irrepressible freshness now for nearly four centuries: "cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!" i have never known the child who did not respond to kipling's engine song: "with a michnai-ghignai-shtingal! yah! yah! yah!" every child creates these wonderful sound interpretations of the world. we smile a smile of indulgence when we hear them. and then we forget them! cannot we seize some of them however imperfectly and learn to build them into the structure of our stories? it was more or less this kind of thing that i had in mind in writing marni's stories and "the room with the window looking out upon the garden" which as i have said elsewhere are types to be told rather than narratives to be read. and i feel sure if we could once make a beginning that the children themselves would soon take the matter into their own hands and create their own building blocks. for children are primarily creators. they do not willingly nor for long maintain the passive rôle. this should be reckoned with in stories and not merely as a concession to restless children but as a real aid to the story. an active rôle should be provided for the children somewhere within every story until the children are old enough to have a genuinely impersonal interest in things and events and until they do not need a motor expression of their thoughts. for as i have already said, up to that age,--and it is for psychologists to say when that age is,--children think in terms of themselves expressed through their own activities. this active rôle should be used not merely as a safety valve of expression to keep the child a patient listener, but as a tool by which he may become aware of the form of thought and language. it is interesting that the children to whom these stories have been read, have seized upon the rhyme refrains as their own and after a few readings have joined in saying them as though this were their natural portion. it is with this hope that i have tried to make the refrains not mere interludes in the story, as they usually are, but the real skeleton, the intrinsic thought pattern, the fundamental design. in "how the singing water gets to the tub" and "how spot found a home," for instance, the refrains taken by themselves out of the context, tell the whole story. it is too soon to say, but i am strong in the hope that through relish for this kind of active participation in written stories, a small child may become captivated by the play side of the stories as opposed to the content and so turn to language as play material in which to fashion patterns of his own. for the sake of analysis, i have treated content and form separately. but i am keenly aware that the divorce of the two is what has made our stories for children so unsatisfactory. we have good ideas told without charm of design; and we have meaningless patterns which tickle the ear for the moment but fade because they spring from no real thought. literature is only achieved when the thought pattern and the language pattern exactly fit. a refrain for the mere sake of recurrent jingle, that has no genuine no essential recurrence in the thought, is a trick. if the pattern does not help the thought and the thought suggest the pattern, there is something wrong. it is an artifice, not art. this matching of content and form is nothing new. it is and always has been the basis of good literature. the task that is new is to find thought sequences, thought relations which are truly childlike and the language design which is really appropriate to them,--to make both content and form the child's. as i said at the beginning, so must i say at the end. these stories are experiments, experiments both in content and form. to have any value they must be treated as such. the theses underlying them have been stated for brevity's sake only in didactic form. in reality, they lie in my mind as open questions urgently in need of answers. but i do not hope much from the answers of adults,--from the deaf and blind writers to the hearing and seeing children. the answers must come from the children themselves. we must listen to children's speech, to their casual everyday expressions. we must gather children's stories. mothers and teachers everywhere should be making these precious records. we must study them not merely as showing what a child is thinking, but the _way_ he is thinking and the way he is enjoying. it is the hope that these stories may be tried out with children, the hope of reaching others who may be watching and listening and working along these lines, the hope that we may gather records of children's stories which will become a basis for a real literature, the hope that somewhere among grown-ups we may find an ear still sensitive to hear and an eye still fresh to see,--it is this hope that has given me the courage to expose these pitifully inadequate adult efforts to speak with little children in their own language. some one must dare, if only to give courage to the better equipped. and if we dare enough, i am sure the children will come to our rescue. if we let them, they will lead us. whatever these stories hold of merit or of suggestiveness is due to the inspiration and tolerance of the courageous group of workers in the city and country school and in the bureau of educational experiments and in particular to caroline pratt without whom these stories would never have been dreamed or written; and above all to the children themselves, for whom the stories were written and to whom they have been read, both in the laboratory school and in my own home. to those then, who wish to follow the lead of little children, to those who have the curiosity to know into what new paths of literature children's interest and children's spontaneous expression of those interests will lead, and to the children themselves, i send these stories. lucy sprague mitchell. new york city july, . marni takes a ride in a wagon the refrains in this story were first made up during the actual ride. later they served to recall the experience with vividness. this story is given only as a type which any one may use when helping a two-year-old to live over an experience. marni takes a ride in a wagon one day marni went for a ride. little aa, he climbed into sprague's wagon and marni, she climbed in behind him. then mother took the handle and she began to pull the wagon with little aa and marni in it. and mother she went: jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, _and_ jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog! and the wheels, they went, (with motion of hands): round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, _and_ round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round! and then mother was tired. so she stopped. and marni said, "whoa, horsie!" then little aa said, "ugh, ugh!" for he wanted to go. but marni said, "get up, horsie!" for she wanted to go too. so mother took hold of the handle and went: jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, _and_ jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog! and the wheels they went: round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, _and_ round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round! and then mother was tired. so she stopped, and marni said, "whoa, horsie!" then little aa said, "ugh, ugh!" for he wanted to go. but marni said "get up, horsie!" for she wanted to go too. so mother took hold of the handle and went, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, _and_ jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog, jog! and the wheels they went: round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, _and_ round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round! and then mother was very, _very_ tired. so she stopped. and marni said, "whoa, horsie!" then little aa said, "ugh, ugh!" for he wanted to go again. but marni said "get up, horsie!" for she wanted to go too. but mother she was very, _very_, very tired. she had jogged, jogged, jogged so long and made the wheels go round, round, round, round, so much! so she said, "the ride is all over!" then little aa climbed down out of the wagon and marni climbed down out of the wagon. and marni said, "goodbye, wagon!" and ran away! marni gets dressed in the morning this story, obviously, is for a particular little girl. it is told in the terms of her own experience, of her own environment, and of her own observations. it is nothing more or less than the living over in rhythmic form of the daily routine of her morning dressing. her story remarks are either literal quotations or adaptations of her actual every day responses. the little verse refrains are the type of thing almost anyone can improvise. i have found that any simple statement about a familiar object or act told (or sung) with a kind of ceremonious attention and with an obvious and simple rhythm, enthralls a two-year-old. the little girl for whom this story was written began embryonic stories before her second birthday. the water-soap-sponge episode is an adaptation of one of her first narrative forms. this story is meant merely as a suggestion of the way almost anyone can make language an every day plaything to the small child she is caring for. marni gets dressed in the morning once there was a little girl and her name was marni moo. marni used to sleep in a little bed in mother's room. in the morning marni would wake up and she would say "hello, mother." and then in a minute she would say, "i want to get up." and mother would say: "hoohoo, marni moo. i'm coming, i'm coming, i'm coming for you." then mother would get up and she'd come over and she'd unfasten the blanket and she'd take little marni moo in her arms and she'd walk into marni's bath-room and she'd take off marni's nightgown and marni's shirt. and then she'd get a little basin, and she'd put some water in it, and she'd get some soap and she'd get a sponge and she'd wash little marni moo. she'd wash marni's face and then she'd wash marni's hands, and marni would put one hand in the basin and she'd splash the water like this:-- then she'd put another hand in the basin and she'd splash the water like this:-- then mother would wipe both hands and she'd throw the water down the sink and she'd put away the soap and the sponge. and marni would watch mother and then she'd say: [illustration] "where water? where soap? where sponge? water gone away! soap gone away! sponge gone away!" and after that what do you suppose marni would say? "shirt, shirt." and mother would put marni's shirt over her head and say: "peek-a-boo, marni moo, marni's head is coming through." and then mother would button up marni's shirt. and then marni would say "waist, waist." then while mother put on marni's waist she would say: "here's one hand and here's another. marni's a sister and robin's a brother." and then marni would say, "drawers, drawers." and while mother put on marni's drawers she would say: "here's one foot and here's another. marni's a sister and peter's a brother." and then marni would say, "stockings, stockings." and mother would put on one stocking on her left foot, and then she'd put on another stocking on her right foot. and then she'd fasten the garters on one stocking, and then she'd fasten the garters on the other stocking. and all the time mother would keep saying: "here's one leg and here's another. marni's a sister and jack-o's a brother." then marni would say, "shoe, shoe." and mother would put one shoe on her left foot and then she'd put on the other shoe on her right foot. and then she'd say again: "here's one foot and here's another. marni's a sister and robin's a brother." and then marni would say, "hook, hook." and mother would get the button-hook and then she'd button up the left shoe and then she'd button up the right shoe. and all the time she was buttoning up first one shoe and then the other shoe marni would say: "look, look, hook, hook." and when the shoes were all buttoned up, mother would hit first one little sole and then the other little sole, and say: "now we're through tit, tat, too. here a nail, there a nail, now we're through." then marni would run and get her romper and bring it to mother calling, "romper, romper." and mother would put on her romper, singing: "romper, romper who's got a romper? little marni moo she's got two. one is a yellow one and one is blue. romper, romper who's got a romper?" and then marni would say, "button, button." and mother would button up her romper all down the back. first one button and then another button and then another button and then another button, and then another button and then another button until they were buttoned all down the back. and then marni would say, "sweater." and mother would put on her little blue sweater saying: "sweater, sweater who's got a sweater? little marni moo she's got two. one is a yellow one and one is blue. sweater, sweater, who's got a sweater?" and then marni would say, "hair." and mother would get the brush and comb and brush marni's hair. and all the time she was brushing it she would say: "brush it so and brush it slow. brush it here and brush it there. brush it so and brush it slow. and brush it here and brush it there and brush it all over your dear little head." and then marni would say, "all ready." and mother would put her down on the floor. then marni would say: "where my little pail? my little pail gone away. i want my little pail come, little pail." and mother would give her her little pail. and marni would put one nut in her pail, and then she'd put another nut in her pail, and then she'd put another nut in her pail. and then she'd put a marble in her pail, and then she'd put another marble in her pail, and then she'd put another marble in her pail. and then she'd put her quack-quack in her pail, and then she'd put her fish in her pail, and then she'd put her frog in her pail. then she would shake her pail with all of the nuts and the marbles and the quack-quack and the frog and the fish, and they would all go bingety-bang, crickety-crack, bingety-bang, crickety-crack. and marni would say, "bingety-bang, crickety-crack. where jack-o?" and marni would run to find jack-o, and she would say, "jack-o, hear bingety-bang, crickety-crack." and she would rattle her little pail with all the nuts and the marbles and the quack-quack and the fish and the frog. then she'd say, "where peter?" and marni would run to find peter, and she would say, "peter, hear bingety-bang, crickety-crack." and she would rattle her little pail with all the nuts and the marbles and the quack-quack and the fish and the frog. then mother would call, "breakfast, breakfast. anyone ready for breakfast?" and jack-o would call back, "i am, i am, i am ready for breakfast." and peter would run as fast as he could calling, "i am, i am, i am ready for breakfast." and last of all would come little marni moo calling, "breakfast, breakfast." then the two boys would chase marni to the breakfast table saying: "marni mitchell, marni moo, run like a mousie or i'll catch you." and marni would scimper scamper like a mousie until she reached the breakfast table. then they would all have breakfast together. the room with the window looking out on the garden in this story written for a three-year-old group, i have tried to present the familiar setting of the classroom from a new point of view and to give the presentation a very obvious pattern. i want the children to take an _active_ part in the story. but before they try to do this i want them to have some conception of the whole pattern of the story so that their contributions may be in proper design, both in substance and in length. that is the reason i give two samples before throwing the story open to the children. if each child has a part which falls into a recognized scheme, through performing that part he gets a certain practice in pattern making in language,--however primitive--and also a certain practice in the technique of co-operation which means listening to the others as well as performing himself. i have not tried to add anything to their stock of information,--merely to give them the pleasure of drawing on a common fund together. the room with the window looking out on the garden once there was a little girl. she was just three years old. one morning she and her mother put on their hats and coats right after breakfast. they walked and walked and walked from their house until they came to macdougal alley. and then they walked straight down the alley into the play school. now the little girl had never been to the play school before and she didn't know where anything was and she didn't know any of the children and she didn't even know her teacher! so she asked her mother, "which room is going to be mine?" and her mother answered, "the one with the window looking out on the garden." and sure enough, when the little girl looked around there was the sun shining right in through a window which looked out on a lovely garden! she knelt right down on the window sill to look out. [illustration] then she heard some one say, "little new girl, why don't you take off your things?" she turned around and there was virginia talking to her. "because i don't know where to put them," said little new girl. "how funny!" laughed virginia, "because see, here are all the hooks right in plain sight," and she pointed under the stairs. so the little girl took off her hat and her mittens. her mother had to unbutton the hard top button but she did all the rest. then she hung up everything on a hook. "goodbye," said her mother. "goodbye," said little new girl. "don't forget to come for me because i don't know where anything is and i don't know the children and i don't even know my teacher." and her mother answered, "no, i won't." and then she was gone. "now, little new girl, what do you want to do?" said her teacher. but the little girl only shook her head and said, "i don't know anything to do." one little boy said, "let me show little new girl something." and what did he show her? he took her over to the shelves and he showed her the blocks. "you can build a house or anything with them," said the little boy. then another little girl said, "let me show little new girl something." and what did this other little girl show her? she showed her the dolls. "you can put them into a house," said this other little girl. "who else can show little new girl something to do?" called her teacher. "will you, robert?" so what did robert show her? (give child ample time to think. if he does not respond go on.) robert took her over to the shelves and showed her the paper and crayons. "you can draw ever so many pictures," said robert. then virginia said, "let me show little new girl something." so what did virginia show her?--virginia showed her the horses and wagons. "you can harness them up," said virginia. then craig said, "let _me_ show little new girl something." so what did craig show her?--craig showed her the beads. "you can string them in strings," said craig. then peter said, "let _me_ show little new girl something." so what did peter show her?--peter showed her the clay. "you can make anything you want out of it," said peter. then tom said, "let _me_ show little new girl something." so what did tom show her? tom showed her the saw and hammer and nails. "you can saw or hammer nails," said tom. then barbara said, "let me show little new girl something." so what did barbara show her? barbara showed her the paper and scissors. "you can cut out anything you want," said barbara. "now little new girl, what do you want to do?" said her teacher. and this time the little girl jumped right up and down and said, "i'm glad! i want to do everything." "but which thing first?" asked her teacher. "let me watch," the little new girl said. so little new girl stood quite still. she saw robert go and get some paper and crayons and sit down at his little table to draw. she saw virginia get some horses and harness and sit down at her little table to harness them. she saw craig get some beads and sit down at his little table to string them. she saw peter get the clay and sit down at his little table to model. she saw tom go to the bench and begin to saw a piece of wood. she saw barbara get some paper and scissors and paste and sit down at her little table to cut out and to paste. then she said, "i want to draw first." so she took some paper and some colored crayons and she sat down at a little table near the window looking out on the garden. there she drew and she drew and she drew. and she didn't feel like a little new girl at all for now she knew where everything was and she knew all the children and she knew her teacher. the room with the window looking out on the garden i know a yellow room with great big sliding doors and a window on the side looking out upon a garden. there's a balcony above with a bench for carpenters with planes and saws and hammers, bang! bang! with nails and hammers. there are hooks beneath the stairs to hang up hats and coats, and nearby there's a sink with everybody's cup. there's a rope and there's a slide zzzip! but there's a slide. there are shelves and shelves and shelves with colored silk and beads, with paper and with crayons, and a great big crock with clay. and the're blocks and blocks and blocks and blocks and blocks and blocks and the're horses there and wagons and cows and dogs and sheep, and men and women, boys and girls with clothes upon them too. and then the're cars to make a train with engine and caboose.[b] and the're lots of little tables in this yellow, yellow room for boys and girls to sit at and play with all those things. and there's a great big floor in this yellow, yellow room for boys and girls to sit on and play with all those things. and there is lots of sunshine in this yellow, yellow room for boys and girls to sit in and play with all those things. [b] _at this point the teacher might ask, "what else?" not the first time, however. the children must get the outline as a whole before they contribute. otherwise they will be entirely absorbed by the content._ the many-horse stable all the material for this story was supplied by a three-year-old. the pattern was added. an older child would not be content with so sketchy an account. but it seems to compass a three-year-old's most significant associations with a stable. the title is one in actual use by a four-year-old class. the many-horse stable [illustration] once there was a stable. the stable was in a big city. downstairs in the stable there were many g-r-e-a-t b-i-g wagons and one little-bit-of-a wagon. and on the walls there were many g-r-e-a-t b-i-g harnesses and one little-bit-of-a harness. and there were many g-r-e-a-t b-i-g blankets and one little-bit-of-a blanket. and there were some g-r-e-a-t b-i-g whips and one little-bit-of-a whip. and there were some g-r-e-a-t b-i-g nose bags and one little-bit-of-a nose bag. upstairs in the stalls there were some g-r-e-a-t b-i-g horses and one little-bit-of-a pony. in the morning the men would come and harness up the g-r-e-a-t b-i-g horses with the g-r-e-a-t b-i-g harnesses to the g-r-e-a-t b-i-g wagons. they would put in the g-r-e-a-t b-i-g blankets and the g-r-e-a-t b-i-g whips and the g-r-e-a-t b-i-g nose bags. then they would get up on the seats and gather up the reins and off down the street would go the g-r-e-a-t b-i-g horses. clumpety-lumpety bump! thump! clumpety-lumpety bump! thump! then a little-bit-of-a man would harness up the little-bit-of-a pony with the little-bit-of-a harness to the little-bit-of-a wagon. he would put in the little-bit-of-a blanket and the little-bit-of-a whip and the little-bit-of-a nose bag. then he would get up on the seat and gather up the reins and off down the street would go the little-bit-of-a pony! lippety-lippety! lip! lip! lip! lippety-lippety! lip! lip! lip! my kitty here there is no plot. instead i have attempted to enumerate the associations which cluster around a kitten, and present them in a patterned form. my kitty meow, meow! kitty's eyes, two eyes, yellow eyes, shiny bright eyes. meow, meow! kitty's pointed ears, pink on the inside, fur on the outside. meow, meow! kitty's mouth, little white teeth and whiskers long. meow, meow! kitty's fur, soft to stroke like this, like this. prrrr, prrrr, little fur ball cuddled close to the warm, warm fire. prrrr, prrrr, little padded feet pattering soft to get her milk. prrrr, prrrr, little pink tongue, lapping up the milk from her own little dish. prrrr, prrrr, warm little, round little, happy little kitten snuggled in my arms. pssst, pssst! stiff little kitten, spitting at a dog. pssst, pssst! hair standing up on her humped-up back. pssst, pssst! sharp white teeth, sharp, sharp, claws. pssst, pssst! ready to jump and to bite and to scratch. kitty, kitty, kitty, you funny little cat, i never know whether you'll purr or spit you funny little cat! the rooster and the hens an objective story tied in with the personal. the rooster and the hens once there was an egg. inside the egg there was a little chicken growing, for the mother hen had sat on it for three weeks. when the chicken was big enough he wanted to come out and so he went pick, peck, pick, peck, until he made a little hole in the shell. then he stuck his bill through the hole and wiggled it until the shell cracked and he could get his head through. then he wiggled it a little more and the shell broke and he could get his foot out. and then the shell broke right in two. as soon as the little chicken was out he went scritch, scratch, with his little foot. then he ran to a little saucer of water. he took a little water in his bill; then he held his head up in the air while the water ran down his throat. the mother hen went: "cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck," and the little chicken ran to her calling: "cheep, cheep, cheep." then he heard a funny little noise. he looked around and what do you think he saw? another egg was cracking because another little chicken was going pick, peck inside. soon out of the shell came a little baby brother. and then he heard another funny little noise, and another shell broke and out of the shell came a little baby sister. and then he heard another little noise and another shell broke and out of the shell came still another little sister. this went on until there were a lot of yellow baby chickens. then all the little chickens went scritch, scratch, with their little feet looking for worms, and all the little chickens took a drink of water and held up their heads to let the water run down their throats. and all the little chickens ran to the mother hen calling: "cheep, cheep, cheep." now all the little chickens began to grow. the little sisters all got little bits of combs on the tops of their heads and under their bills. their little yellow feathers turned into all kinds of colors. but the little brother chicken, he got a great big red comb on the top of his head and under his bill, and he got long spurs on his ankles. on his neck the feathers grew long and yellow and behind on his tail they grew very long and all shiny green. he was walking around one morning while it was still dark when suddenly he felt a funny feeling in his throat. he wanted to open his mouth. so he did, and out of his mouth this is what came: "cock-a-doodle-doo, cock-a-doodle-doo." he thought it sounded perfectly wonderful; so he opened his mouth again and out came the same sound: "cock-a-doodle-doo, cock-a-doodle-doo." now when his sister hens heard this wonderful rooster-noise they all came running out of the chicken house. this made the rooster more pleased than ever. so he threw his head way back and he opened his beak wide and he crowed: "cock-a-doodle-doo, cock-a-doodle-doo, i'm twice as smart as you, cock-a-doodle-doo, see what i can do." when his sister hens heard him say this each one began to cluck and say: "cut-cut-cut, cadaakut, i'm going to lay an egg, an egg." then the rooster answered: "cock-a-doodle-doo, i don't believe it's true. cock-a-doodle-doo, i don't believe it's true." so the little black and white hen, she ran into the barn and up on the side of the wall she saw a little box. she jumped into the little box and there she laid an egg. then she said: "cut-cut-cut, cadaakut, i laid an egg for robert. cut-cut-cut, cadaakut, i laid an egg for robert." then the little yellow hen she jumped right into the manger and she wiggled around in the straw until she made a little nest where she laid an egg. then she said: "cut-cut-cut, cadaakut, i laid an egg for martha. cut-cut-cut, cadaakut, i laid an egg for martha." then the little black hen she saw another little box nailed on to the wall so she jumped up on it and she laid an egg and then she said: "cut-cut-cut, cadaakut, i laid an egg for tom, for tom, cut-cut-cut, cadaakut, i laid an egg for tom." and then the little white hen she could not find any place at all. she ran around and around. finally she sat right down in the soft dust which by this time the sun had made all warm, until she made a little round hollow and there she laid an egg. then she said: "cut-cut-cut, cadaakut, i laid an egg for peter. cut-cut-cut, cadaakut, i laid an egg for peter." when the rooster saw all these eggs he opened his mouth again and bragged: "cock-a-doodle-doo, what they say is true. see what they can do, cock-a-doodle-doo." and the little hens answered: "cut-cut-cut, cadaakut, we can lay an egg, an egg, cut-cut-cut, cadaakut, we can lay an egg." and if ever you are out in the country early in the morning you will hear the wonderful rooster-noise. and then you will hear the hens telling how many eggs they have laid for you. the little hen and the rooster the little hen goes "cut cut cut." the rooster he goes "cock a doodle doo! you want me and i want you, but i'm up here and you're down there." the little hen goes "cut cut cut," the rooster he steps with a funny little strut, he cocks his eye, gives a funny little sound, he looks at the hen, he looks all around, he flaps his wings, he beats the air, he stretches his neck, then flies to the ground. "cock a doodle, cock a doodle, cock a doodle doo! now you have me and i have you!" my horse, old dan this verse utilizes a child's love of enumeration and of movement. the school has found it the most successful of my verse for small children. my horse, old dan old dan has two ears old dan has two eyes old dan has one mouth with many, many, many, many teeth. old dan has four feet old dan has four hoofs old dan has one tail with many, many, many, many hairs. old dan can w a l k, w a l k, old dan can trot, trot, trot, old dan can run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, many, many, many, many miles. * * * horsie goes jog-a-jog-a-jog the wheels go round and round and round. horsie goes jog-a-jog-a-jog oh, hear what a rattlety, tattlety sound! horsie goes jog-a-jog-a-jog the wheels they pound and pound and pound. horsie goes jog-a-jog-a-jog while the wagon it rattles along the ground! [illustration] auto, auto. may i have a ride? yes, sir, yes, sir, step right inside. pour in the water, turn on the gasolene, and chug, chug, away we go through the country green. how spot found a home this story was worked out with the help of a five-year-old boy who supplied most of the content. it at once suggested dramatization to various groups of children to whom it was read. the refrains are definite corner posts in the story and are recognized as such by the children. how spot found a home once there was a cat. she was a black and white and yellow cat and the boys on the street called her spot. for she was a poor cat with no home but the street. when she wanted to sleep, she had to hunt for a dark empty cellar. when she wanted to eat, she had to hunt for a garbage can. so poor spot was very thin and very unhappy. and much of the time she prowled and yowled and howled. [illustration] now one day spot was prowling along the fence in the alley. she wanted to find a home. she was saying to herself: "meow, meow! i've no place to eat, i've no place to sleep, i've only the street! meow, meow, meow!" then suddenly she smelled something. sniff! went her pink little nose. spot knew it was smoke she smelled. the smoke came out of the chimney of a house. "where there is smoke there is fire," thought spot, "and where there is fire, it is warm to lie." so she jumped down from the fence and on her little padded feet ran softly to the door. there she saw an empty milk bottle. "where there are milk bottles, there is milk," thought spot, "and where there is milk, it is good to drink." so she slipped in through the door. inside was a warm, warm kitchen. spot trotted softly to the front of the stove and there she curled up. she was very happy, so she closed her eyes and began to sing: "purrrr, purrrr, curling up warm to a ball of fur, i close my eyes and purr and purr. purrrr, purrrr, purrrr, purrrr." bang! went the kitchen door. spot opened one sleepy eye. in front of her stood a cross, cross woman. the cross, cross woman scowled. she picked up poor spot and threw her out of the door, screaming: "scat, scat! you old street cat! scat, scat! and never come back!" with a bound spot jumped back to the fence. "meow, meow! i've no place to eat, i've no place to sleep, i've only the street. meow, meow, meow!" so she trotted along the fence. in a little while sniff! went her little pink nose again. she smelled more smoke. she stopped by a house with two chimneys. the smoke came out of both chimneys! "where there are two fires there must be room for me," thought spot. she jumped off the fence and pattered to the door. by the door there were two empty milk bottles. "where there is so much milk there will be some for me," thought spot. but the door was shut tight. spot ran to the window. it was open! in skipped spot. there was another warm, warm kitchen and there was another stove. spot trotted softly to the stove and curled up happy and warm. she closed her eyes and softly sang: "purrrr, purrrr, curling up warm to a ball of fur, i close my eyes and purr and purr. purrrr, purrrr, purrrr, purrrr." "ssssspt!" hissed something close by. spot leapt to her feet. "ssssspt!" she answered back. for there in front of her stood an enormous black cat. his back was humped, his hair stood on end, his eyes gleamed and his teeth showed white. "ssssspt! leave my rug! ssssspt! leave my fire! ssssspt! leave my milk! ssssspt! leave my home!" spot gave one great jump out of the window and another great jump to the top of the fence. for spot was little and thin and the great black cat was strong and big. and he didn't want spot in his home. poor spot trotted along the fence, thinking: "meow, meow, i've no place to eat, i've no place to sleep, i've only the street, meow, meow, meow." in a little while she smelled smoke again. sniff! went her little pink nose. this time she stopped by a house with three chimneys. the smoke came out of all the chimneys! "where there are three fires there _must_ be room for me," thought spot. so she jumped off the fence and pattered to the door. by the door were three empty milk bottles! "where there is so much milk there must be children," thought spot and then she began to feel happy. but the door was shut tight. she trotted to the window. the window was shut tight too! then she saw some stairs. up the stairs she trotted. there she found another door and in she slipped. she heard a very pleasant sound. "i crickle, i crackle, i flicker, i flare, i jump from nothing right into the air." there on the hearth burned an open fire with a warm, warm rug in front of it. on the rug was a little table and on the table were two little mugs of milk. spot curled up on the rug under the table and began to sing: "purrrr, purrrr, curling up warm to a ball of fur, i close my eyes, and purr and purr. purrrr, purrrr, purrrr, purrrr." pat, pat, pat, pat, pat, pat, pat, pat! spot heard some little feet coming. a little boy in a nightgown ran into the room. "look," he called, "at the pretty spotted cat under our table!" then pat, pat, pat, pat, pat! and a little girl in a nightgown ran into the room. "see," she called, "the pussy has come to take supper with us!" then the little boy, quick as a wink, put a saucer on the floor and poured some of his milk into it and the little girl, quick as a wink, poured some of hers in too. in and out, in and out, in and out, went spot's pink tongue lapping up the milk. then she sat up and washed her face very carefully. then she curled up and closed her eyes and began to sing. that was her way of saying "thank you, little boy and little girl! i'm so glad i've found a home!" "purrrr, purrrr, purrrr, purrrr, purrrr, purrrr, purrrr." the dinner horses the grocery man the material for these stories came from questions and observations on the part of three- and four-year-olds arising largely from their trips on the city streets. the children should be allowed to name the various kinds of food. the dinner horses in a certain house on a certain street there lives a certain little girl and her name is ruth (one of children's names). she sleeps in a little bed in a room with a big window opening on to the street. she sleeps all night in the little bed with her eyes closed tight. in the morning she opens her eyes and it's just beginning to get light. then she stretches and stretches her legs. then she stops still and listens. for she hears him coming, coming, coming down the street. clopperty, clopperty, clopperty, clop! comes the milk horse down the street! he stops in front of ruth's house. ruth hears him. then she hears the driver jump out and pat, pat, pat, she hears his feet coming to the door. clank, clink, clank, go the milk bottles in his hands. clank! she hears him put them down. then fast she hears his feet, pat, pat, pat, pat, pat, pat, pat. "go on, dan!" she hears him call, and clopperty, clopperty, clopperty, clop! off goes the milk horse down the street. then after a while she hears something else. it's quite light now. ruth thinks it must be time to get up. she stretches and stretches her legs. then she stretches and stretches her arms. then she stops still and listens. for she hears him coming, coming, coming down the street. clippety, lip, lip, lip, clippety, lip, lip, lip! comes the bread horse down the street. he stops in front of ruth's house. ruth hears him. then she hears the driver jump out and pat, pat, pat, she hears his feet coming to the door. rattle, crackle, goes the paper as he puts down the loaves of bread all wrapped up to keep them clean. then fast she hears his feet, pat, pat, pat, pat, pat, pat, pat. "go on, bill!" she hears him call and clippety, lip, lip, lip, clippety, lip, lip, lip! off goes the bread horse down the street. after breakfast when ruth is all ready to go to school she hears a big auto coming down the street. kachug-a-chug-a-chug comes the grocery auto down the street. it stops at ruth's house. ruth runs and looks out of the window. she sees the driver jump out and take from the back of the auto a basket all full of things. she can see spinach and potatoes and a package of sugar and----and----and----. then pat, pat, pat, the driver runs to the door. prrrrrr! she hears the bell ring and ruth knows that the driver is giving bessie all the things at the kitchen door. then pat, pat, pat back comes the driver, jumps into the auto and kachug-a-chug-a-chug! off goes the grocery auto down the street! on the way to school ruth passes another wagon. rattling and clattering, she hears the butcher's wagon come down the street. "is there anything in that wagon for us?" asks ruth. and her mother answers, "yes, a little chicken." then rattling and clattering off to ruth's house goes the butcher's wagon down the street. now while ruth is away at school bessie washes the spinach and chops it up fine and puts it on the stove to boil. she puts the little chicken in a pan and puts it in the oven to roast. then she puts some big potatoes in the oven to bake. then she slices some bread and cuts off a piece of butter and pours out some glasses of milk. when ruth comes home from school she smells something good. "dinner's all ready," calls bessie. ruth answers, "come father, come mother. i'm hungry." so ruth and her father and mother sit down at the table and they drink the milk and they eat the bread and the spinach and the potatoes and the chicken which the milk horse and the bread horse and the grocery auto and the butcher's wagon brought in the morning. [illustration] the grocery man prrrip! prrrip! prrrip! the telephone rings in the grocery store. "hello," says the grocery man. "who are you?" "i'm ruth's mother. good morning, mr. grocery man." "good morning, ruth's mother. what can i send you today?" "please, mr. grocery man, send me some potatoes and some graham crackers and a package of sugar and some carrots." "is that all, ruth's mother?" "yes, that's all. goodbye, mr. grocery man." "goodbye, ruth's mother." so the grocery man hangs up the telephone and takes a basket and in the basket he puts some potatoes, some graham crackers, a package of sugar and some carrots. then prrrip! prrrip! prrrip! the telephone rings again. "hello!" says the grocery man. "who is this?" "this is john's mother. good morning, mr. grocery man." "good morning, john's mother. what can i send you today?" "please, mr. grocery man, send me some spinach and some apples and some butter and some eggs." "is that all, john's mother?" "yes, that's all. goodbye, mr. grocery man." "goodbye, john's mother." so the grocery man hangs up the telephone and takes another basket and in the basket he puts some spinach and some apples and some butter and some eggs. then prrrip! prrrip, prrrip! the telephone rings another time. "hello!" says the grocery man. "who are you?" "i'm robert's mother. good morning, mr. grocery man." "good morning, robert's mother. what can i send you today?" "please, mr. grocery man, send me some prunes and some macaroni and some salt and some oatmeal." "is that all, robert's mother?" "yes, that's all. goodbye, mr. grocery man." "goodbye, robert's mother." so the grocery man hangs up the telephone and takes another basket and in the basket he puts some prunes and some macaroni and some salt and some oatmeal. then he carries ruth's basket out and puts it in a wagon on the street. then he carries john's basket out and puts it in the wagon. at last he carries robert's basket out and puts that in the wagon with the others. then the driver jumps to the seat and gathers up the reins and says "go on, old dan," and clopperty, clopperty clop! off goes old dan down the street. old dan goes clopperty, clopperty, clop till he gets to ruth's house and there he stops. the driver jumps out and takes the basket and pat, pat, pat, go his feet running to the door. prrrr! he rings the bell and gives ruth's mother the potatoes, the graham crackers, the sugar and the carrots. then pat, pat, pat, he is back in the wagon. "go on, old dan," and clopperty, clopperty, clop! off goes old dan down the street. old dan goes clopperty, clopperty, clop till he gets to john's house and there he stops. the driver jumps out and takes another basket and pat, pat, pat go his feet running to the door. prrrr! he rings the bell and gives john's mother the spinach, the apples, the butter and the eggs. then pat, pat, pat, he is back in the wagon. "go on, old dan," and clopperty, clopperty, clop! off goes old dan down the street. old dan goes clopperty, clopperty, clop till he gets to robert's house and there he stops. the driver jumps out, takes another basket and pat, pat, pat, he is at the door. prrrr! he rings the bell and gives robert's mother the prunes, the macaroni, the salt and the oatmeal. then pat, pat, pat, he is back in the wagon. "go on, old dan," and clopperty, clopperty, clop! off goes old dan down the street. so old dan goes clopperty, clopperty, clop from house to house until he has left a basket with everybody who telephoned to the grocery man in the morning. the journey this story, which is an adaptation of a five-year-old's story quoted in the introduction, embodies the details given to me by another three-year-old child. the sound of the train should be intoned, as it was in the original telling. the journey once ruth's father was going to take a journey. he got out his suitcase. and in his suitcase he put his slippers, his pajamas, his tooth brush, some tooth paste, some clean underclothes, some clean shirts, some collars, some socks and some handkerchiefs. then he kissed ruth goodbye as she lay asleep in her bed and he kissed her mother goodbye and with his suitcase in his hand went up to the pennsylvania station. at the train he met the negro porter. "what berth, sir?" said the porter. "lower ", said ruth's father. so the porter took the suitcase and put it down at number which was all made up into two beds, one above the other, with green curtains hanging in front. then ruth's father undressed. and in a few minutes he was asleep behind the green curtains. soon the train started and ruth's father never woke up. "thum," said the train (on many different keys) all through the night. "thum, thum, thum; thum, thum, thum, thum; thum, thum, thum, thum; thum, thum, thum, thum. _philadelphia!_ thum, thum, thum, thum; thum, thum, thum, thum; thum, thum, thum, thum; thum, thum, thum, thum. _baltimore!_ thum, thum, thum, thum; thum, thum, thum, thum; thum, thum, thum, thum; thum, thum, thum, thum. _washington!_" then ruth's father got up and dressed himself, for it was morning. the negro porter carried his suitcase to the platform. "goodbye, sir," he said. "goodbye, porter," said ruth's father. and then he went off to a hotel. the next day it was time for him to go home. so ruth's father packed his suitcase again. in his suitcase he put his slippers, his pajamas, his tooth brush, some tooth paste, his dirty underclothes, his dirty shirts, his collars, his socks and his handkerchiefs. then he went to the pennsylvania station in washington. at the train he met another negro porter. "what berth, sir?" said the porter. "upper ," said ruth's father. so the porter took the suitcase and put it in the top bed of number . ruth's father climbed up into the upper berth. then he undressed and in a few minutes he was asleep behind the green curtains. soon the train started. "thum," said the train, though ruth's father never heard it he was so sound asleep. "thum, thum, thum, thum; thum, thum, thum, thum; thum, thum, thum, thum; thum, thum, thum, thum. _baltimore!_ thum, thum, thum, thum; thum, thum, thum, thum; thum, thum, thum, thum; thum, thum, thum, thum. _philadelphia!_ thum, thum, thum, thum; thum, thum, thum, thum; thum, thum, thum, thum; thum, thum, thum, thum. _new york!_" then ruth's father got up and dressed himself for it was morning. the negro porter carried his suitcase to the platform. "goodbye, sir," he said. "goodbye, porter," said ruth's father. then ruth's father jumped into a taxi and in a few minutes he was at home. ruth came running down the stairs. "here's father," she cried. "here's father in time for breakfast!" "my," said ruth's father, giving her a hug, "it's good to be home!" pedro's feet here there is a definite attempt to let the sounds tell their own story. pedro's feet little pedro was a dog. he lived in new york city. he was owned by a little boy who loved him. for pedro had big brown eyes and curly brown hair and when he wanted anything he would go: "hu-u-u, hu-u-u, hu-u-u!" and any one would have loved pedro. one day pedro was lying on his front steps in the warm, warm sun. he put his nose on his little fore paws and went to sleep. "bzbzbzbzbzbzbzbzbz!" went a little fly in his ear. "yap, yap!" went pedro's jaws as he snapped at the fly. but he missed the fly. "bzbzbzbzbzbzbzbzbz!" went the little fly. "yap, yap!" went pedro's jaws. but he missed the fly again. "bzbzbzbzbzbzbzbzbz!" "yap, yap, yap!" "bzbzbzbzbzbzbzbzbz!" "yap, yap, yap, yap!" up jumped pedro. "i can't sleep with that fly in my ear! i'll take a walk!" down the steps he went. skippety, skippety, skippety, skippety. he reached the sidewalk. on the sidewalk went his feet. you could hear them as they beat. pitter patter, pitter patter, pitter patter down the street. when he came to the end of the block, he started across the street. pitter patter, pitter patter, pitter pat---- "honk, honk! look out, look out! honk, honk!" jump-thump! went pedro's feet. jump-jump jump-jump, jump-jump, thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump, jump-jump, jump-jump, jump-jump, pitter patter, pitter patter,--he'd reached the other side! and the auto hadn't hurt him! again on the sidewalk went his feet. you could hear them as they beat pitter patter, pitter patter, pitter patter down the street. when he came to the end of this block, he started across the next street. pitter patter, pitter patter, pitter pat---- "clopperty, clopperty, clopperty, clopperty! get out of my way, get out of my way! clopperty, clopperty, clopperty, clopperty!" jump-thump! went pedro's feet. jump-jump jump-jump, jump-jump, thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump, jump-jump, jump-jump, jump-jump, pitter patter, pitter patter,--he'd reached the other side! and the horse hadn't hurt him either! again on the sidewalk went his feet. you could hear them as they beat,--pitter patter, pitter patter, pitter patter down the street. when he came to the end of this block, he started across the next street. pitter patter, pitter patter, pitter pat---- pedro stopped with one little front foot up in the air. in the middle of the street stood a man. he had on high rubber boots and he held a big hose. shrzshrzshrzshrzshrz--came the water out of the hose. it hit the street. splsh splsh splsh splsh splsh! it ran in a little stream into the hole in the gutter,--gubble, gubble, gubble, gubble, gubble! this was something new to pedro. he didn't understand. pitter patter, pitter patter, pitter patter. he thought he'd better find out about it. "hie, you little dog! look out!" shouted the man. pitter patter, pitter patter, pitter patter. "hie, you little dog. i say look out!" pitter patter, pitter pat--ssssssssss bang! the water hit him! "ki-eye! yow! yow!" kathump, kathump, kathump, kathump; kathump, kathump, kathump, kathump! fast, fast went pedro's feet, running, tearing down the street. "ki-eye! i'm going home!" kathump, kathump, kathump, kathump! down the sidewalk, 'cross the street, 'nother sidewalk, 'nother street, kathump, kathump, kathump, kathump! pedro was at home. skippety, skippety up the stairs. pedro was at his own front door. he stopped. brrrrrrrrrrrrr--he shook himself. he scattered the water all around. "bow, wow, i'm glad i'm home! bow, wow, i'm glad i'm home!" then he lay down in the warm, warm sun. and he put his nose on his little fore paws. and he closed his eyes and he went to sleep. "bzbzbzbzbzbzbzbzbz!" but pedro was too sound asleep to hear the fly. "whe-whuhuhu, whe-whuhuhu, whe-whuhuhu." that's the way he was breathing. for he was oh, so sound asleep! and there he is sleeping now. how the engine learned the knowing song this story stresses the relationship of use in response to what seems to be a five-year-old method of thinking. the school has found it best to let the younger children take the parts individually but to omit the parts in unison. the joy of the mere noise makes it difficult to bring them back for the close of the story. all the children have repeated the refrains after a few readings with evident enjoyment. how the engine learned the knowing song once there was a new engine. he had a great big boiler; he had a smoke stack; he had a bell; he had a whistle; he had a sand-dome; he had a headlight; he had four big driving wheels; he had a cab. but he was very sad, was this engine, for he didn't know how to use any of his parts. all around him on the tracks were other engines, puffing or whistling or ringing their bells and squirting steam. one big engine moved his wheels slowly, softly muttering to himself, "i'm going, i'm going, i'm going." now the new engine knew this was the end of the knowing song of engines. he wanted desperately to sing it. so he called out: "i want to go but i don't know how; i want to know, please teach me now. please somebody teach me how." now there were two men who had come just on purpose to teach him how. and who do you suppose they were? the engineer and the fireman! when the engineer heard the new engine call out, he asked, "what do you want, new engine?" and the engine answered: "i want the sound of my wheels going round. i want to stream a jet of steam. i want to puff smoke and stuff. i want to ring ding, ding-a-ding. i want to blow my whistle so. i want my light to shine out bright. i want to go ringing and singing the song, the humming song of the engine coming, the clear, near song of the engine here, the knowing song of the engine going." now the engineer and the fireman were pleased when they heard what the new engine wanted. but the engineer said: "all in good time, my engine, steady, steady, 'til you're ready. learn to know before you go." [illustration] then he said to the fireman, "first we must give our engine some water." so they put the end of a hose hanging from a big high-up tank right into a little tank under the engine's tender. the water filled up this little tank and then ran into the big boiler and filled that all up too. and while they were doing this the water kept saying: "i am water from a stream when i'm hot i turn to steam." when the engine felt his boiler full of water he asked eagerly: "now i have water, now do i know how i should go?" but the fireman said: "all in good time, my engine, steady, steady, 'til you're ready, learn to know before you go." then he said to the engineer, "now we must give our engine some coal." so they filled the tender with coal, and then under the boiler the fireman built a fire. then the fireman began blowing and the coals began glowing. and as he built the fire, the fire said: "i am fire, the coal i eat to make the heat to turn the stream into the steam." when the engine felt the sleeping fire wake up and begin to live inside him and turn the water into steam he said eagerly: "now i have water, now i have coal, now do i know how i should go?" but the engineer said: "all in good time, my engine, steady, steady, 'til you're ready. learn to know before you go." then he said to the fireman, "we must oil our engine well." so they took oil cans with funny long noses and they oiled all the machinery, the piston-rods, the levers, the wheels, everything that moved or went round. and all the time the oil kept saying: "no creak, no squeak." when the engine felt the oil smoothing all his machinery, he said eagerly: "now i have water, now i have coal, now i am oiled, now do i know how i should go?" but the fireman said: "all in good time, my engine, steady, steady, 'til you're ready. learn to know before you go." then he said to the engineer, "we must give our engine some sand." so they took some sand and they filled the sand domes on top of the boiler so that he could send sand down through his two little pipes and sprinkle it in front of his wheels when the rails were slippery. and all the time the sand kept saying: "when ice drips, and wheel slips, i am sand close at hand." when the new engine felt his sand-dome filled with sand he said eagerly: "now i have water, now i have coal, now i am oiled, now i have sand, now do i know how i should go?" but the engineer said: "all in good time, my engine, steady, steady, 'til you're ready. learn to know before you go." then he said to the fireman, "we must light our engine's headlight." so the fireman took a cloth and he wiped the mirror behind the light and polished the brass around it. then he filled the lamp with oil. then the engineer struck a match and lighted the lamp and closed the little door in front of it. and all the time the light kept saying: "i'm the headlight shining bright like a sunbeam through the night." now when the engine saw the great golden path of brightness streaming out ahead of him, he said eagerly: "now i have water, now i have coal, now i am oiled, now i have sand, now i make light, now do i know how i should go?" [illustration] and the engineer said, "we will see if you are ready, my new engine." so he climbed into the cab and the fireman got in behind him. then he said, "engine, can you blow your whistle so?" and he pulled a handle which let the steam into the whistle and the engine whistled (who wants to be the whistle?) "toot, toot, toot." then he said, "can you puff smoke and stuff?" and the engine puffed black smoke (who wants to be the smoke?), saying, "puff, puff, puff, puff, puff." then he said, "engine, can you squirt a stream of steam?" and he opened a valve (who wants to be the steam?) and the engine went, "szszszszsz." then he said, "engine, can you sprinkle sand?" and he pulled a little handle (who wants to be the sand?) and the sand trickled drip, drip, drip, down on the tracks in front of the engine's wheels. then he said, "engine, does your light shine out bright?" and he looked (who wants to be the headlight?) and there was a great golden flood of light on the track in front of him. then he said, "engine, can you make the sound of your wheels going round?" and he pulled another lever and the great wheels began to move (who wants to be the wheels?) then the engineer said: "now is the time, now is the time. steady, steady, now you are ready. blow whistle, ring bell, puff smoke, hiss steam, sprinkle sand, shine light, turn wheels! 'tis time to be ringing and singing the song, the humming song of the engine coming, the clear, near song of the engine here, the knowing song of the engine going." then whistle blew, bell rang, smoke puffed, steam hissed, sand sprinkled, light shone and wheels turned like this: (eventually the children can do this together, each performing his chosen part.) "toot-toot, ding-a-ding, puff-puff, szszszszsz, drip-drip, chug-chug." (after a moment stop the children) that's the way the new engine sounded when he started on his first ride and didn't know how to do things very well. but that's not the way he sounded when he had learned to go really smooth and fast. then it was that he learned _really_ to sing "the knowing song of the engine." he sang it better than any one else for he became the fastest, the steadiest, the most knowing of all express engines. and this is the song he sang. you could hear it humming on the rails long before he came and hear it humming on the rails long after he had passed. now listen to the song. (begin very softly rising to a climax with "i'm here" and gradually dying to a faint whisper) "i'm coming, i'm coming, i'm coming, i'm coming, i'm coming, i'm coming, i'm coming, i'm coming, i'm coming, i'm coming, i'm coming, i'm coming, i'm coming, i'm coming, i'm coming, i'm coming. i'm here, i'm here, i'm here, i'm here, i'm here, i'm here, i'm here, i'm here. i'm going, i'm going, i'm going, i'm going, i'm going, i'm going, i'm going, i'm going, i'm going, i'm going, i'm going, i'm going, i'm going, i'm going, i'm going, i'm going." the fog boat story the refrains must be intoned if not sung to get the proper effect. most of the informational parts of the original story have been cut out. the story grew out of questions asked before breakfast on foggy days, and was originally told to the sound of the distant fog horns. the fog boat story early, early one morning, all the fog boats were talking. this is the way they were going: "toot, toot, toot, too-oot, to-oo-oot!" (on many different keys.) [illustration] way down at the wharf a big steamer was being pulled out into the river. the furnaces were all going for the stokers were down in the hole shoveling coal, down in the hole shoveling coal, shoveling coal, and a lot of black smoke was coming out of the smoke stack. and the engines were working, chug, chug, chug. and all the baggage and freight had been put down in the hold. and all the food had been put on the ice. and all the passengers were on board and the gang-plank had been pulled up. and this is what the big steamer was saying: [illustration: musical score "toot toot i'm mov-ing; toot toot i'm mov-ing."] and do you know what was making the steamer move? what was pulling her out into the river? it was a little tug boat and the tug boat had hold of one end of a big rope and the other end of the rope was tied fast to the steamer. and the little tug boat was puffing and chucking and working away as hard as he could and calling out: [illustration: musical score "too too too too toot i'm aw-ful smart; too too too too toot i pull big things."] and do you know why the tug boat and the steamer were talking like this? it is because they were afraid they might bump into some other ship in the fog for they can't see in the fog. you know how white and thick the fog can be. so the old steamer and the little tug boat both kept tooting until they were way out in the middle of the river. "toot, toot, i'm moving." "tootootootootoot, i'm awful smart." [illustration] now when they were way out in the middle of the river, the little tug boat dropped the rope from the big steamer and turned around. as it puffed away it called out: "too-too-too-tootoot, i'm going home too-too-too-tootoot, i'm awful smart." then the big steamer moved slowly down the river towards the great ocean calling through the fog: "toot, toot, i'm moving." up on the captain's bridge stood the pilot. he is the man who tells just where to make the steamer go in the harbor. he knows where everything is. he knows where the rocks are on the right and he didn't let the steamer bump them. he knows where the sand reef is on the left and he didn't let the steamer get on to that. he knows just where the deep water is and he kept the steamer in it all the time. now down on the right so close that it almost bumped, there went a flat boat. this boat was saying: [illustration: musical score "toot toot my load is heavy, load is heavy, load is heavy, toot,"] and that was a coal barge. and then down on the left so close that it almost bumped on the other side they heard another boat saying: [illustration: musical score "too toot, back & forth, too toot, back & forth"] and that was a ferry boat! then off on the right they heard a great big deep voice. this is what it said: [illustration: musical score "toot toot, 'tis i"] and that was a war boat! and every time the old steamer answered: "toot, toot, i'm moving." once off on the left the passengers could hear this: "ding----g! dong----g! hear my song----g! ding----g! dong----g!" and what bell do you think that was way out there? a bell buoy rocking on the water! every time the wave went up it said, "ding" and every time the wave went down it said, "dong." by this time the old steamer was out of the harbor way out in the open sea. the pilot came down from the captain's deck; he climbed down the rope ladder to the little pilot boat that was tied close to the big steamer. then the little pilot boat pushed away into the fog calling: [illustration: musical score "too too toot too toot i'm go-ing go-ing home"] and again the big steamer answered: "toot, toot, i'm moving." then way off on the left so far away it could barely hear it, it heard: [illustration: musical score "don't hit me, toot toot, don't hit me, toot toot"] and that was a sail boat! then way off on the right so far away it could barely hear it, it heard "toot, toot, i'm moving" and that was another steamer. [illustration] and again the big steamer answered: "toot, toot, i'm moving." and so the old steamer went out into the fog calling, calling so that no boat would hit it. and all the other boats that passed it, they went calling, calling too. hammer and saw and plane this story is a slight extension of the children's own experience. it is purposely limited to the tools they themselves handle familiarly. hammer and saw and plane once there was a carpenter. he had built himself a fine new house. and now it was all done. the walls, the floors and the roof were done. the stairs were done. the windows and doors were done. and the carpenter had moved into his new house. in his house he had a stove and he had electric lights. he had beds and chairs and bureaus and bookcases. he had everything except a table to eat off of. he still had to stand up when he ate his meals! so the carpenter thought he would make him a table. but he had no lumber left. so off he went to the lumber mill. at the lumber mill he saw lots and lots of lumber piled in the yard. the carpenter told the man at the lumber mill just how much lumber he wanted and just how long he wanted it and how broad he wanted it and how thick he wanted it. so the man at the lumber mill put all this lumber,--just what the carpenter had ordered,--on a wagon and sent it out to the carpenter's house. and then the carpenter began. he said to himself, "first i must make my boards just the right length." so he measured a board just as long as he wanted the top to be; then he put the board on a sawhorse and he took his saw and began to saw: [illustration] "zzzu," went the saw, "zzzu, zzzu, zzzu." the sawdust flew the saw ripped through down dropped the board sawed right in two. and then the carpenter took another board and he measured this just the same length. then he put this board on the sawhorse and he took the saw and began to saw: "zzzu," went the saw, "zzzu, zzzu, zzzu." the sawdust flew the saw ripped through down dropped the board sawed right in two. and then the carpenter took still another board and "zzzu," went the saw until this board too was sawed right in two. then he had enough for the top of the table. then he took the pieces that were going to make the legs and he sawed four of them just the right length. then he sawed the boards that were going to be the braces until they too were just the right length. and underneath his sawhorse there was a little pile of sawdust. then after this the carpenter says to himself, "i must make my boards smooth." so he puts a board in the vise and he begins to plane the board. the plane he guides the plane it glides it smooths, it slides all over the sides. and when this board is all smooth, the carpenter takes it out of the vise and puts in another board. then he takes his plane. the plane he guides the plane it glides it smooths, it slides all over the sides. and then the carpenter takes still another board and he guides and slides the plane until this board too is all smooth. and he does this until all the boards that are going to make the top and the legs and the braces are all smooth. and underneath his bench there is a pile of shavings. and then the carpenter he says to himself, "i must nail my boards together." so he puts the boards that are going to make the top together and he takes a nail and then he swings his hammer: the hammer it gives a swinging pound. the nail it gives a ringing sound. bing! bang! bing! bing! and the boards are tight together! and then the carpenter takes another piece of the top and puts it beside the other two and he takes another nail and then he swings his hammer again. the hammer it gives a swinging pound. the nail it gives a ringing sound. bing! bang! bing! bing! and the boards are tight together! and then the carpenter takes one piece that is going to be a leg and he holds it so it stands right out from the top, and he takes another nail and he nails the leg to the top. bing! bang! bing! bing! he does this with the other three legs of his table. and then he has four strong legs and the top of his table all nailed together. then the carpenter he says to himself, "i'll put some boards across and make it stronger." so he takes some boards sawed just the right length, and he nails them across underneath the top, bing! bang! bing! bing! and then he has a table! so the carpenter lifts his table out into the middle of his room and he puts a chair beside it. when he sits down he is smiling all over. for the table is just the right size and just the right height and it is strong and good to look at. the carpenter is so glad to have a table to eat off of that he says to himself: "now isn't it grand? i won't have to stand while eating my dinner again! for now i am able to sit at the table i made with saw, hammer and plane!" the elephant this was written with the help of eight-year-old children who were trying to make everything sound "heavy" and "slow." the elephant the little boy had never before been to the zoo. he walked up close to the high iron fence. on the other side he saw a huge wrinkled grey lump slowly sway to one side and then slowly sway back to the other. and as it swayed from side to side its great long wrinkled trunk swung slowly too. the little boy followed the trunk with his eye up to the huge head of the great wrinkled grey lump. there were enormous torn worn flapping ears. and there, too, embedded like jewels in a leather wall sparkled two little eyes. these eyes were fastened on the little boy. they seemed to shine in the dull wrinkled skin. slowly the huge mass began to move. slowly one heavy padded foot came up and then went down with a soft thud. then came another soft thud and another and another. suddenly the monstrous trunk waved, curled, lifted, stretched and stretched, until its soft pink end was thrust through the high iron fence and the little boy could look up into the fleshy yawning red mouth. the little boy drew back from the high iron fence. the end of the trunk wiggled and wriggled around feeling its way up and down a rod of the fence; the great body swayed from one heavy foot to the other; and all the time the bright little eyes were fastened on the boy. the little boy looked and looked and looked again. he could hardly believe his eyes. "whew!" he said at last, "so that's an elephant!" how the animals move the classifications and most of the expressions were suggested by a child. how the animals move the lion, he has paws with claws, the horse, he walks on hooves, the worm, he lies right on the ground and wriggles when he moves! the seal, he moves with swimming feet, the moth, has wings like a sail, the fly he clings; the bird he wings, the monkey swings by his tail! but boys and girls with feet and hands can walk and run and swim and stand! the sea-gull all the material and most of the expressions are taken from a story by a six-year-old. it was put into rhythm because the children wished "the words to go like the waves." the sea-gull feel the waves go rocking, rocking, feel them roll and roll and roll. on the top there sits a sea-gull and he's rocking with the waves. now 'tis evening and he's weary so he's resting on the waves. when he woke in early morning like a flash he spied a fish. quick he flew and quickly diving snapped the fish and ate him straight. then he screamed for he was happy. then he spied another fish quick he flew and quickly diving snapped the fish and ate him straight. so he played while shone the sunshine, catching fish and screaming hoarse till he was quite out of hunger, and would rest him on the waves. once he flapped and flapped his great wings, soaring like an aeroplane. down below him lay the ocean like a wrinkled crinkly thing, and giant steamers looked like toy ones slowly moving on the waves. now the moonshine's making silver all the tossing, rocking waves. and the sea-gull looks like silver and his great wings look like silver pressing close his silver side, and his sharp beak looks like silver tucked beneath his silver wings. for beneath the silver moonlight see, the sea-gull's gone to sleep. rocking, rocking on the water, sleeping, sleeping on the waves, rocking--sleeping--sleeping--rocking, fast asleep upon the waves. the farmer tries to sleep it has seemed appropriate to let the children realize the incessant quality of farm work before that of the factory. the farmer tries to sleep the farmer woke up in the morning and sleepy as sleepy was he, he turned in his bed and he grouchily said: "today i will sleep! let me be, let me be! today i will sleep! let me be!" now puss in the corner she heard she heard what the farmer had said, she ran to the barn and she mewed in alarm; "the farmer will sleep in his bed, in his bed! today he will sleep in his bed!" then horse in the stable looked up, he whinneyed and shook his old head; "shall i stand here all day without any hay? whey-ey-ey! farmer, come feed me!" he said, so he said, "whey-ey-ey! farmer, come feed me!" he said. but the farmer he tight closed his eyes for sleepy as sleepy was he, he turned in his bed and he angrily said: "horse, i will sleep! let me be, let me be! horse, i will sleep! let me be!" down under the barn in the dirt pig heard what the pussy cat mewed. "can he give me the scraps when he's taking his naps? wee-ee, farmer, come give me my food, oh, my food! wee-ee, farmer, come give me my food!" but the farmer he tight closed his ears for sleepy as sleepy was he, he turned in his bed and he sulkily said: "pig, i will sleep! let me be, let me be! pig, i will sleep! let me be!" now rooster with chickens and hen had been crowing since early that morn, and he crowed when he heard this terrible word: "cock-a-doo! farmer, give us our corn, us our corn! cock-a-doo! farmer, give us our corn." but the farmer he pulled up the covers for sleepy as sleepy was he, he turned in his bed and crossly he said: "cock, i will sleep! let me be, let me be! cock, i will sleep! let me be!" cow heard in the pasture and lowed; "my cud no longer i chew, i stand by the gate and i wait and i wait, oh, farmer, come milk me! moo-oo, moo-oo! oh, farmer, come milk me, moo-oo!" but the farmer got under the covers, for sleepy as sleepy was he, he turned in his bed and fiercely he said, "cow, i will sleep! let me be, let me be! cow, i will sleep! let me be!" then horse he broke from the stable, and pig he broke from the pen, and cow jumped the fence though she hadn't much sense, and cock called chickens and hen, and hen, he called to chickens and hen. then up to the farm house door all followed the pussy who knew. horse whinneyed, cock crowed, pig grunted, cow lowed; "get up, farmer! whey, cock-a-doo, wee-wee-wee, mooo! whey, cock-a-doo, wee-wee-wee, moooo!" the farmer down under the covers, he heard and he groaned and he sighed. he wearily rose and he put on his clothes; "they need me, i'm coming, i'm coming," he cried, "they need me, i'm coming," he cried. "i'll feed horse, chickens and pig, i'll milk old cow," said he, "and when this is done, my work's just begun, today i must work, so i see, so i see! today i must work, so i see!" so he fed horse, chickens and pig and afterwards milked old cow. for farmer must work, he never can shirk! today he is working, right now, right now! today he is working right now! wonderful-cow-that-never-was! all the essential points in this story were taken from the story of a four-year-old's about a horse. he enjoyed the nonsense in telling it. some of the four-year-old groups have appreciated the humor; some five-year-olds have not. instead they have seemed confused. wonderful-cow-that-never-was! once there was a wonderful cow,--only she never was! she always had been wonderful, ever since she was a baby calf. her mother noticed it at once. she was born out in the pasture one sunny morning in june. as soon as she was born, she got up on her long, thin legs. she wobbled quite a little for she wasn't very strong. then she went over to her mother and put her nose down to her mother's bag and took a drink of milk. this is what all the old cow's babies had always done so the old cow thought nothing of that. but when this wonderful last baby calf had drunk its breakfast, what do you suppose it did? it stood on its head! now the old cow had never seen anything like this. it was most surprising! it frightened her. she called to it: "oh, my baby, baby calf, your mother kindly begs, please, _please_ get off your head and stand upon your legs!" but the baby calf only mooed. and it smiled when it mooed which the old cow thought queer too. none of her other babies had smiled. then the calf said: "i'm a wonderful calf, and it makes me laugh such wonderful things can i do! i stand on my head whenever i'm fed, and smile whenever i moo, i do, i smile whenever i moo!" "dear me!" thought the old mother cow. "i never saw or heard anything like this!" but this was only the beginning. the baby calf kept on doing strange and wonderful things till at last everyone called her wonderful-calf-that-never-was! and many people used to come to see her stand on her head whenever she was fed. she did other queer things too! once she pulled off the ear of another calf! and all she said was: "poor little calf! you mustn't go in the pasture where there are other calves!" but the little calf who had lost its ear said, "yes, i must!" but after that wonderful-calf-that-never-was was kept in the barn for a long time. at last it was june again and she was a year old. her horns had begun to grow. the old cow, her mother, had another baby. this new baby calf was just like other calves and not wonderful at all. the old cow was glad for wonderful-cow-that-never-was worried her very much. for everything about her was queer. one day the calf who had lost the ear,--she was a young cow now,--took hold of the tail of wonderful-young-cow-that-never-was and pulled it. and what do you suppose happened? the tail broke right off! all the cows were frightened. whoever heard of a broken tail? but wonderful-young-cow-that-never-was only mooed and when she mooed she always smiled. then she said: "i'm a wonderful cow and i don't know how such wonderful things i do! if i break my tail, i never fail to glue with a grasshopper's goo, i do, i glue with a grasshopper's goo!" and so she did. she got a grasshopper to give her some sticky stuff and she smeared it on the two ends of her broken tail and stuck them together. "and now it's as good as new," she said, "and now it's as good as new!" her horns grew and grew. she was very proud of them and was always trying to hook some one or gore another cow with them. but one day she went to the edge of the lake when it was very still. it wasn't wavy at all. and as she leaned over to drink, she saw herself in the water. my mercy! but she was shocked! "my horns are straight!" she screamed, "and i want them curly!" she ran to the old mother cow and had what her mother called the "krink-kranks." she jumped up and down and bellowed: "my horns are straight and i want them curly!" the old mother cow was giving her new baby some milk. it made her cross to hear wonderful-cow-that-never-was having krink-kranks over her horns. "horns grow the way they grow!" she remarked crossly. "so what are you going to do about it?" "something!" answered the young cow. "i'm not wonderful-cow-that-never-was for nothing!" and she stopped having krink-kranks and went off. she stayed away all day and when she did come back, her horns were curled up tight! and she was chewing and smiling and chewing and smiling. "what have you done now?" gasped the old mother cow. "i never saw horns curled so crumply!" the young cow smiled and said: "i'm a wonderful cow and i don't know how such wonderful things i do! i curl my horn on the cob of a corn and smile whenever i chew, i do, i smile whenever i chew!" "and here is the corn cob i curled them on," she said, opening her mouth. and sure enough, there was the corn cob! now wonderful-cow-that-never-was got queerer and queerer until the farmer thought her a little _too_ queer. she was very proud of her crumpled horns and tried to hook everyone on them. once she tore the farmer's coat trying to hook him. and once she _did_ toss him up. she watched him in the air and all she said was "he's up now, but he'll come down some time." and bang! so he did! finally one terrible day, they tied her tight and cut off her horns. she was never the same afterwards. she couldn't hook any more. "i don't care about being queer any more," she said to her mother. and she wasn't. she stopped standing on her head. she never pulled off another ear. she never broke her tail again and of course she never curled her horns again. because she hadn't any! "after all," she said, "it's wonderful enough just to be a cow and have four stomachs and chew cud and give milk and have a baby each spring!" and that's what she's doing now! she's a wonderful cow, and anyhow she does a wonderful thing! she wallows in mud, she chews her cud, and has a baby in spring! things that loved the lake this story was worked out with a five-year-old boy. it is the result of his own summer experiences on a lake. things that loved the lake once there was a little lake. and many things loved the little lake for its water was clear and smooth and blue when it was sunshiny, and dark and wavy and cross-looking when it was rainy. now one of the things that loved the little lake was a little fish. he was a slippery shiny little fish all covered with slippery shiny scales. he lived in the shadow of a big rock near a deep, dark, cool pool. and when his wide-open shiny eye saw a little fly fall on the top of the water, he would flip his slippery, shiny tail and wave his slippery, shiny fins and dart out and up and--snap! he'd have the fly inside him! then like a shiny streak he'd quietly slip back to the cool, deep, dark pool. [illustration] another thing that loved the little lake was a spotted green frog. he too lived near the big rock. he would squat like a lump on the top in the sun, blinking his bright little eyes. then splash! jump he would go, plump into the water. he'd keep his funny head with the little blinking, bright eyes above water while he'd kick his long, spotted, green legs and he'd swim across to another rock. at first he used to frighten the slippery shiny little fish when he came tumbling into the quiet water. but the spotted green frog never did anything to hurt the little fish so the slippery shiny little fish didn't mind him after all. but at night what do you think the spotted green frog did? he squatted on the rock with his front feet toeing in, like this, and he looked up at the far-away white moon in the far-away dark sky, and then he swelled and he swelled and he swelled his throat, and then he opened his wide, wide mouth and out came a noise. oh, such a noise! "k-k-k-krink!! k-k-k-krank!!" all night the spotted frog swelled his throat and croaked at the moon. now another thing that loved the little lake was a beautiful wild duck. the wild duck had beautiful green and brown feathers and on his head he had a little green top-knot. every year he flew north from the warm south where he had been spending the winter. high up in the air he flew, leading many other beautiful wild ducks. he flew with his head stretched out and his feet tucked up close to his body and his strong wings flapping, flapping, flapping like great fans. and as he flew way up in the air his keen eye would see the little lake glistening down below. "quonk-quonk!" he would call. and the other wild ducks would answer, "quonk-quonk-quonk!" and then they would swoop, right down to the little lake and they'd light right on the water. there they would sit, rocking on the little waves or swimming about with their red webbed feet. oh, the wild ducks loved the little lake very much! but not the slippery shiny fish, not the spotted green frog, not the beautiful wild duck loves the lake as much as some one else does. i don't believe any one else loves the little lake as much as does the little summer boy! sometimes the little summer boy goes rowing on top of the lake. he leans way forward and stretches his oars way back, then he puts them into the water and pulls as hard as ever he can--splash--splash--splash--splash----! and the boat glides and slides right over the water! sometimes,--and this he loves better still,--he stands on the rock in his red bathing suit. then plump! he jumps right into the water! sometimes he goes feetwards and sometimes he goes headwards and sometimes he turns a somersault in the air before he touches the water. and then away he goes moving his arms and kicking his legs almost like the spotted green frog. but the little fish when he hears this great thing come splashing into the quiet water, he flips his slippery shiny tail and waves his slippery shiny fins and darts way out into the deep water where the little boy with the red bathing suit can't follow him. for to the little fish this little summer boy seems very queer, and very, _very_ noisy, and very, _very_, very enormous! and the spotted green frog too gets out of the way when the little boy comes racketing into the water. he hops, hops under the rocks into a safe little cave and from there he watches and blinks his bright little eyes. but he never croaks then! the little summer boy knows the green frog is there and sometimes he peeks at him and thinks "i wish i could make my back legs go like yours!" for he's often seen the spotted green frog swim from rock to rock. but the beautiful wild duck, he never saw the little summer boy. for long before the boy came to the little lake, the duck had left the lake far behind. early one morning in spring he flapped his strong wings and tucked his wet webbed feet up close to his body and stretched out his long neck and calling "quonk-quonk!" he flapped away to the north. and all the other beautiful wild ducks followed calling, "quonk-quonk-quonk!" so the little summer boy never knew the wild duck! it is too bad that the fish and the frog are scared away when the summer boy goes in bathing. but it is only for a little while anyway. for the little summer boy's mother doesn't let him play in the lake all day as does the mother of the slippery shiny fish and the mother of the spotted green frog. she has called him now, and he calls back, "one more time!" for no one loves the little lake as much as the little boy in the red bathing suit. he has climbed up on the rock. the water is running down him, for he is as wet as a baby seal. now he puts out his hands, like this, and he calls out, "this time i'm going to take a headwards dive!" in the lake they play, the spotted green frog and the slippery shiny fish. they frisk and they whisk, and they dip and they flip. and the water it glimmers, it ripples and twinkles when the frog and the fishes play. in the lake they play, the beautiful duck and the rackety summer boy. when the wild duck swims the water it skims. but the boy with a shout he plumps in, he jumps out. and the little lake shakes with his play. how the singing water got to the tub in this story i have tried to make the refrains carry the essential points in the content. i have tried, however, to subordinate the information to the pattern. this story came in response to direct questions during baths. how the singing water got to the tub once there was a little singing stream of water. it sang whatever it did. and it did many things from the time it bubbled up in the far-away hills to the time it splashed into the dirty little boy's tub. it began as a little spring of water. then the water was as cool as cool could be for it came up from the deep cool earth all hidden away from the sun. it came up into a little hollow scooped out of the earth and in the hollow were little pebbles. right up through the pebbles, bubbling and gurgling it came. and what do you suppose the water did when the little hollow was all full? it did just what water always does, it tried to find a way to run down hill! one side of the little hollow was lower than the others and here the water spilled over and trickled down. and this is the song the water sang then: "i bubble up so cool into the pebbly pool. over the edge i spill and gallop down the hill!" so the water became a little stream and began its long journey to the little boy's tub. and always it wanted to run down--always down, and as it ran, it tinkled this song: "i sing, i run, in the shade, in the sun, it's always fun to sing and to run." sometimes it pushed under twigs and leaves; sometimes it made a big noise tumbling over the roots of trees; sometimes it flowed all quiet and slow through long grasses in a meadow. once it came to the edge of a pretty big rock and over it went, splashing and crashing and dashing and making a fine, fine spray. it sang to the little birds that took their baths in the spray. and the little birds ruffled their feathers to get dry and sang back to the little brook. "ching-a-ree!" they sang. it sang to the bunny rabbit who got his whiskers all wet when he took a drink. it sang to the mother deer who always came to the same place and licked up some water with her tongue. to all of these and many more little wild wood things the little brook rippled its song: "i sing, i run, in the shade, in the sun, it's always fun to sing and to run." but to the fish in the big dark pool under the rocks it sang so softly, so quietly, that only the fishes heard. now all the time that the little brook kept running down hill, it kept getting bigger. for every once in a while it would be joined by another little brook coming from another hillside spring. and, of course, the two of them were twice as large as each had been alone. this kept happening until the stream was a small river,--so big and deep that the horses couldn't ford it any more. then people built bridges over it, and this made the small river feel proud. little boats sailed in it too,--canoes and sail boats and row boats. sometimes they held a lot of little boys without any clothes on who jumped into the water and splashed and laughed and splashed and laughed. at last the river was strong enough to carry great gliding boats, with deep deep voices. "toot," said the boats, "tootoot-tooooooooot!" and now the song of the river was low and slow as it answered the song of the boats: "i grow and i flow as i carry the boats, as i carry the boats of men." after the little river had been running down hill for ever so long, it came to a place where the banks went up very high and steep on each side of it. here something strange happened. the little river was stopped by an enormous wall. the wall was made of stone and cement and it stretched right across the river from one bank to the other. the little river couldn't get through the wall, so it just filled up behind it. it filled and filled until it found that it had spread out into a real little lake. only the people who walked around it called it a reservoir! now in the wall was just one opening down near the bottom. and what do you suppose that led to? a pipe! but the pipe was so big that an elephant could have walked down it swinging his trunk! only, of course, there wasn't any elephant there. now the little river didn't like to have his race down hill stopped. so he began muttering to himself: "what shall i do, oh, what shall i do? here's a big dam and i can't get through! behind the dam i fill and fill but i want to go running and running down hill! if the pipe at the bottom will let me through i'll run through the pipe! that's what i'll do!" so he rushed into the pipe as fast as he could for there he found he could run down hill again! he ran and he ran for miles and miles. above him he knew there were green fields and trees and cows and horses. these were the things he had sung to before he rushed into the pipe. then after a long time he knew he was under something different. he could feel thousands of feet scurrying this way and that; he could feel thousands of horses pulling carriages and wagons and trucks; he could feel cars, subways, engines;--he could feel so many things crossing him that he wondered they didn't all bump each other. then he knew he was under the big city. and this is the song he shouted then: "way under the street, street, street, i feel the feet, feet, feet. i feel their beat, beat, beat, above on the street, street, street." and then again something queer happened. every once in a while a pipe would go off from the big pipe. now one of these pipes turned into a certain street and then a still smaller pipe turned off into a certain house and a still smaller pipe went right up between the walls of the house. and in this house there lived the dirty little boy. [illustration] the water flowed into the street pipe and then it flowed into the house pipe and then,--what do you think?--it went right up that pipe between the walls of the house! for you see even the top of that dirty little boy's house isn't nearly as high as the reservoir on the hill where the water started and the water can run up just as high as it has run down. in the bath-room was the dirty little boy. his face was dirty, his hands were dirty, his feet were dirty and his knees--oh! his knees were very, very dirty. this very dirty little boy went over to the faucet and slowly turned it. out came the water splashing, and crashing and dashing. "my! but i need a bath tonight," said the dirty little boy as he heard the water splashing in the tub. the water was still the singing water that had sung all the way from the far-away hills. it had sung a bubbling song when it gurgled up as a spring; it had sung a tinkling song as it rippled down hill as a brook; it had crooned a flowing song when it bore the talking boats; it had muttered and throbbed and sung to itself as it ran through the big, big pipe. now as it splashed into the dirty little boy's tub it laughed and sang this last song: "i run from the hill,--down, down, down, under the streets of the town, town, town, then in the pipe, up, up, up, i tumble right into your tub, tub, tub." and the dirty little boy laughed and jumped into the singing water! the children's new dresses an old pattern with new content. the steps in the process were originally dug out by a child of six through his own questions. the children's new dresses once there was a small town. in the small town were many houses and in the houses were many people. in one of these houses there lived a mother with a great many children. one night after the children were all in bed and the mother was sitting by the fire, a brick fell down the chimney. then another came bumping and rattling down. now outside there was a great wind blowing. it whistled down the chimney and up flamed the fire. the sparks flew into the hole where the bricks had fallen out. the first thing the mother knew the house was all on fire. still the great wind roared. the house next door caught fire, then the next, then the next, then the next, until half the little town was burning. the mother with the many children and many other frightened people ran to the part of the town behind the great wind. and there they stayed until the wind died down and they could put the fire out. now many of these people's clothes had burned with their houses. the many children who had gone to bed before the fire began had nothing to wear except their nightclothes. the mother went to the store. that too was burned! but she found the storekeeper and said:--"storekeeper, sell me some dresses for my children for their dresses have been burned and they have nothing to wear." [illustration] "but, mother of the many children," the storekeeper replied, "first i must get me the dresses. for that i must send to the many-fingered factory in the middle of the city." so he sent to the many-fingered factory in the middle of the great city and he said:--"clothier, send me some dresses that i may sell to the mother; for her children's dresses have burned up and they have nothing to wear." but the clothier in the many-fingered factory replied:--"first i must get me the cloth. for that i must send to the weaving mill. the weaving mill is in the hills where there is water to turn its wheels." so the clothier sent to the weaving mill in the hills where there is water to turn its wheels and said:--"weaver, send me the cloth that the many fingers at the factory may make dresses to send to the storekeeper in the small town to sell to the mother; for her children's dresses have burned up and they have nothing to wear." but the weaver in the weaving mill in the hills sent back word:--"first i must get me the cotton. for that i must send to the cotton fields. the cotton fields are in the south where the land is hot and low." so the weaver in the weaving mill in the hills sent to the cotton plantation, and he said:--"planter, send me the cotton from the hot low lands that i may make cloth in the mill in the hills to send to the clothier in the many-fingered factory in the middle of the great city to be made into dresses to send to the storekeeper in the small town to sell to the mother; for her children's dresses have burned up and they have nothing to wear." but the planter sent back word:--"first i must get the negroes to pick the cotton. for cotton must be picked in the hot sun and negroes are the only ones who can stand the sun." [illustration] so the planter went to the negroes and he said:--"pick me the cotton from the hot low lands that i may send it to the weaver in his mill in the hills that he may weave the cloth to send to the clothier in the many-fingered factory in the middle of the great city to make dresses to send to the storekeeper in the small town to sell to the mother; for her children's dresses have burned up and they have nothing to wear." but the negroes answered:--"first de sun, he hab got to shine and shine and shine! 'cause de sun, he am de only one dat can make dem little seed bolls bust wide open!" so the negroes sang to the sun:--"big sun, so shiny hot! is you gwine to shine on dem cotton bolls so we can pick de cotton for de massah so he can send it to de weaver in de weaving mills in de hills to weave into cloth so he can send it to de clothier in de many-fingered factory in de middle of de big city to make dresses to send to de storekeeper in de small town so he can sell it to de mammy; for de chillun's dresses hab gone and burned up and dey ain't got nothin' to wear!" now the sun heard the song of the negroes of the south. and he began to shine. and he kept on shining on the hot low lands. and when the cotton bolls on the hot low lands felt the sun shine and shine and shine, they burst wide open. then the negroes picked the cotton, the planter shipped it, the weaver wove it, the clothier made it into dresses, and the storekeeper sold them to the mother. so at last the many children took off their nightclothes and put on their new dresses. and so they were all happy again! old dan gets the coal the occupations of the city horse are always absorbing to the school children. they have many tales about various "old dans" and their various trades. the docks are familiar to almost all the children,--even to the four-year-olds. this verse is meant to be read fast or slow according to whether or no the wagon is empty. old dan gets the coal old dan, he lives in a stable, he does, he sleeps in a stable stall. old dan, he eats in the stable, he does, he eats the hay from the manger, he does, he pulls the hay and he chews the hay when he eats in his stable stall. old dan, he leaves the stable, he does, he pulls the wagon behind. old dan he goes trotting along, so he does, he trots with the wagon all empty, he does; the wagon, it clatters, the mud, it all spatters old dan with the wagon behind. old dan, he trots to the dock, he does, he trots to the coal barge dock. old dan, he stands by the barge, he does, he stands and the big crane creaks, it does. up! into the chute, bang! out of the chute comes the coal at the coal barge dock! old dan, he pulls the load, he does, he pulls the heavy load. old dan he pulls the coal, he does, he slowly pulls the heavy coal. the wagon thumps, it bumps, it clumps when old dan pulls the load. old dan, he stands by the house, he does, and the coal rattles out behind. old dan stands still by the house, he does, he stands and the slippery coal, so it does goes rattlety klang! zippy kabang! as it slides from the wagon behind! old dan, he then leaves the house, so he does, a-pulling the wagon behind. old dan he goes trotting along, so he does, he trots with the wagon all empty, he does. the wagon it clatters, the mud it all spatters old dan with the wagon behind. old dan, comes home to his stable, he does, home to his stable stall. he finds the hay in the stable, he does, he eats the hay from the manger, he does, he pulls the hay, he chews the hay, then he sleeps in his stable stall. the subway car the relationship which this story aims to clarify is the social significance of the subway car--its construction and the need it answers to. children have enjoyed the verse better, i think, than any other in the book. the subway car the surface car is a poky car, it stops 'most every minute. at every corner someone gets out and someone else gets in it. it stops for a lady, an auto, a hoss, for any old thing that wants to cross, this poky old, stupid old, silly old, timid old, lumbering surface car. [illustration] up on high against the sky the elevated train goes by. above it soars, above it roars on level with the second floors of dirty houses, dirty stores who have to see, who have to hear this noisy ugly monster near. and as it passes hear it yell, "i'm the deafening, deadening, thunderous, hideous, competent, elegant el." under the ground like a mole in a hole, i tear through the white tiled tunnel, with my wire brush on the rail i rush from station to lighted station. levers pull, the doors fly ope', people press against the rope. and some are stout and some are thin and some get out and some get in. again i go. beginning slow i race, i chase at a terrible pace, i flash and i dash with never a crash, i hurry, i scurry with never a flurry. i tear along, flare along, singing my lightning song, "i'm the rushing, speeding, racing, fleeting, rapid subway car." the subway car whew-ee-ee-ee-ew-ew went the siren whistle. and all the men and all the women hurried toward the factory. for that meant it was time to begin work. each man and each woman went to his particular machine. the steam was up; the belts were moving; the wheels were whirring; the piston rods were shooting back and forth. and one man made a piece of wheel, and one man made a part of a brake, and one man made a belt, and one man made a leather strap, and one man made a door, and one man made some straw-covered seats, and one man made a window-frame, and one man made a little wire brush. and then some other men took all these things and began putting them together. and when the car was finished some other men came and painted it, and on the side they painted the number . the car stood on the siding wondering what he was for and what he was to do. suddenly he heard another car come bumping and screeching down the track. before the new car could think what was happening,--bang!--the battered old car went smash into him. this seemed to be just what the man standing along side expected. for the car felt him swing on to the steps, and shout "go ahead." at the same minute the car felt a piece of iron slip from his own rear and hook into the front of the other car. and "go ahead" he did, though no. thought he would be wrenched to pieces. "whatever is happening to me?" he nervously asked the car that was pushing him. "i feel my wheels going round and round underneath me and i can't stop them. can't you just hear me creak? i'm afraid i will split in two." the dilapidated old thing behind simply screamed with delight as he jounced over a switch. "see here, now," he said in a rasping voice, "what do you think wheels are for anyway if they are not to go round? and if you can't hang together in a quiet little jaunt like this, you had better turn into a baby carriage and be done with it. say, what do you think you were made for anyway, freshie?" with this he gave a vicious pull. freshie thought it would probably loosen every carefully fastened bolt in his whole structure. "and what's more," continued the amused and irritated old car, "if you think all you've got to do is to be pulled around like a fine lady in a limousine, you are pretty well fooled. wait till you feel the juice go through you--just wait--that's all i say." "what is juice?" groaned no. . but he could get no answer except "just wait, you will find out soon enough." in another minute he had found out. he felt his door pulled open and a heavy tread come clump, clump, clump down the whole length of him to the little closet room at the end. there he felt levers pulled and switches turned. suddenly the little wire brush underneath him dropped until it touched the third rail. z-z-zr-zr-zr-zz-zz--what in the name of all blazes was happening to him? he tingled in every bolt. he quivered with fear. "this must be the juice!" another lever was turned. he leaped forward on the track, jerking and thumping and creaking. then he settled down and it wasn't so bad. the first scare was over. he did not go to pieces. on the contrary he felt so excited and strong that he almost told the old thing behind him to take off his brush and let himself be pulled. but he was afraid of the cross old car. so he ventured timidly: "isn't this great? i should like to go flying along in the sun like this all day." "in the sun?" snarled his old companion. "come now, freshie, can't you catch on to what you are? you just look your fill at the old sun now for you won't see him again for some time." "why not?" whimpered no. . but he needed no answer. ahead of him he could see the track sliding down into a deep hole. the earth closed over him in a queer rounded arch, all lined with shiny white tiles. at the same moment the lights all up and down his own ceiling flashed on. he noticed then that he had a red lantern on his front. he could tell it by the red, glinting reflections it threw on the tiles as he tore along. ahead he could see a great cluster of lights which seemed to be rushing towards him. of course he was really rushing towards them, but he was so excited he got all mixed in his ideas. "where are we? and what on earth is that rushing towards us? and why do we come down here under the ground?" he screamed to the old car behind. "there's no room for us on top," jerked the old car. "there are a heap of people in this old city of new york, freshie, and you will find 'em on the surface or scooting in the elevated and here jogging along underneath the earth." "people!" screamed no. , "i don't see any. what do we do with them in this hole anyway?" even as he spoke he felt the man in the little closet room in his front turn something. his wire brush lifted and all his strength seemed to ooze away. then something clutched his wheels. he screeched,--yes, he really screeched, and then he stood still, close to the station platform. the station looked big to no. and very brilliantly lighted. it was jammed with people who stood pressed against ropes in long rows. a man on his own platform pulled down a handle and then another. he felt his end doors and then his center doors fly open. then tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp--a hundred feet came pounding on his floor. he could feel them and somehow he liked the feel. he could even feel two small feet that walked much faster than the others, and in another moment he felt two little knees on one of his straw-covered seats. then the handles were pulled again. his doors banged closed; z-zr-zr-rr--the brush underneath touched the rail and the electricity shot through him. he felt a hundred feet shift quickly and heavily. he felt his leather straps clutched by a hundred hands. and amid the noise he heard a little voice say, "father, isn't this a brand new subway car?" and then he knew what he was! boris takes a walk and finds many different kinds of trains this first story is an attempt to let a child discover the significance of his everyday environment,--of subways and elevated railways. here there is no content new to the city child. but the relationship to congestion he has not always seen for himself. in the second story the lay-out of new york on a crowded island is discovered. again the content is old but its significance may be new. both these stories verge on the informational. boris takes a walk and finds many different kinds of trains many little boys and girls with fathers and with mothers, many little boys and girls with sisters and with brothers, many little boys and girls they come from far away. they sail and sail to big new york, and there they land and stay! and you would never, never guess when they grow big and tall, that they had come from far away when they were wee and small! one of the little boys who sailed and sailed until he came to big new york was named boris. he came as the others did, with his father and his mother and his sisters and his brothers. he came from a wide green country called russia. in that country he had never seen a city, never seen wharves with ocean steamers and ferry boats and tug boats and barges,--never seen a street so crowded you could hardly get through, had never seen great high buildings reaching up, up, up to the clouds, he thought. and he had never heard a city, never heard the noise of elevated trains and surface cars and automobiles and the many, many hurrying feet. he often thought of the wide green country he had left behind, and he used to talk about it to his mother in a funny language you wouldn't understand. for boris and his family still spoke russian. but boris was nine years old and he loved new things as well as old. so he grew to love this crowded noisy new home of his as well as the still wide country he had left. [illustration] now boris had been in new york quite a while. but he hadn't been out on the streets much. one day he said to his mother in the funny language, "i think i'll take a walk!" "all right," she answered, "be careful you don't get run over by one of those queer wagons that run without horses!" "yes i will," laughed boris for he was a careful and a smart little boy and knew well how to take care of himself for all he was so little. so boris went out on the street. he walked to the corner and waited to go across. kachunk, kachunk, kachunk went by an auto; clopperty, clopperty, clopperty went by a horse; thunk-a-ta, thunk-a-ta, bang, bang went by a truck. he waited another minute. kachunk, kachunk, kachunk went by an auto; clopperty, clopperty, clopperty went by a horse; thunk-a-ta, thunk-a-ta, bang, bang went by a truck. he stood there a long while watching this stream of autos and horses and trucks go by and he thought: "dear me! dear me! what shall i do? the're so many things, i'll never get through!" just then all the autos and the horses and the trucks stopped. they stood still right in front of him. and boris saw that the big man standing in the middle of the street had put up his hand to stop them. so he scampered across. boris didn't know that the big man was the traffic policeman! [illustration] now boris scampered down the block to the next street. there he waited to go across. kachunk, kachunk, kachunk went by an auto; clopperty, clopperty, clopperty went by a horse; thunk-a-ta, thunk-a-ta, bang, bang went by a truck. he stood there a long time watching the autos and horses and trucks go by. and he thought: "dear me! dear me! what shall i do? the're so many things, i'll never get through!" boris looked at the big policeman who stood in the middle of _this_ street. after a while the big policeman raised his hand and all the autos and horses and trucks stopped and boris scampered across and ran down the block to the next street crossing. and there the same thing happened again. kachunk, kachunk, kachunk went by an auto; clopperty, clopperty, clopperty went by a horse; thunk-a-ta, thunk-a-ta, bang, bang went by a truck. "i'll not get much of a walk this way," he thought. "i have to wait and wait at each corner. and the're so many things i'll never get through." just then he saw a street car. "i might take a car," he thought. but then he saw on the street a long line of cars waiting, waiting to get through. "it wouldn't do much good," he thought. "they're just like me." "dear me! dear me! what can they do? the're so many things, they'll never get through!" then he noticed a big hole in the sidewalk. down the hole went some steps and down the steps hurried lots and lots of people. "i wonder what this is?" thought boris and down the steps he ran. [illustration] at the bottom of the steps there was a big room all lined with white tile and all lighted with electric lights. on the side was the funniest little house with a little window in it and a man looking through the window. boris watched carefully for he didn't understand. everyone went up to the window and gave the man cents and the man handed out a little piece of blue paper. "that's a ticket," thought boris, for he was a very smart little boy. "these people must be going somewhere." so he reached down in his pocket and pulled out a nickel. for all he was so little, and so new to new york, he knew what a cent piece was quite well. he had to stand on tiptoe to hand the man his nickel and to reach his little blue ticket. then he watched again. everyone dropped this ticket in a funny little box by a funny little gate and another man moved a handle up and down. so boris did just the same. he stood on tiptoe and dropped his ticket in the box and walked through the little gate to a big platform. and what do you think he saw there? a great long tunnel stretching off in both directions,--a long tunnel all lined with white tiles! and on the bottom were rails! "i wonder what runs on that track?" thought boris. just then he heard a most terrible noise: rackety, clackety, klang, klong! rackety, clackety, klang, klong! and down the tunnel came a train of cars. "yi-i-i-i--sh-sh-sh-sh!" screamed the cars and stopped right in front of boris. and then what do you suppose happened? the doors in the car right in front of him flew open. everyone stepped in. so did boris. it was the front car. he walked to the front and sat down where he could look out on the tracks. he could also look into the funny little box room and see the man who pulled the levers and made the car go and stop. in a moment they started: rackety, clackety, klang, klong! how fast! how fast! then "yi-i-i-i--sh-sh-sh-sh!" the man put on the brakes and they stopped at another station. in another moment they started again. rackety, clackety, klang, klong! then "yi-i-i-i--sh-sh-sh-sh" another station! and so they went flying from lighted station to lighted station through the white-tiled tunnel. boris was very happy. he sat quite still watching out of the window and saying with the car; rackety, clackety, klang, klong; rackety, clackety, klang, klong! "this is the way to go if you're in a hurry," he thought. he looked up and smiled to think of all the autos and horses and trucks above going oh! so slowly down the street! at last he thought he would get out. so the next time the man put the brakes on and the train yelled "yi-i-i-i--sh-sh-sh-sh!" boris walked through the open doors on to the platform, then through the little gate, up some long steps and found himself on the street again. but right near him what do you think he saw? a park all full of trees and grass! this made boris happy for he hadn't seen so many trees and so much grass since he had left the wide country in his old home in russia. a little breeze was blowing too! he clapped his hands and ran around and laughed and laughed and laughed and sang: "i like the grass, i like the trees, i like the sky, i like the breeze! i touch the grass, i touch the trees, let me play in the park, oh, please! oh, please!" so he ran all round and played in the park. suddenly he thought it was time to go home. he looked for the hole in the sidewalk but he couldn't find it. and he didn't know how to ask for the subway for he didn't know its name and he couldn't talk english. "i'll have to walk!" he thought. he knew he must walk south for he had noticed which way the sun was when he went into the hole in the sidewalk. and now he noticed again where it was and so he could tell which way was south. so boris went out on the street. he walked to the corner and waited to go across. kachunk, kachunk, kachunk went by an auto; clopperty, clopperty, clopperty went by a horse, thunk-a-ta, thunk-a-ta, bang, bang went by a truck. he waited another minute. kachunk, kachunk, kachunk went by an auto; clopperty, clopperty, clopperty went by a horse; thunk-a-ta, thunk-a-ta, bang, bang went by a truck. he stood there a long time watching the stream of autos and horses and trucks go by. and he thought; "i'll never get home if i have to go as slowly as this. "dear me! dear me! what shall i do? the're so many things i'll never get through!" and for all he was so smart he was a very little boy and he began to cry for his legs were tired and he was a little frightened, too. just then what do you suppose he saw? down the street way up in the air on a kind of trestle, he saw a train of cars tearing by. "that's just what i want! that train doesn't have to stop for autos and horses and things!" thought boris and he ran down the street. when he got to the high trestle, there was a long flight of stairs. up the steps went boris. at the top he found another funny little room with a window in it and a man looking out. this time he knew just what to do. he stood on tiptoe and gave the man cents and the man handed him a little red piece of paper. boris took it, walked through a little gate, stood on tiptoe and dropped the ticket into another funny little box and another man moved the handle up and down and his ticket dropped down. and what do you suppose he saw from the platform? tracks again! tracks stretching out in both directions. he didn't have to wait on the platform long before he heard the train coming. it seemed to say: "i'm the elevated train, i'm the elevated train, i'm the elevated, elevated, elevated train!" it stopped right in front of boris and boris got into the front car again. here was another man in another little box room moving more levers and making this train stop and go. and boris could look right out in front and see the stations before he reached them. he could see bridges before they tore under them; he could look down and see the horses and the autos and the trucks. he smiled as he saw how slowly they had to go while he was racing along above them. so boris was quite happy and sat very still and watched out of the window. suddenly he heard the conductor call "fourteenth street!" now that was one of the few english words that boris knew for he lived on th street. now he was pleased for he knew he was near home. so he got off the car, ran down the long, long steps and found himself on the street. down th street he ran until he came to his house. "well," called his mother. "you've been gone a long time! what did you see on the streets?" boris smiled. "i haven't been _on_ the streets much mother." his mother was surprised. "where have you been if you haven't been on the streets?" she asked. boris laughed and laughed. "there were so many things on the streets, so many autos and horses and trucks," he said, "that i couldn't go fast. so i found a wonderful train _under_ the streets and i went out on that. and i found a wonderful train _over_ the streets and i came home on that!" "well, well," said his mother. "trains under and trains over! think of that!" and boris did think of them much. and when he was in bed that night, he seemed to hear this little song about them: "now out on the streets there everything meets and they're all in a hurry to go. but what can they do for they can't get through and all are so terribly slow? "but under the street where nothing can meet the subway goes rackety, klack! it can dash and can race, it can flash and can chase, for there's nothing ahead on the track. "and over the street where nothing can meet is a wonderful train indeed! high up the stair way up in the air it goes at remarkable speed." boris walks every way in new york part one morning when boris was eating his breakfast, he suddenly thought of the wide green country around his old home in russia. i don't know what made him think of it. he just did! "mother," he said, "i want to see some grass." his mother smiled. "want to go to the park, boris?" she asked. "no, more grass than that even. i want to see it everywhere," and boris waved his arms around. "i think i'll go and find lots and lots of it!" "i'd like to see lots and lots of grass too, boris," smiled his mother. but her eyes were full of tears too! "but i don't know where you can go in new york and see grass everywhere!" "then i'll go out of new york!" cried boris. "if i walk far enough i'll surely find grass, won't i?" "you can try," answered his mother. boris was now much bigger than when he came to new york and could talk quite a little english too. so his mother let him walk over the city alone. boris clapped his hands! for though he was much bigger, he was still a little boy, you know! "which way had i better go?" thought boris when he was out on the street. "i think i'll go west first." so he walked west. though the streets were crowded he had learned to go faster than when he took his first walk and discovered the subway and elevated. west, west, west he went. street after street,--houses set close together all the way. then at last he saw something that made him run. the city came to an end! and there was a big river, oh! such an enormous river! the edge of the river was all docks,--docks as far as he could look. across on the other side he could see another city with big chimneys and lots and lots of smoke. there were lots of boats in the river too. "some day i'll come and watch them," thought boris excitedly, "but now i want to find my grass." so he turned around. "i'll have to go east, i guess," he thought. so east he went. east he went until he came to his house. but he did not stop. he went right by it. "how many houses there are" he thought. "how many people there must be!" and still he walked east. and still the houses were set close together street after street. after a while he saw something that made him run again. the city came to an end! and there was another big river! this edge too was all docks,--docks as far as he could look. across on the other side he could see another city with big chimneys and lots of smoke. "well," thought boris, "isn't it the funniest thing that when i walk west i come to a river and when i walk east i come to a river too!" now this puzzled him so that he thought he must ask somebody about it. close to him was a big dock and at the dock was a flat barge. a lot of men were unloading coal from her. he walked up to one. "please," he said, "what river is this?" the man stopped his work for a minute. "it's the east river of course. where do you come from, boy?" "from russia," said boris, "so you see i didn't know. and please, is the other river the west river then?" "what other river, boy? what are you talking about?" this made boris feel very uncomfortable, but he knew there was another river in the west for hadn't he just walked there? so he said bravely, "if you keep walking west you _do_ come to another river. i know you do! for i've done it. and it's a bigger river than this, too!" the man laughed out loud. "right you are, boy!" he said. "you're a great walker, you are. did you walk all the way from russia?" now boris thought the man couldn't know very much to ask him such a question. but, then, he didn't know much either. he was asking questions too! so he answered, "oh! no! i came on an enormous boat. but please you haven't told me the name of the other river?" the man laughed louder than ever. "it's a funny thing, boy, that we call it the north river. but you are right: it _is_ west! it's really the hudson river, boy, that's what it is. and a mighty big river it is too. want to know anything more?" and the man turned back to his work. "well," thought boris. "i can't get to my grass today if i strike rivers everywhere i go." and he turned and walked home slowly, because he was sorry. and he was very, very tired too. for you see he had walked all the way across the city twice and that is a pretty long walk even for a boy the size of boris. boris, he went out to walk to find the country wide. and he walked west and west he walked but found the hudson wide! and so he turned himself about and walked the other way and he walked east and east he walked and there east river lay! part the next morning at breakfast, boris suddenly thought again of the wide green country around his old home in russia. i don't know why he thought of it again. he just did! and then he thought of the hudson river he had found by walking west and of the east river he had found by walking east. "i might try walking north this time," he thought. and so he said to his mother, "i think i'll go on another hunt for grass,--grass that's everywhere!" and again he waved his arms. "all right," answered his mother. "but i'm afraid you'll have to walk a long way to find grass everywhere!" out on the street he began to walk north. then he remembered what a long long ride north in the subway he had had the other day. "i'd better take something if i want to get to the country wide," he thought. so boris went down to the subway and took the train. he rode for ever and ever so long. he kept wondering if there were still houses above him or if it was all grass,--lots and lots of grass. "i guess i'll go up and see," he thought. so up he went at the next station. but there were still houses everywhere. they weren't so high nor quite so close together; but still there was no grass. so he kept on walking north. then he saw something that made him run. he could hardly believe his eyes. there was _another river_! "oh! dear! oh! dear!" thought boris. "i'll never in the world find the country wide if i strike a river whatever way i go. i think i'll take the subway and go way, way south. surely i can get through that way. west a river, east a river, north a river. yes, i'll go south!" so again boris went down to the subway and took a train going south. he stayed on it so long that he thought he must surely be way out in the country wide under grass, grass, everywhere. "i guess i'll go up and see," he thought. so up he went at the next station. but when he came up he found himself on a street. there were high buildings all around him. he began to walk south. the farther he walked, the higher the buildings he found. at last he came to a place where the buildings reached up, up, up,--up to the clouds, he thought. he threw back his head to look at them,--so high above him that it made him almost dizzy to look at their tops. he wasn't sure they weren't going to fall either! then he looked down again. and what did he see at the end of the street? trees, yes, green trees! "perhaps i am coming to the wide green country," he thought. and he hurried on. [illustration] but when he got to the trees he saw that the city came to an end again. and what a wonderful end it was too! all around him was water,--water so full of boats that it made boris gasp. when he looked to the west he could see a great river with another city on the other side. "that's the hudson," thought boris for he remembered what the coal man had told him. when he looked to the east he could see another great river. "that's the east river," he thought for he remembered that name too. but what river was that out in front of him? then suddenly boris remembered. that was new york harbor! this was where he had landed when he had come in the giant steamer from russia! out there was ellis island where he had stayed with his father and his mother and his sisters and his brothers until they had been looked at! he thought he could see ellis island from where he stood. but there were so many islands he couldn't be sure. but he _could_ see the statue of liberty, that enormous woman holding a torch in her hand. he was sure of that. and he could see the boats everywhere all over the harbor. boris stood there some time just staring and listening and staring. when boris he went out again to find the country wide and he went north and north he went to harlem river's side. again he turned himself about and went the other way and he went south and south he went and there the harbor lay! part suddenly boris remembered what he had come for. he was looking for the wide green country, for a place where grass grew everywhere. "this is the funniest thing in the world," he thought scratching his head. "wherever i walk in new york i come to water. so many people and water on every side of them! how do they ever get out?" as soon as he thought of this, he began to look around. across the east river he could see a giant bridge leaping from new york over to another city and on the bridge were trains and cars shooting back and forth and autos and horses and people. "so that is the way they get out!" he thought. then he looked to the west, to the hudson river. "no bridges there!" he said. "it's too wide." then he suddenly remembered the ferry boat that had brought him from ellis island. "ferry boats, of course," he thought. and sure enough there were ferry boats and ferry boats going back and forth from new york to the other side and to the little islands out in the harbor too! now boris walked along thinking hard about all this water all around new york. just then he noticed a lot of people coming up out of a hole in the sidewalk. "the subway," he thought, for you remember he had been on the subway. but the name over the steps didn't spell "subway." he looked at it for a long time. at last he could read it. "hudson tubes" it said. hudson tubes? what could that mean? boris wanted to know. so he walked right up to a woman coming out of the hole. "what are the hudson tubes and where do they take you?" he asked. the woman laughed. "they take you to new jersey, of course," she said. "is that over there?" boris asked, pointing across the hudson. "and do they really go under the hudson river?" "yes, to be sure they do. where do you want to go?" she answered and then boris remembered what he had been hunting for. "i want to go to a wide green country where there is grass everywhere. but every way i walk in new york i come to water. i know because i've walked east and i've walked west and i've walked north and i've walked south," he said, feeling a little like crying for he was very tired and he _was_ only a little boy too. the woman smiled and she looked nice when she smiled. "you see, boy," she said, "new york is an island, so of course, you come to water every way you walk. and it's so full of people that there isn't any wide green country left,--except the parks of course." "yes, i know the parks," said boris, "but that isn't quite what i mean!" the woman smiled again. "there _is_ a wide green country when you get out of the island," she said. "you'll find it some day i'm sure," and then the woman hurried away. boris was very, very tired. so he took the subway home. when he came in his mother called out, "did you find the wide green country, boris?" "no," said boris, "i couldn't, you see. because what do you think new york is?" "what do i think new york is, boris? why, it's the biggest city in the world!" "that's not what i mean. what do you think it _is_? what is it built on i mean?" "what is it built on? on good sound rock i suppose!" boris laughed and laughed. "no, no," he said. "i mean it's an island. every way you walk, if you walk long enough, you come to water. now isn't that the funniest thing?" and boris's mother thought it was funny too. "so many people and all to live on an island!" she kept saying to herself. "i should think it would make them a lot of work!" and boris who remembered the bridges and the ferry boats and the "tubes" thought so too! boris, he went out to walk to find the country wide and he walked west and west he walked but he found the hudson wide! and so he turned himself about and walked the other way and he walked east and east he walked and there east river lay! but boris he went out again to find the country wide and he went north and north he went to harlem river's side. again he turned himself about and went the other way and he went south and south he went and there the harbor lay! then boris scratched his head and thought: "whatever way i go there's always water at the end whatever way i go! new york must be an island an island it must be so many people all shut in by rivers and by sea! they've bridges and they've ferry boats across the top to go; they've subways and they've hudson tubes to burrow down below to get things in, to get things out how busy they must be! in that enormous big new york on rivers and on sea!" speed this story is a definite attempt to make the child aware of a new relationship in his familiar environment. the verse is for the older children. the story has lent itself well to dramatization. speed once there was a big beautiful white ox. his back was broad, his horns were long and his eyes were large and gentle. he went slowly sauntering down the road one sunshiny summer day. as he walked along he swung from side to side carefully putting down his small feet. and this is what he thought: "i am pleased with myself--so large, so broad, so strong am i. is there anyone else who can pull so heavy a load? is there anyone else who can plow so straight a furrow? what would the world do without me?" just then he heard something tearing along the road behind him. "clopperty, clopperty, clopperty, clopperty." in a moment up dashed a big, black horse. "greetings," lowed the ox, slowly turning his large gentle eyes on the excited horse. "why such haste, my brother?" the horse tossed his mane. "i'm in a hurry," he snorted, "because i'm made to go fast. why, i can go ten miles while you crawl one! the world has no more use for a great white snail like you. but if you want speed, i'm just what you need. watch how fast i go!" and clopperty, clopperty he was off down the road. as the ox watched the horse disappear he thought of what he had heard. "he called me a great white snail! he said he could go ten miles while i crawled one! surely this swift horse is more wonderful than i!" now as the horse went frisking along this is what he thought. "i am pleased with myself. i am sleek, i am swift--swifter than the ox. what would the world do without me?" just then he heard a strange humming overhead. he glanced up. the sound came from a wire taut and vibrating. then he heard fast turning wheels coming "kathump, kathump." and what do you think that poor frightened horse saw coming along the road? a self-moving car with a trolley overhead touching the singing wire! his eyes stuck out of his head and his mane stood on end he was so scared. what made it go, he wondered. "hello, clodhopper," shrieked the electric car. "i didn't know there were any of you four-footed curiosities left. surely the world has no more use for you. where you go in half a day, i go in an hour; where you carry one man, i carry ten. if you want speed i'm just what you need. just watch me!" he was gone leaving only the humming wire overhead. the poor horse thought of what he had heard. "he called me a clodhopper! he said he could go in an hour where i take half a day! surely this swift car is more wonderful than i!" now the trolley went swinging on his way thinking, "i am pleased with myself. my power is the same as the lightning that rips the sky. i am swift,--swifter than the ox--swifter than the horse. what would the world do without me?" just then he heard a terrifying noise. it sounded like a mightly monster coughing his life away. "chug, a chug a chug a chug, chug." then to his horror he saw coming across the green field a gigantic iron creature with black smoke and fiery sparks streaming from a nose on top of his head. "well, slowpoke," screamed the engine as he came near the car. "out o' breath? no wonder. you're not made to go fast like me, for i move by the great power of steam. look at my monstrous boilers; see my hot fire. where you go in half a day, i go in an hour; where you carry one man i carry twenty. if you want speed i'm just what you need! goodbye. take your time, slow coach." and chug, chug, he was off leaving only a trail of dirty smoke behind him. the poor trolley car thought of what he had heard. "he called me a slowpoke! he said he could go in an hour where i take a half day! surely this ugly engine is greater than i!" [illustration] now the engine raced down to the freight depot which was near the great shipping docks. as he waited to be loaded he thought: "i am pleased with myself. i am swift--swifter than the ox, swifter than the horse, swifter than the electric car. what would the world do without me? i serve everyone, i go everywhere----" just here he was interrupted by the deep booming voice of a freight steamer lying alongside the wharf. "tooooot" is what the voice said, "you ridiculous landlubber! you go everywhere? what about the water? can you go to france and back again? it's only i who can haul the world's goods across the ocean! and even where you _can_ go, you never get trusted if they can possibly trust me, now do you? did you ever think why men use river steamers instead of you? did you ever think why men cut the great panama canal so that sea could flow into sea? well, it's simply because they're smart and prefer me to you when they can get me. you eat too much coal with your speed,--that's what the trouble is with you--you ridiculous landlubber!" this long speech made the old steamer quite hoarse so he cleared his throat with a long "toooot" and sank into silence. "of course, what he says is true," thought the engine. "at the same time it is equally true that _on land_ i _do_ serve everyone, i go everywhere----" just here he was interrupted again by a most unexpected noise. it sounded half like a steel giggle, half like a brass hiccough. it made the engine uneasy. he was sure someone was laughing at him. majestically he turned his headlight till it lighted up a funny little automobile who was laughing and laughing and shaking frantically like this and going "zzzzz." "you silly little road beetle," shouted the great engine, "what on earth's the matter with you?" the automobile gave one violent shake, turned off his spark and said in an orderly voice, "it struck my funny bone to hear you say you went everywhere _on land_, that's all. don't you realize you're an old fuss budget with your steam and your boiler and your fire and what not? you're tied to your rails and if everything about your old tracks isn't kept just so you tumble over into a ditch or do some fool thing. now i'm the one that can endure real hardships. sparks and gasoline! you just sit right there, you baby, you railclinger, and watch me take that hill! honk, honk!" and he was off up the hill. the engine slowly turned back his headlight till the light shone full on his shiny rails. he thought of what he had heard. "he called me a railclinger--yes, that i am. how can that preposterous little beetle run without tracks? i'm afraid he's more wonderful than i." now the automobile went jouncing and bouncing up the rough road puffing merrily and thinking, "i'm mightily pleased with myself. look at the way i climb this hill. there's nothing really so wonderful as i----" just then he heard a sound that made his engine boil with fright. dzdzdzdzdzr--it seemed to come right out of the sky. he got all his courage together and turned his searchlights up. the sight instantly killed his engine. above him soared a giant aeroplane. it floated, it wheeled, it rose, it dropped. it looked serene, strong and swift. down, down came the great thing. through the terrific droning the automobile could just make out these words: "dzdzdzdz. you think you're wonderful, you poor little creeping worm tied to the earth! i pity all you slow, slow things that i look down on as i fly through the sky. ox made way for horse, horse made way for engine, car and auto but all,--all make way for me. for if you want speed, i'm just what you need. dzdzdzdzdz." and the great aeroplane wheeled and rose like a giant bird. the automobile watched him, too humbled to speak. up, up, up, went the aeroplane--up, up, up 'til it was out of sight. speed the hounds they speed with hanging tongues; the deer they speed with bursting lungs; foxes hurry, field mice scurry. eagles fly swift, through the sky, and man, his face all wrinkled with worry, goes speeding by tho' he couldn't tell why! but a little wild hare he pauses to stare at the daisies and baby and me just sitting,--not trying to go anywhere, just sitting and playing with never a care in the shade of a great elm tree. and the daisies they laugh as they hear the world pass, what is speed to the growing flowers? and my baby laughs as he sits in the grass, we all laugh through the sunshiny hours,-- through the long, dear sunshiny hours! for flowers and babies and i still know 'tis fun to be happy, 'tis fun to go slow, 'tis fun to take time to live and to grow. five little babies this story was originally written because the children thought a negro was dirty. the songs are authentic. they have been enjoyed by children as young as four years old. five little babies this is going to be a story about some little babies,--five different little babies who were born in five different parts of this big round world and didn't look alike or think alike at all. one little baby was all yellow. he just came that way. his eyes were black and slanted up in his little face. his hair was black and straight. he wore gay little silk coats and gay little silk trousers with flowers and figures sewed all over them. when he looked up he saw his father's face was yellow and so was his mother's. and his father's hair was black and so was his mother's. and when he was a little older he saw they both wore gay silk coats and gay silk trousers with flowers and figures sewed all over them. but the baby didn't think any of this was queer,--not even when he grew up. for every one he knew had yellow skin and wore silk coats and trousers. so of course he thought all the world was that way. but long before he was old enough to notice any of these things he knew his mother loved her little yellow baby with slanting black eyes. and he loved to have her take him in her arms and sing to him, saying: "chu sir tsun ching min. tsoun sun gi gi. koo yin fee min kwei hua shiang lee pan run yin. fon chin yoa sir. loo yi to choa yeo liang sung. tsun tze doo soo soo wei gun. tsin tsin." for all this happened in china and he was a little chinese baby. * * * another little baby was all brown. he just came that way. his eyes were black and his hair was black. he wore pretty colored silk shawls and little silk dresses. and when he looked up he saw his father's face was brown and that he wore a big turban on his head. and he saw that around his mother's brown face was long soft hair. he saw that she wore pretty colored silk shawls and long silk trousers and bare feet. but the baby didn't think any of this was queer,--even when he grew up. he thought every one had brown skin and that everybody dressed like himself and his father and his mother. but long before he was old enough to notice any of these things, he knew his mother loved her little brown baby with black eyes. and he loved to have her take him in her arms and sing to him, saying: "arecoco jarecoco, jungle parkie bare, marabata cunecomunga dumrecarto sare, hillee milee puneah jara de naddeah, arecoco jarecoco jungle parkie bare." for all this happened in india and he was a little indian baby. * * * now another little baby was all black. he just came that way. his eyes were black and his hair was black and curled in tight kinky curls all over his little head. and this little baby didn't wear anything at all except a loin cloth. when he looked up he saw the black faces and kinky black hair of his father and his mother. and when he was a little older he saw that they didn't wear any clothes either except a loin cloth and a feather skirt and some shells. neither did this baby think any of this was queer,--not even when he grew older. he thought all the world looked and dressed like that. but long before he was old enough to notice any of these things, he knew his mother loved her little black baby with kinky black hair. and he loved to have her take him in her arms and sing to him, saying, "o túla, mntwána, o túla, unyóko akamúko, uséle ezintabéni, uhlú shwa izigwégwe, iwá. o túla, mntwána, o túla, unyóko w-zezobúya, akupatéle ínto enhlé, iwá." for all this happened in africa and he was a little negro baby. * * * still another little baby,--he was the fourth,--was all red. he just came that way. his eyes were black and his hair was straight and black. he was bound up tight and slipped into a basket and carried around on his mother's back. he didn't think this was queer, even when he grew up. he thought all little babies were carried that way. and he thought all fathers and mothers had red skin and black hair and wore leather coats and trousers trimmed with feathers. for his did. but long before he was old enough to notice any of these things he knew his mother loved her little red baby that she carried on her back, and he loved to have her take him out of his basket bed and rock him in her arms and sing to him, saying: "cheda-e nakahu-kalu be-be! nakahu-kalu be-be! e-be-be!" for all this happened in america long, long ago, and he was a little indian baby. * * * the last little baby, and he makes five, was all white. he just came so too. his eyes were blue and his hair was gold and he looked like a little baby you know. and he wore dear little white dresses and little knitted shoes. when he looked up he saw his father's white skin and his mother's blue eyes. when the baby was big enough he saw what kind of clothes his father and his mother wore,--but the story doesn't tell what they were like. and when the baby was big enough he saw they all lived in a big dirty noisy city, but the story doesn't tell what kind of a house they lived in. and the story doesn't tell whether he thought any of these things queer when he was little or when he grew up; probably because you know all these things yourselves. but the story does tell that long before he was old enough to notice any of these things he knew his mother loved her little white baby with blue eyes and golden hair. and it tells that he loved to have her rock him in her arms and sing to him this song: "listen, wee baby, i'd sing you a song; the arms of the mothers are tender and strong, the arms of the mothers where babies belong! brown mothers and yellow and black and red too, they love their babies as i, dear, love you,-- my little white blossom with wide eyes of blue! and your wee golden head, i do love it, i do! and your feet and your hands i love you there too! and my love makes me sing to you sing to you songs, lying hushed in my arms where a baby belongs!" for all this is happening in your own country every day and he is a little american baby. perhaps you know his father,--perhaps you know the baby,--perhaps, oh, perhaps, you have heard his mother sing! once the barn was full of hay this story made a special appeal to the school children because the school building was originally a stable in macdougal alley. they had even witnessed this evolution from stable to garage. the children have seemed to enjoy the rhythmic language without any sense of strangeness. once the barn was full of hay once the barn was full of hay, now 'tis there no more. i wonder why the hay has left the barn? the old horse stood in the stall all day. he wanted to be on the streets. he was strong, was this old horse. he was wise, was this old horse. and he was brave as well. and he was proud, oh, very proud to be strong and wise and brave! he wanted to be on the streets, and he wondered what was wrong that now for ten long days no one had to come harness him up. old tom, the aged driver, seemed to have gone away, and only the stable boy had given him water and oats, and poked him hay from the loft above. and as the old horse thought of this he reached up high with his quivering nose, and pushing his lips far back on his teeth, pulled down a mouthful of hay. but as he stood chewing the hay again he wondered and wondered again why nobody needed him, why nobody wished to drive. for almost every day old tom would harness him up to a dear little, neat little, sweet little carriage and down the alley they'd go and around to the front of the house. and there he'd stand and wait, this dear, this steady old horse, flicking the flies with his tail, till the door of the house would open wide and out would come his mistress dear with the baby in her arms, and running along beside would come her little boy, the little boy he loved so well, who gave him sugar from his hand and patted his nose and neck. and into the carriage they all would get, his mistress and baby and little boy. and tom would tighten the reins a bit and off down the street they'd go, clopperty, clopperty, clopperty, clop. when he was out on the streets,-- this dear old, steady old horse,-- he knew just what to do, when to go and when to stand still. and when with clang! clang! clang! fire engines shrieked down the street he'd stand as still as a rock so his mistress and her baby were never frightened a bit! and the little boy laughed and watched and laughed! and when the great policeman, so big in the middle of the street, held up his hand, the old horse stopped but watched him close for the first wave of the hand that would tell him to go ahead. always the first to stop, always the first to go, the old horse loved the streets. now he wanted the streets. and while he stood and chewed his hay and wondered what was wrong, suddenly there came a rumble of noises all a-jumble, a quaking and a shaking a terrifying tremble making the old horse quiver and stand still! it came from the alley, his own peaceful alley where he knew every horse, every coach, every wagon! bump, thump, like a lump of lead jolting, bang, whang, like a steam engine bolting, down it came crashing down it came smashing, till it stopped with a snort at his own stable door! the old horse pulled at his halter and strained to look round at the door. out of the tail of his eye he could see the doors, the doors to his very own barn, swing wide under the crane where they hoisted the hay. and there in the alley, oh what did he see this old horse with his terrified eye? a monster all shiny and black with great headlights stuck way out in front, with brass things that grated and groaned as the driver pulled this thing and that. and there on the back of this monster sat old tom who had driven him now for fifteen long years. and out of the mouth of the monster, as there opened a neat little door, stepped his mistress dear with her eager little boy and the baby in her arms. and the poor horse trembled to see those that he loved so well so near this terrible monster. "'twill eat them all!" he thought. and for the first time in all his brave and prudent life the old horse was frightened. he raised his head, he spread his nostrils, he neighed with all his strength. his mistress dear would surely hear, would hear and understand! he wanted to save her, save the boy and save the little baby from this terrible ugly beast snorting there so near! and his mistress dear, she heard. but did she understand? she came and laid her hand upon his quivering side. "poor dear old horse," she said, "your day is gone and you must go!" what could she mean? what could she mean? what could she mean? "you have been strong; but not so strong as is our new machine! you have been brave; but see this thing, this thing can know no fear! you have been wise; but this machine is like a part of tom. he pulls a lever, turns a wheel and this machine obeys! poor dear old horse your day is gone and now you too must go!" so that was what she meant! so that was what she meant! so that was what she meant! * * * the old horse heard but how could he understand? how could he know that she had said they wanted him no longer? how could he know that this big monster, this new automobile was going to do his work for them and do it better than he! he knew that something was wrong. he was puzzled and sad and frightened. with head drooped low and feet that dragged he let old tom untie his rope and lead him from the stall. for one short moment as he passed the shiny automobile he straightened his head and widened his nostrils and snorted and snorted again. but there within the monster, lying safe upon a seat, he saw the little baby laughing and all alone. and the old horse was puzzled, was puzzled and frightened too. then old tom pulled him gently through the wide swinging doors and led him down the alley. past the stables with other horses, past the grooms and stable boys, down the alley he knew so well went the old horse for the last time. for he never came back again. they had no need of him; they liked their auto better! down the alley he slowly went and as he turned into the street below one last long look he gave to the stable at the end, one last long look at his mistress dear with the baby in her arms, one last long look at the little boy waving and calling: "goodbye, goodbye". one last long look, and then he was gone! once the barn was full of hay: now 'tis there no more. i wonder why the hay has left the barn? the wind this story is composed entirely of observations on the wind dictated by a six-year-old and a seven-year-old class. every phrase (except the one word "toss") is theirs. the ordering only is mine. the wind in the summer-time the wind goes like breathing, but in a winter storm it growls and roars. [illustration] sometimes the wind goes oo-oo-oo-oo-oo! it sounds like water running. it makes a singing sound. it blows through the grass. it blows against the tree and the tree bows over and bends way down. it whistles in the leaves and makes a rustling sound. the tree shakes, the branches and leaves all rustle. the wind knocks the leaves off the trees and tosses them up in the air. then it blows them straight in to the window and drags them around on the floor. it makes the leaves whirl and twirl. and sometimes the wind is frisky. it whisks around the corners. it comes blowing down the street. it blows the papers round and round on the ground. it tears them and rares them, then up, it takes them sailing. it sweeps around the house, blowing and puffing. it blows the wash up. it blows the chickens off the trees. it makes the nuts come rattling down. it turns the windmill and makes the fire burn. it blows out the matches, it blows out the candles, it blows out the gas lights. it hits the people on the street. some it keeps back from walking and some it pushes forward. it unbuttons the coat of a little girl, it unbuttons her leggings too and the little girl feels all chilly in the frisky wind. it blows up her skirt. it pulls off her hat and blows through her hair till she feels all chilly on her head too. puff! it goes, puff! puff! then off go other hats spinning down the street. it gets under umbrellas and turns them inside out. the frisky wind blows harder and harder. the houses shake. the windows rattle. and the people on the street are whirling and twirling like the leaves. sometimes there is a storm. the wind roars over the ocean and makes the waves bigger than the ships. the waves go up and down, and up and down, and the ship goes rocking and rocking, this way and that way, this way and that way, to the right, to the left, to the right, to the left, back and forth and back and forth. a boat gets tossed on the sea. the sails are all torn to pieces by the storm. the masts get broken off and fall down on the ship. the ship just rocks and rocks. then pretty soon it bumps into a rock and is wrecked and sinks. and all the men get drowned. the wind growls and roars over the mountain. there is thunder and lightning. the thunder says, "boompety, boom, boom, boom!" the lightning is all shiny. the rain comes pouring down. the wind whistles in the trees. it blows a tree over. it crashes down. the lightning goes crack! and splits the tree in two. and then the tree catches on fire and the leaves burn like paper. in the summer-time the wind goes like breathing, but in a winter storm it growls and roars. the leaf story all the content and many of the expressions were taken from stories on dried leaves dictated by a six-year-old and a seven-year-old class. the leaf story [illustration] i want to fly up in the air! if i take two leaves in my hands and put two leaves on my feet and the wind blows perhaps i'll fly up in the air! listen! something stirs in the dried leaves, the tree bends, the tree bows, the wind sweeps through the brown leaves. the brown leaves crackle and rattle and dance, they rustle and murmur and pull at the bough, they shiver, they quiver till they pull themselves loose and are free. up, up they fly! little brown specks in the sky. they twist and they spin, they whirl and they twirl, they teeter, they turn somersaults in the air. then for a moment the wind holds its breath. down, down, down float the leaves, still turning and twisting, still twirling and whirling, the brown leaves float to the earth. puff! goes the wind, up they fly again with a little soft rustling laugh. then down they float. down, down, down. on the ground the leaves go as if walking or running. they go and then they stop. they scurry along, still twisting and turning, still twirling and whirling, they hurry along, with a soft little rustle they tumble, they roll and they roll. i want to fly up in the air! if i take two leaves in my hands and put two leaves on my feet and the wind blows, perhaps i'll fly up in the air. a locomotive in the daytime, what am i? in the hubbub, what am i? a mass of iron and of steel, of boiler, piston, throttle, wheel, a monster smoking up the sky, a locomotive! that am i! in the darkness, what am i? in the stillness, what am i? streak of light across the sky, a clanging bell, a shriek, a cry, a fiery demon rushing by, a locomotive that am i! [illustration] moon moon (_to the tune of "du, du, liegst mir im herzen._") moon, moon, shiny and silver, moon, moon, silver and white; moon, moon, whisper to children "sleep through the silvery night." there, there, there, there, sleep through the silvery night. sun, sun, shiny and golden, sun, sun, golden and gay; sun, sun, shout to the children "wake to the sunshiny day!" there, there, there, there, wake to the sunshiny day. automobile song a-rolling, bowling, fast or slow, a-racing, chasing, off we go. the jolly automobile whizzes along with flying wheel. we go chug, chug-chug, chug-up! then we go s-l-i-d-i-n-g down. we go scooting over the hills, we go tooting back to town. silly will in this story i have used a device to tie together many isolated familiar facts. i have never found that six-year-old children did not readily discriminate the actual from the imaginary. silly will part once there was a little boy. now he was a very silly little boy, so silly that he was called silly will. he had an idea that he was tremendously smart and that he could quite well get along by himself in this world. this foolish idea made him do and say all sorts of silly things which led to all sorts of terrible happenings as this story will show. one day he went out walking. he walked down the road until he met a little girl. the little girl was crying. "what's the matter with you?" asked silly will. "oh!" sobbed the little girl, "our cow has died and i don't know what we shall do. i don't know how we can get along without her milk and everything. we depended on her so!" "depended on a cow!" cried silly will. "whoever heard of such a thing! i've often seen that stupid old cow of yours. clumsy, lumbering thing! cows are no good! i wouldn't depend on any animal, not i! it wouldn't matter to me if all the cows in the world died!" and silly will strutted off down the road. the little girl looked after him with astonishment. "i just wish no cow would ever give that silly boy anything!" she thought. before long he met an old woman. the old woman was crying too. "what's the matter with you?" asked silly will. "oh!" cried the old woman wringing her hands. "our sheep has fallen over a cliff and broken its legs and it's going to die. i don't know how we shall get along without her wool for spinning. we depended so much on her!" "depended on a sheep!" cried silly will. "whoever heard of such a thing! i've often heard your stupid old sheep bleating. sheep are no good. i wouldn't depend on any animal, not i! it wouldn't matter to me if all the sheep in the world died!" and silly will strutted off down the road feeling very smart. the old woman looked after him greatly surprised. "silly little boy!" she thought. "he little knows! i just wish no sheep would give him anything!" then before long silly will met a man. the man was sitting beside the road with his face in his hands. "what's the matter with you?" asked silly will. the man looked up. "oh, our horse has died!" he sighed dolefully, "and i don't know how we can get along without him to plow for us now that it's seeding time. and there's not much use getting in the seeds anyway without a horse to carry the grain to market when it's ripe. we depended so on our horse!" "depended on a horse!" cried silly will. "whoever heard of such a thing! first i meet a little girl who says she depended on a cow for food: then i meet an old woman who says she depended on a sheep for clothes. and here is a man who says he depends on a horse to work and to carry for him! as for me, i depend on no animal, not i! it wouldn't matter to me if there were no animals in the world. they needn't give me anything! i wish they wouldn't!" the man looked at him greatly amazed. "silly little boy!" he said. "i hope your silly wish will come true. how little you understand! i just wish tonight all the animal kingdom would leave you and then perhaps you would understand a little!" but silly will walked home feeling very smart, for he _didn't_ understand. silly people never _do_ understand! now that night a strange thing happened to silly will. i can't explain how or why it happened. but in the middle of the night, all the animals _did_ leave silly will. not only the cow and the sheep and the horse but all the animal kingdom! he was sound asleep in his flannel nightgown snuggled under warm wool blankets. suddenly he felt a jerk. what was happening? he sat up in bed just in time to see his blankets whisk off him and disappear. he looked down. his night shirt was gone! he heard a faint sound almost like the bleating of the old woman's sheep. "ba-ba-a-a i take back my wool!" then he was aware that something queer had happened to his mattress. it was just an empty bag of ticking. he heard a faint sound almost like the neighing of the man's horse who had died. "whey-ey-ey, i take back my hair!" he reached for his pillow. it too was an empty sack. "hh-ss-s-hh" hissed a faint sound almost like a goose. "i take back my feathers!" "whatever is happening?" screamed silly will. "let me get a light." he found a match and struck it, but his candlestick was empty. "ba-a-moo-oo" said some faint voices. "i take back my fat!" by this time silly will was thoroughly frightened and shivering with cold besides. "i'd better get dressed," he thought, and groped his way to the chair where he had left his clothes. he could find only his cotton underwaist and his cotton shirt. his wool undershirt and drawers, his trousers and stockings, and his silk necktie were gone. and so were his leather shoes. just the lacings lay on the floor. "mooooo" he seemed to hear a faint sound almost like the little girl's cow he had made fun of in the afternoon. "i take back my hide." he put on the few cotton clothes that were left, but there were no buttons to hold them together. "moooooo," he heard a faint voice say. "i take back my bones." terrified he ran to the closet to see what more he could find. "i'll surely freeze," he thought as he lighted another match. "i'll slip on my coat and get into bed." but his warm coat with the fur collar was gone, too. "chee, chee, chee," he seemed to hear a faint sound almost like the squirrel he was fond of frightening. "i take back my skin!" but he did find some cotton stockings and some old overalls. these he put on relieved to find they had metal buttons. then poor silly will crawled back to bed wearing his cotton clothes and waited for morning to come. he didn't sleep much for the wire spring cut into him. he was cold, too. as soon as it was light he hunted around for more clothes. he found some straw bed-room slippers. his rubbers too were there and he put them on over his slippers. then he ran downstairs to get something to eat. "anyway," he thought, "those old animals can't get me when it comes to eating. i never did care much about meat." the pantry door squeaked as he opened it. it sounded for all the world like a far away barnyard--hens, cows, and pigs. he looked around. no milk, no eggs, no bacon! "bread and butter will do me," he thought. but the butter had gone too! he opened the bread box. the bread was still there! he almost wept from relief. by hunting around he found a good deal to eat. cocoa made with water instead of milk was pretty good. then there were crackers and apples. his oatmeal wasn't very good without milk or butter. but he ate it. he knew he would have plenty of vegetables and fruits and cereals. and the day was warm enough so that he didn't mind his cotton clothes. but his feet did hurt him. he wondered about wooden shoes and thought he would try to make some. he was a little worried too about his bed. he hunted around in the house until he found two cotton comforters. one he put under his sheet in place of his mattress and one on top in place of his blankets. so, on the whole, he thought, he could manage to get along. poor little silly will! he had never before thought how much the animals did for him. once in a while he would think of the little girl and the old woman and the man he had met that afternoon. but not for long. and he never remembered that some time winter would come. but long before that time came, silly will had got himself into still more trouble. for even now he didn't understand! part from this time on nothing went well with silly will. when he had eaten the vegetables he had in the house he walked over to a gardener who lived nearby. he wanted to get potatoes and other supplies for the winter. to his horror he found everything drooping and wilted and withered. "what's the matter with the vegetables, gardener?" asked silly will. "a frost," sighed the gardener. "it's killed all the potatoes. i hope you weren't depending on them?" "oh, of course not," said silly will, gulping hard. "i certainly wouldn't depend on a vegetable. that would be too ridiculous. if the frost should kill all the vegetables, it would make no difference to me!" nevertheless in his heart he felt unhappy and a little frightened at the thought of the coming winter. but still he didn't understand. silly people never do understand. he walked on down the road saying to himself, "i'll go order my winter wood anyway. i'm almost out of it at home." just then he looked up. he expected to see the green forest stretching up the hillside. he stared. the hillside was black smoking stumps, fallen blackened trees, white ashes! beside the dead trees stood the old forester wringing his hands. silly will didn't even speak to him. he could see what had happened without asking. he turned around. slowly he walked home. he went right to bed. he still pretended that he wasn't unhappy or frightened. he kept saying to himself, "i don't really depend on the wood at all. of course that would be silly! i've got coal. it wouldn't matter to me if all the plants left me." and with that thought he fell asleep. you see even now he didn't understand. silly people never do understand. now that night another strange thing happened to silly will. i can't explain how or why it happened. but in the middle of the night all the plants _did_ leave silly will,--not only the potatoes and the trees but the whole vegetable kingdom. he was asleep all curled up to keep warm in his cotton clothes. suddenly he felt the comforter and sheet under him jerk away and he was left lying on the wire spring. at the same time the comforter and sheet over him disappeared. so did his nightshirt. then bang! his wooden bed was gone. the house began to creak and rock. he jumped up and tore down stairs. he just got outside the front door when the whole house collapsed. the moon was shining. silly will could see quite plainly. there stood the brick chimneys rising out of a pile of plaster dumped on top of the concrete foundations. there was the slate roof and the broken window of glass. the air was full of a sound like the violent trembling of many leaves. it sounded for all the world as if it said, "i take back my wood!" "whatever will i do?" groaned silly will as he shivered all naked in the moonlight. then his eye lighted on the kitchen stove. there it stood with the stove pipe all safely connected with the chimney. "i'll build a coal fire," he thought. there stood the iron coal scuttle. but alas! it was empty! he heard a far-away murmur like a faint wind stirring in giant ferns. and they said, "i take back my buried leaves!" by this time silly will was shaking with cold. "i've heard that newspapers are warm," he thought. but the pile behind the stove was gone. again came the murmur of trees--"i take back my pulp," and a queer soft sound which he couldn't quite make out. was it "i take back my cotton?" silly will was thoroughly terrified now. "i'll go somewhere to think," he said to himself. so he crept down the cement steps to the cellar and crawled into a sheltered corner. but he couldn't think of anything pleasant. he could hear a confused noise all around him. sometimes it sounded like growls, like animal cries, like animal calls. "the animal kingdom has left him," it seemed to say. again it sounded like the wind rustling a thousand leaves. "the vegetable kingdom has left him," it seemed to say. "i've nothing to wear," sobbed silly will. "and i'm afraid i've nothing to eat." at the thought of food he jumped up and ran over to the cellar pantry. he found just three things. they did not make a tempting meal! they were a crock of salt, a tin of soda and a porcelain pitcher of water. "what shall i ever do? how shall i live? i'll never have another glass of milk or cup of cocoa. i'll never have anything to wear. i'll freeze and i'll starve. i might just as well die now!" and poor little silly will broke down and cried and cried and cried. "i can't live without other living things," he sobbed. "i can't eat only minerals and i can't keep warm in minerals. everybody has to depend on animals and vegetables. and after all i'm only a little boy! i've got to have living things to keep alive myself!" then a wonderful thing happened to silly will. i can't explain how or why it happened. suddenly he felt all warm and comfortable. "perhaps i'm freezing," he thought. "i've heard that people feel warm when they are almost frozen to death." slowly he put out his hand. surely that was a linen sheet! surely that was a woolen blanket. surely he had on his flannel nightgown. he sat straight up. surely this was his own bed: this was his own room: this was his own house. he could scarcely believe his eyes. he gave a great shout. "moo-oo-oo," answered a cow under a tree outside his window. and the leaves of the tree rustled at him too. "hello, old cow! hello, old tree!" cried silly will running to the window. "isn't it good we're all alive?" and when you think of it that wasn't a silly remark at all! "moo-oo-oo," lowed the old cow. "swish-sh-sh-sh," rustled the tree. and suddenly silly will thought he understood! i wonder if he did! eben's cows this story attempts to make an industrial process a background for real adventure. eben's cows part eben was looking at the cows. and the cows were looking at eben. what eben saw was twenty-six pairs of large gentle eyes, twenty-six mouths chewing with a queer sidewise motion, twenty-six fine fat cattle, some red, some white, some black, some red and white, and some black and white, all in a bright green meadow. what the cows saw, held by his mother on the rail fence, was a fat baby with a shining face and waving arms. what eben heard was the heavy squashy footsteps of the slow-moving cows as they lumbered toward the little figure on the fence. what the cows heard was a high, excited little voice saying a real word for the first time in its life, "cow! cow! oh, cow! oh, cow!" and so with his first word began eben's life-long friendship with the cows. eben brewster lived in a little white farm-house with green blinds. the cows lived in a great long red barn, which was connected with the little white farm-house by a wagon-shed and tool-house. high up on the great red barn was printed green mountain farm. long before eben knew how to read he knew what those big letters said, and he knew that the lovely rolling hills that ringed the farm around, were called the green mountains. in front of both house and barn stretched the bright green meadows where day after day fed the twenty-six cows. in a neighboring meadow played the long-legged calves. for at green mountain farm there were always many calves. in the summer they usually had fifteen or twenty calves a few months old. for every cow of course had her baby once a year. the little bull calves they sold; but the little cow calves they raised. [illustration] when eben was three years old he made friends with the calves his own way. he wiggled through the bars of the gate into their pasture. the calves stared at him; they sniffed at him. then they came a little closer. they stared at him again. they sniffed at him again. then they came closer still. then one little black and white thing came right up to him and licked his face and hands. and three-year-old eben liked the feel of the soft nose and the rough tongue and he liked the sweet cow smell. so it came about that eben played regularly with the calves. it always amused his father andrew to watch them together. "i never saw a child so crazy about cows!" he used to say. one day he put a pretty little new calf,--white with red spots,--into the pasture. eben ran to the calf at once. "what shall we call the calf, eben?" asked his father. "think of some nice name for her." eben put his arms around the calf's neck and smiled. "i call him 'ittle sister," he said. for little baby sister was the only thing three-year-old eben loved better than a calf. and the name stuck to the calves of green mountain farm. from that time on they were always called little sisters! real little sister or nancy, as she was called, grew apace. to her eben was always wonderful. at six years he seemed equal to about anything. it did not surprise her at all one day to hear her father say, "eben, you get the cows tonight." but it did surprise eben. he had helped his father drive them home for years. and now he was to do it alone! down the dusty road he went, switch in hand, taking such big important strides that the footprints of his little bare feet were almost as far apart as a man's. the cows stood facing the bars. he took down the bars. the cows filed through one by one. nancy and her father, waiting to help him turn the cows in at the barn, knew he was coming. they could see the cloud of dust and hear the many shuffling feet and the shrill boy's voice calling: "hi, spotty, don't you stop to eat! go 'long there, crumplehorn, don't you know the way home yet! hurry up, redface. can't you keep in the road?" eben felt older from that day. from the day he began driving home the cows alone eben took a real share in the work at the farm. he put the cows' heads into the stanchions when each one lumbered into her stall. he fed them hay and ensilage through the long winter months when the meadows were white with snow. he put the cans to catch the cream and the skimmed milk when his father turned the separator. he took the separator apart and carried it up to his mother to be washed. nancy helped and talked. only she really talked more than she helped! eben's talk ran much on cows. his poor mother read all she could in the encyclopedia, but even then she couldn't answer all his questions. why does a cow have four stomachs? why does her food come back to be chewed? why does she chew sideways? why does she have to be milked twice a day? why doesn't she get out of the way when an auto comes down the road? when eben asked his father these things the farmer would shake his head and answer, "i guess it's just because she's a cow." there came a very exciting day at green mountain farm. for twenty years andrew brewster and his men had milked his cows morning and evening. his hands were hard from the practice. the children loved to watch him milk. with every pull of his strong hands he made a fine white stream of milk shoot into the pail, squirt, squirt, squirt. eben had often tried, but pull as he would, he could only get out a few drops. and even as andrew brewster had milked his cows morning and evening until his hands were horny, so had his father done before him. yes, and his father's father, too. for three generations of brewsters had hardened their hands milking cows on green mountain farm. then there came this exciting day, and a new way of milking began at the big red barn. a milking machine was put in. it ran by a wonderful little puffing gasolene engine. it milked two cows at once. and it milked all twenty-six of them in twenty minutes. andrew brewster could manage the whole herd alone with what help eben could give him. it was a great day for him. it was a great day for eben and nancy too. part there came another day which was even more exciting for the two children than when the milking machine was put into the big red barn. this story is really about that day. eben was then ten years old and nancy seven. their father and mother had gone for the day to a county fair. the two children were to be alone all day, which made up for not going to the fair. the children had long since eaten the cold dinner their mother had left for them. they had done all their chores too. nancy had gathered the eggs and eben had chopped the kindling and brought in the wood. they had fed the baby chickens and given them water. then they had gone to the woods for an afternoon climb over the big rocks and a wade in the brook. now they were waiting for their father and mother to come back. they had been waiting for a long time, for it was seven o'clock. the last thing their mother had called out as she drove off behind the two old farm horses was, "we'll be back by five o'clock, children." what could have happened? "eben," said nancy, "we'd better eat our own supper and get something ready for father and mother. i guess i'll try to scramble some eggs." "go ahead," answered eben. "but we're not the ones i'm worrying about--nor father and mother either. it's those poor cows." "oh! the cows!" cried nancy. "and the poor little sisters! they'll be so hungry." both children ran to the door. "just listen to them," said eben. "they've been waiting in the barn for over an hour now. i certainly wish father would come." from the big red barn came the lowing of the restless cattle. "i'm going to have another look at them," said eben. "come along, nancy." the two children peered into the big dark barn. the unmistakable cow smell came to them strong in the dark. stretching down the whole length was stall after stall, each holding an impatient cow. the children could see the restless hind feet moving and stamping; they could see the flicking of many tails; they could feel the cows pulling at the stanchions. on the other side were the stalls of the little sisters. they too were moving about wildly. over above it all rose the deafening sound of the plaintive lowings. by the door stood the gasolene engine. it was attached to a pipe which ran the whole length of the great barn above the cows' stalls. eben's eyes followed this pipe until it was lost in the dark. "moo-oo-oo," lowed the cow nearest at hand, so loud that both children jumped. "poor old redface," said nancy. "i wish we could help you." "we're going to," said eben in an excited voice, "see here, nancy. we're going to milk these cows!" "why, eben brewster, we could never do it alone!" nancy's eyes went to the gasolene engine as she spoke. "we've got to," said eben. "that's all there is about it." so the children began with trembling hands. they lighted two lanterns. "i wish the cows would stop a minute," said nancy. "i can't seem to think with such a racket going on." eben turned on the spark of the engine. he had done it before, but it seemed different to do it when his father wasn't standing near. then he took the crank. "i hope she doesn't kick tonight," he wished fervently. he planted his feet firmly and grasped the handle! round he swung it, around and around. only the bellowing of the cows answered. he began again. round he swung the handle; around and around. "chug, chug-a-chug, chug, chug, chug-a-chug, chug," answered the engine. nancy jumped with delight. "you're as good as a man, eben," she cried. "come now, bring the lantern," commanded eben. nancy carried the lantern and eben a rubber tube. this tube eben fastened on to the first faucet on the long pipe between the first two cows. this rubber tube branched into two and at the end of each were four hollow rubber fingers. eben stuck his fingers down one. he could feel the air pull, pull, pull. "she's working all right, nancy," he whispered in a shaking voice. "put the pail here." nancy obeyed. eben took one bunch of four hollow rubber fingers and slipped one finger up each udder of one cow. then he took the other bunch and slipped one finger up each udder of the second cow. the cows, feeling relief was near, quieted at once. "i can see the milk," screamed nancy, watching a tiny glass window in the rubber tube. and sure enough, through the tube and out into the pail came a pulsing stream of milk. squirt, squirt, squirt, squirt. in a few minutes the two cows were milked and the children moved on to the next pair. nancy carried the pail and eben the rubber tube which he fastened on to the next faucet. and in another few minutes two more cows were milked. so the children went the length of the great red barn, and gradually the restless lowings quieted as pail after pail was filled with warm white milk. "i wouldn't try the separator if it weren't for the poor little sisters," said eben anxiously as they reached the end of the barn. "they've got to be fed," said nancy. "but i can't lift those pails." slowly eben carried them one by one with many rests back to the separator by the gasoline engine. he took the strap off one wheel and put it around the wheel of the separator. "i can't lift a whole pail," sighed eben. taking a little at a time he poured the milk into the tray at the top of the separator. in a few minutes the yellow cream came pouring out of one spout and the blue skimmed milk out of another. in another few minutes the calves were drinking the warm skimmed milk. "there, little sisters, poor, hungry little sisters," said nancy, as she watched their eager pink tongues. eben turned off the engine. "i'm sorry i couldn't do the final hand milking," he said. "i wonder if we'd better turn the cows out?" before nancy could answer both children heard a sound. they held their breath. surely those were horses' feet! cloppety clop clop clop cloppety clop clop clop. up to the barn door dashed the old farm horses. from the dark outside the children heard their mother's voice, "children, children, are you there? the harness broke and i thought we'd _never_ get home." carrying a lantern apiece the children rushed out and into her arms. "here, eben," called his father. "you take the horses quick. i must get started milking right away. those poor cows!" the children were too excited to talk plainly. they both jabbered at once. then each took a hand of their father and led him into the great red barn. there by the light of the lanterns andrew brewster could see the pails of warm white milk and yellow cream. he stared at the quiet cows and at the little sisters. then he stared at eben and nancy. "yes," cried both children together. "we did it. we did it ourselves!" the sky scraper the story tries to assemble into a related form many facts well-known to seven-year-olds and to present the whole as a modern industrial process. [illustration] the sky scraper once in an enormous city, men built an enormous building. deep they built it, deep into the ground; high they built it, high into the air. now that it is finished the men who walk about its feet forget how deep into the ground it reaches. but they can never forget how high into the blue it soars. their necks ache when they throw back their heads to see to the top. for, of all the buildings in the world, this sky scraper is the highest. the sky scraper stands in the heart of the great city. from its top one can see the city, one can hear the city, one can smell the city--the city where men live and work. one can see the crowded streets full of tiny men and tiny automobiles, the riverside with its baby warehouses and its baby docks, the river with its toy bridges and toy giant steamers and tug boats and barges and ferries. the city noise,--the distant, rumbling, grumbling noise,--sounds like the purring of a far-away giant beast. and over it all lies the smell of gas and smoke. the sky scraper stands in the heart of the great city. but from its top in the blue, blue sky one can see all over the land. landward the fields spread out like a map till they are lost in the mist and smoke. seaward lies the vast, the tremendous stretch of the sea, the wrinkled, the crinkled, the far-away sea that stretches to touch the sky. now this soaring sky scraper is the work of men--of many, many men. its lofty lacy tower was first thought of by the architect. with closed eyes he saw it, and with his well-trained fingers quickly he drew its outline. then at his office many men with t squares and with compasses, sitting at high long tables, with green-shaded lamps, worked far into the nights till all the plans were ready. then the sky scraper began to grow. the first men brought mighty steam shovels. one hundred feet into the earth they burrowed. the gigantic mouths of the steam shovels gnawed at the rock and the clay. huge hulks they clutched from this underworld, heaved up with enormous derricks and crashed out on the upper land. deep they dug, deep into the ground till they found the firm bed-rock. with a network of steel they filled this terrific hole. into the rasping, revolving mixers they poured tons of sand and cement and gravel which steadily flowed in a sluggish stream to strengthen the steel supports. at last,--and that was an exciting day,--the great beams began to rise. again the derricks ground, as slowly, steadily, accurately, they swung each beam to its place. a thousand men swarmed over the steel bones, some throwing red-hot rivets, others catching them in pails, all to the song of the rivet driver. [illustration] the riveter screamed and shrieked and shrilled. it pierced the air of the narrow streets. on the nearby buildings it vibrated, echoed. the sky scraper seemed alive and thrilled by the quivering, throbbing, shrieking shrill,--by the song of the riveter. story by story the sky scraper grew, a monstrous outline against the sky. and ever and ever as it grew, hissed the rivet and screamed the drill. at length the sky scraper soared sixty dizzy stories high. then swiftly came the stone masons and encased the giant steel frame. swiftly in its center, men reared the plunging elevators. swiftly worked the electrician, the plumber, the carpenter. all workmen were called and all workmen came. the world listened to the call of this sky scraper standing in the heart of the great city. from the mines of minnesota to the swamps of louisiana came goods to serve its need. long, long ago, in olden days, the churches grew slowly bit by bit, as one man carved a door post here and another fitted a window there, each planning his own part. not so with the sky scraper. it grew in haste. its parts were made in factories scattered the country over. each factory was ready with a part, and the railroad was ready swift to bring them to its feet. the sky scraper grew in haste. for it the many worked as one. planned by those who command and reared by those who obey, in an enormous city men built this enormous building. deep they built it, deep into the ground; high they built it, high into the air. and now they use this building built by them. the sky scraper houses an army of ten thousand men. all day they clamber up and down its core like insects in a giant tree. they buzz and buzz, and then go home. [illustration] but there with the shadowy silent streets at its feet stands the lofty sky scraper. on its head there glows a monstrous light. the rays pierce through the fogs. and when the storm is screaming wild, the light struggles through to the frightened boats tossing on the mountain waves. the storm howls and beats on the sides of the lofty lacy tower with the shining light on top. the storms beat on its side, the tower leans in the wind, the tower of steel and of stone leans and leans a full two feet. then when the blast is past, this tower of steel and of stone swings back to straightness again. and so in the enormous city men built this enormous building. deep they built it, deep into the ground; high, they built it, high into the air. now that it is finished, the men who walk about its feet forget how deep into the ground it reaches. but they can never forget how high into the blue it soars. their necks ache when they throw back their heads to see to the top. for of all the buildings in the world this sky scraper is the highest. end [transcriber's note: brief descriptions of each illustration are given in (parentheses). the author's name on the cover was punctuated as shown.] denslow's humpty dumpty adapted and illustrated by w. w denslow [illustration (humpty dumpty)] g. w. dillingham co. publishers new york. copyright by w. w. denslow published, august [illustration (humpty dances for three children and a dog): to edward hall.] humpty dumpty. [illustration (bare humpty sitting)] humpty-dumpty was a smooth, round little chap, with a winning smile, and a great golden heart in his broad breast. only one thing troubled humpty, and that was, that he might fall and crack his thin, white skin; he wished to be hard, all the way through, for he felt his heart wabble when he walked, or ran about, so off he went to the black hen for advice. this hen was kind and wise, so she was just the one, for him to go to with his trouble. "your father, old humpty," said the hen, "was very foolish, and would take warning from no one; you know what the poet said of him: 'humpty-dumpty sat on a wall, humpty-dumpty had a great fall; all the king's horses, and all the king's men cannot put humpty-dumpty together again.' [illustration (humpty talks to the hen)] "so you see, he came to a very bad end, just because he was reckless, and would not take a hint from any one, he was much worse than a scrambled egg; the king, his horses and his men, did all they could for him, but his case was hopeless," and the hen shook her head sadly. [illustration (humpty's father after his fall)] "what you must do," continued the hen, as she wiped a tear from her bright blue eye, "is to go to the farmer's wife, next door, and tell her to put you into a pot of boiling hot water; your skin is so hard and smooth, it will not hurt you, and when you come out, you may do as you wish, nothing can break you, you can tumble about to your heart's content, and you will not break, nor even dent yourself." so humpty rolled in next door, and told the farmer's wife that he wanted to be put into boiling hot water as he was too brittle to be of any use to himself or to any one else. [illustration (humpty talks to the farmer's wife)] "indeed you shall," said the farmer's wife, "what is more i shall wrap you up in a piece of spotted calico, so that you will have a nice colored dress; you will come out, looking as bright as an easter egg." [illustration (humpty in his calico bundle goes into the pot)] so she tied him up in a gay new rag, and dropped him into the copper kettle of boiling water that was on the hearth. it was pretty hot for humpty at first, but he soon got used to it, and was happy, for he felt himself getting harder every minute. he did not have to stay in the water long, before he was quite well done, and as hard as a brick all the way through; so, untying the rag, he jumped out of the kettle as tough and as bright as any hard boiled egg. [illustration (decorated humpty emerges from the pot)] the calico had marked him from head to foot with big, bright, red spots, he was as gaudy as a circus clown, and as nimble and merry as one. [illustration (humpty jumps from a high shelf)] the farmer's wife shook with laughter to see the pranks of the little fellow, for he frolicked and frisked about from table to chair, and mantelpiece; he would fall from the shelf to the floor, just to show how hard he was; and after thanking the good woman most politely, for the service she had done him, he walked out into the sunshine, on the clothes-line, like a rope dancer, to see the wide, wide world. * * * * * [illustration (full page: humpty walks a tightrope while farmer's wife looks on)] [illustration (humpty sits on a wall playing the banjo)] of the travels of humpty-dumpty much could be said; he went east, west, north and south; he sailed the seas, he walked and rode on the land through all the countries of the earth, and all his life long he was happy and content. [illustration (full page: humpty rides a mouse jumping a hurdle)] [illustration (old man with ear trumpet listens to humpty singing)] sometimes as a clown, in a circus, he would make fun for old and young; again, as a wandering minstrel, he twanged the strings of his banjo and sung a merry song, and so on through all his travels, he would lighten the cares of others, and make them forget their sorrows, and fill every heart with joy. [illustration (humpty greets little girl with doll)] but wherever he went, in sunshine or in rain, he never forgot to sing the praises of the wise black hen nor the good, kind farmer's wife, who had started him in life, _hardened_ against sorrow, with a big heart in the right place, for the cheer and comfort of others. [illustration (humpty and small boy sit on wall while full moon looks on)] * * * * * * * * * * * * * * denslow's picture books for children for these books w. w. denslow has revised and adapted several of the best classical fairy tales. he has improved these stories by elimination of all coarseness, cruelty, and everything that might frighten children. they are new; more beautiful and striking in both text and picture than any children's books heretofore published. each book is filled with pictures of action and fun in brilliant colors. the twelve books are uniform in size. denslow's abc book denslow's one ring circus denslow's tom thumb denslow's humpty dumpty denslow's old mother hubbard denslow's jack and the bean-stalk denslow's zoo denslow's house that jack built denslow's three bears denslow's little red riding-hood denslow's little pigs denslow's mary had a little lamb copyright, , w. w. denslow _price cents each; indestructible, mounted on linen, cents each_ _g. w. dillingham company, publishers, new york_ file was made using scans of public domain material from the children's books online - rosetta project) [illustration: the balloons floated and filled the sky] rootabaga stories by carl sandburg author of "slabs of the sunburnt west," "smoke and steel," "chicago poems," "cornhuskers" illustrations and decorations by maud and miska petersham [illustration] new york harcourt, brace and company ---------------------------------------------------------------------- copyright, , by harcourt, brace and company, inc. printed in the u. s. a. by the quinn & boden company rahway, n j ---------------------------------------------------------------------- to spink and skabootch ---------------------------------------------------------------------- contents . three stories about the finding of the zigzag railroad, the pigs with bibs on, the circus clown ovens, the village of liver-and-onions, the village of cream puffs. how they broke away to go to the rootabaga country how they bring back the village of cream puffs when the wind blows it away how the five rusty rats helped find a new village . five stories about the potato face blind man the potato face blind man who lost the diamond rabbit on his gold accordion how the potato face blind man enjoyed himself on a fine spring morning poker face the baboon and hot dog the tiger the toboggan-to-the-moon dream of the potato face blind man how gimme the ax found out about the zigzag railroad and who made it zigzag . three stories about the gold buckskin whincher the story of blixie bimber and the power of the gold buckskin whincher the story of jason squiff and why he had a popcorn hat, popcorn mittens and popcorn shoes the story of rags habakuk, the two blue rats, and the circus man who came with spot cash money . four stories about the deep doom of dark doorways the wedding procession of the rag doll and the broom handle and who was in it how the hat ashes shovel helped snoo foo three boys with jugs of molasses and secret ambitions how bimbo the snip's thumb stuck to his nose when the wind changed . three stories about three ways the wind went winding the two skyscrapers who decided to have a child the dollar watch and the five jack rabbits the wooden indian and the shaghorn buffalo . four stories about dear, dear eyes the white horse girl and the blue wind boy what six girls with balloons told the gray man on horseback how henry hagglyhoagly played the guitar with his mittens on . one story--"only the fire-born understand blue" never kick a slipper at the moon sand flat shadows . two stories about corn fairies, blue foxes, flongboos and happenings that happened in the united states and canada how to tell corn fairies if you see 'em how the animals lost their tails and got them back traveling from philadelphia to medicine hat ---------------------------------------------------------------------- full-page illustrations page the balloons floated and filled the sky frontispiece he opened the ragbag and took out all the spot cash money then the uncles asked her the first question first they held on to the long curved tails of the rusty rats "i am sure many people will stop and remember the potato face blind man" his hat was popcorn, his mittens popcorn and his shoes popcorn they stepped into the molasses with their bare feet the monkey took the place of the traffic policeman so they stood looking it seemed to him as though the sky came down close to his nose away off where the sun was coming up, there were people and animals there on a high stool in a high tower, on a high hill sits the head spotter of the weather makers ---------------------------------------------------------------------- . three stories about the finding of the zigzag railroad, the pigs with bibs on, the circus clown ovens, the village of liver-and-onions, the village of cream puffs. _people_: gimme the ax please gimme ax me no questions the ticket agent wing tip the spick the four uncles the rat in a blizzard the five rusty rats _more people_: balloon pickers baked clowns polka dot pigs [illustration] how they broke away to go to the rootabaga country gimme the ax lived in a house where everything is the same as it always was. "the chimney sits on top of the house and lets the smoke out," said gimme the ax. "the doorknobs open the doors. the windows are always either open or shut. we are always either upstairs or downstairs in this house. everything is the same as it always was." so he decided to let his children name themselves. "the first words they speak as soon as they learn to make words shall be their names," he said. "they shall name themselves." when the first boy came to the house of gimme the ax, he was named please gimme. when the first girl came she was named ax me no questions. and both of the children had the shadows of valleys by night in their eyes and the lights of early morning, when the sun is coming up, on their foreheads. and the hair on top of their heads was a dark wild grass. and they loved to turn the doorknobs, open the doors, and run out to have the wind comb their hair and touch their eyes and put its six soft fingers on their foreheads. and then because no more boys came and no more girls came, gimme the ax said to himself, "my first boy is my last and my last girl is my first and they picked their names themselves." please gimme grew up and his ears got longer. ax me no questions grew up and her ears got longer. and they kept on living in the house where everything is the same as it always was. they learned to say just as their father said, "the chimney sits on top of the house and lets the smoke out, the doorknobs open the doors, the windows are always either open or shut, we are always either upstairs or downstairs--everything is the same as it always was." after a while they began asking each other in the cool of the evening after they had eggs for breakfast in the morning, "who's who? how much? and what's the answer?" "it is too much to be too long anywhere," said the tough old man, gimme the ax. and please gimme and ax me no questions, the tough son and the tough daughter of gimme the ax, answered their father, "it _is_ too much to be too long anywhere." so they sold everything they had, pigs, pastures, pepper pickers, pitchforks, everything except their ragbags and a few extras. when their neighbors saw them selling everything they had, the different neighbors said, "they are going to kansas, to kokomo, to canada, to kankakee, to kalamazoo, to kamchatka, to the chattahoochee." one little sniffer with his eyes half shut and a mitten on his nose, laughed in his hat five ways and said, "they are going to the moon and when they get there they will find everything is the same as it always was." all the spot cash money he got for selling everything, pigs, pastures, pepper pickers, pitchforks, gimme the ax put in a ragbag and slung on his back like a rag picker going home. then he took please gimme, his oldest and youngest and only son, and ax me no questions, his oldest and youngest and only daughter, and went to the railroad station. the ticket agent was sitting at the window selling railroad tickets the same as always. [illustration: he opened the ragbag and took out all the spot cash money] "do you wish a ticket to go away and come back or do you wish a ticket to go away and _never_ come back?" the ticket agent asked wiping sleep out of his eyes. "we wish a ticket to ride where the railroad tracks run off into the sky and never come back--send us far as the railroad rails go and then forty ways farther yet," was the reply of gimme the ax. "so far? so early? so soon?" asked the ticket agent wiping more sleep out his eyes. "then i will give you a new ticket. it blew in. it is a long slick yellow leather slab ticket with a blue spanch across it." gimme the ax thanked the ticket agent once, thanked the ticket agent twice, and then instead of thanking the ticket agent three times he opened the ragbag and took out all the spot cash money he got for selling everything, pigs, pastures, pepper pickers, pitchforks, and paid the spot cash money to the ticket agent. before he put it in his pocket he looked once, twice, three times at the long yellow leather slab ticket with a blue spanch across it. then with please gimme and ax me no questions he got on the railroad train, showed the conductor his ticket and they started to ride to where the railroad tracks run off into the blue sky and then forty ways farther yet. the train ran on and on. it came to the place where the railroad tracks run off into the blue sky. and it ran on and on chick chick-a-chick chick-a-chick chick-a-chick. sometimes the engineer hooted and tooted the whistle. sometimes the fireman rang the bell. sometimes the open-and-shut of the steam hog's nose choked and spit pfisty-pfoost, pfisty-pfoost, pfisty-pfoost. but no matter what happened to the whistle and the bell and the steam hog, the train ran on and on to where the railroad tracks run off into the blue sky. and then it ran on and on more and more. sometimes gimme the ax looked in his pocket, put his fingers in and took out the long slick yellow leather slab ticket with a blue spanch across it. "not even the kings of egypt with all their climbing camels, and all their speedy, spotted, lucky lizards, ever had a ride like this," he said to his children. then something happened. they met another train running on the same track. one train was going one way. the other was going the other way. they met. they passed each other. "what was it--what happened?" the children asked their father. "one train went over, the other train went under," he answered. "this is the over and under country. nobody gets out of the way of anybody else. they either go over or under." next they came to the country of the balloon pickers. hanging down from the sky strung on strings so fine the eye could not see them at first, was the balloon crop of that summer. the sky was thick with balloons. red, blue, yellow balloons, white, purple and orange balloons--peach, watermelon and potato balloons--rye loaf and wheat loaf balloons--link sausage and pork chop balloons--they floated and filled the sky. the balloon pickers were walking on high stilts picking balloons. each picker had his own stilts, long or short. for picking balloons near the ground he had short stilts. if he wanted to pick far and high he walked on a far and high pair of stilts. baby pickers on baby stilts were picking baby balloons. when they fell off the stilts the handful of balloons they were holding kept them in the air till they got their feet into the stilts again. "who is that away up there in the sky climbing like a bird in the morning?" ax me no questions asked her father. "he was singing too happy," replied the father. "the songs came out of his neck and made him so light the balloons pulled him off his stilts." "will he ever come down again back to his own people?" "yes, his heart will get heavy when his songs are all gone. then he will drop down to his stilts again." the train was running on and on. the engineer hooted and tooted the whistle when he felt like it. the fireman rang the bell when he felt that way. and sometimes the open-and-shut of the steam hog had to go pfisty-pfoost, pfisty-pfoost. "next is the country where the circus clowns come from," said gimme the ax to his son and daughter. "keep your eyes open." they did keep their eyes open. they saw cities with ovens, long and short ovens, fat stubby ovens, lean lank ovens, all for baking either long or short clowns, or fat and stubby or lean and lank clowns. after each clown was baked in the oven it was taken out into the sunshine and put up to stand like a big white doll with a red mouth leaning against the fence. two men came along to each baked clown standing still like a doll. one man threw a bucket of white fire over it. the second man pumped a wind pump with a living red wind through the red mouth. the clown rubbed his eyes, opened his mouth, twisted his neck, wiggled his ears, wriggled his toes, jumped away from the fence and began turning handsprings, cartwheels, somersaults and flipflops in the sawdust ring near the fence. "the next we come to is the rootabaga country where the big city is the village of liver-and-onions," said gimme the ax, looking again in his pocket to be sure he had the long slick yellow leather slab ticket with a blue spanch across it. the train ran on and on till it stopped running straight and began running in zigzags like one letter z put next to another z and the next and the next. the tracks and the rails and the ties and the spikes under the train all stopped being straight and changed to zigzags like one letter z and another letter z put next after the other. "it seems like we go half way and then back up," said ax me no questions. "look out of the window and see if the pigs have bibs on," said gimme the ax. "if the pigs are wearing bibs then this is the rootabaga country." and they looked out of the zigzagging windows of the zigzagging cars and the first pigs they saw had bibs on. and the next pigs and the next pigs they saw all had bibs on. the checker pigs had checker bibs on, the striped pigs had striped bibs on. and the polka dot pigs had polka dot bibs on. "who fixes it for the pigs to have bibs on?" please gimme asked his father. "the fathers and mothers fix it," answered gimme the ax. "the checker pigs have checker fathers and mothers. the striped pigs have striped fathers and mothers. and the polka dot pigs have polka dot fathers and mothers." and the train went zigzagging on and on running on the tracks and the rails and the spikes and the ties which were all zigzag like the letter z and the letter z. and after a while the train zigzagged on into the village of liver-and-onions, known as the biggest city in the big, big rootabaga country. and so if you are going to the rootabaga country you will know when you get there because the railroad tracks change from straight to zigzag, the pigs have bibs on and it is the fathers and mothers who fix it. and if you start to go to that country remember first you must sell everything you have, pigs, pastures, pepper pickers, pitchforks, put the spot cash money in a ragbag and go to the railroad station and ask the ticket agent for a long slick yellow leather slab ticket with a blue spanch across it. and you mustn't be surprised if the ticket agent wipes sleep from his eyes and asks, "so far? so early? so soon?" [illustration] [illustration] how they bring back the village of cream puffs when the wind blows it away a girl named wing tip the spick came to the village of liver-and-onions to visit her uncle and her uncle's uncle on her mother's side and her uncle and her uncle's uncle on her father's side. it was the first time the four uncles had a chance to see their little relation, their niece. each one of the four uncles was proud of the blue eyes of wing tip the spick. the two uncles on her mother's side took a long deep look into her blue eyes and said, "her eyes are so blue, such a clear light blue, they are the same as cornflowers with blue raindrops shining and dancing on silver leaves after a sun shower in any of the summer months." and the two uncles on her father's side, after taking a long deep look into the eyes of wing tip the spick, said, "her eyes are so blue, such a clear light shining blue, they are the same as cornflowers with blue raindrops shining and dancing on the silver leaves after a sun shower in any of the summer months." and though wing tip the spick didn't listen and didn't hear what the uncles said about her blue eyes, she did say to herself when they were not listening, "i know these are sweet uncles and i am going to have a sweet time visiting my relations." the four uncles said to her, "will you let us ask you two questions, first the first question and second the second question?" [illustration: then the uncles asked her the first question first] "i will let you ask me fifty questions this morning, fifty questions to-morrow morning, and fifty questions any morning. i like to listen to questions. they slip in one ear and slip out of the other." then the uncles asked her the first question first, "where do you come from?" and the second question second, "why do you have two freckles on your chin?" "answering your first question first," said wing tip the spick, "i come from the village of cream puffs, a little light village on the upland corn prairie. from a long ways off it looks like a little hat you could wear on the end of your thumb to keep the rain off your thumb." "tell us more," said one uncle. "tell us much," said another uncle. "tell it without stopping," added another uncle. "interruptions nix nix," murmured the last of the uncles. "it is a light little village on the upland corn prairie many miles past the sunset in the west," went on wing tip the spick. "it is light the same as a cream puff is light. it sits all by itself on the big long prairie where the prairie goes up in a slope. there on the slope the winds play around the village. they sing it wind songs, summer wind songs in summer, winter wind songs in winter." "and sometimes like an accident, the wind gets rough. and when the wind gets rough it picks up the little village of cream puffs and blows it away off in the sky--all by itself." "o-o-h-h," said one uncle. "um-m-m-m," said the other three uncles. "now the people in the village all understand the winds with their wind songs in summer and winter. and they understand the rough wind who comes sometimes and picks up the village and blows it away off high in the sky all by itself. "if you go to the public square in the middle of the village you will see a big roundhouse. if you take the top off the roundhouse you will see a big spool with a long string winding up around the spool. "now whenever the rough wind comes and picks up the village and blows it away off high in the sky all by itself then the string winds loose of the spool, because the village is fastened to the string. so the rough wind blows and blows and the string on the spool winds looser and looser the farther the village goes blowing away off into the sky all by itself. "then at last when the rough wind, so forgetful, so careless, has had all the fun it wants, then the people of the village all come together and begin to wind up the spool and bring back the village where it was before." "o-o-h-h," said one uncle. "um-m-m-m," said the other three uncles. "and sometimes when you come to the village to see your little relation, your niece who has four such sweet uncles, maybe she will lead you through the middle of the city to the public square and show you the roundhouse. they call it the roundhouse of the big spool. and they are proud because it was thought up and is there to show when visitors come." "and now will you answer the second question second--why do you have two freckles on your chin?" interrupted the uncle who had said before, "interruptions nix nix." "the freckles are put on," answered wing tip the spick. "when a girl goes away from the village of cream puffs her mother puts on two freckles, on the chin. each freckle must be the same as a little burnt cream puff kept in the oven too long. after the two freckles looking like two little burnt cream puffs are put on her chin, they remind the girl every morning when she combs her hair and looks in the looking glass. they remind her where she came from and she mustn't stay away too long." "o-h-h-h," said one uncle. "um-m-m-m," said the other three uncles. and they talked among each other afterward, the four uncles by themselves, saying: "she has a gift. it is her eyes. they are so blue, such a clear light blue, the same as cornflowers with blue raindrops shining and dancing on silver leaves after a sun shower in any of the summer months." at the same time wing tip the spick was saying to herself, "i know for sure now these are sweet uncles and i am going to have a sweet time visiting my relations." [illustration] [illustration] how the five rusty rats helped find a new village one day while wing tip the spick was visiting her four uncles in the village of liver-and-onions, a blizzard came up. snow filled the sky and the wind blew and made a noise like heavy wagon axles grinding and crying. and on this day a gray rat came to the house of the four uncles, a rat with gray skin and gray hair, gray as the gray gravy on a beefsteak. the rat had a basket. in the basket was a catfish. and the rat said, "please let me have a little fire and a little salt as i wish to make a little bowl of hot catfish soup to keep me warm through the blizzard." and the four uncles all said together, "this is no time for rats to be around--and we would like to ask you where you got the catfish in the basket." "oh, oh, oh, please--in the name of the five rusty rats, the five lucky rats of the village of cream puffs, please don't," was the exclamation of wing tip the spick. the uncles stopped. they looked long and deep into the eyes of wing tip the spick and thought, as they had thought before, how her eyes were clear light blue the same as cornflowers with blue raindrops shining on the silver leaves in a summer sun shower. and the four uncles opened the door and let the gray rat come in with the basket and the catfish. they showed the gray rat the way to the kitchen and the fire and the salt. and they watched the rat and kept him company while he fixed himself a catfish soup to keep him warm traveling through the blizzard with the sky full of snow. after they opened the front door and let the rat out and said good-by, they turned to wing tip the spick and asked her to tell them about the five rusty lucky rats of the village of cream puffs where she lived with her father and her mother and her folks. "when i was a little girl growing up, before i learned all i learned since i got older, my grandfather gave me a birthday present because i was nine years old. i remember how he said to me, 'you will never be nine years old again after this birthday, so i give you this box for a birthday present.' "in the box was a pair of red slippers with a gold clock on each slipper. one of the clocks ran fast. the other clock ran slow. and he told me if i wished to be early anywhere i should go by the clock that ran fast. and if i wished to be late anywhere i should go by the clock that ran slow. "and that same birthday he took me down through the middle of the village of cream puffs to the public square near the roundhouse of the big spool. there he pointed his finger at the statue of the five rusty rats, the five lucky rats. and as near as i can remember his words, he said: "'many years ago, long before the snow birds began to wear funny little slip-on hats and funny little slip-on shoes, and away back long before the snow birds learned how to slip off their slip-on hats and how to slip off their slip-on shoes, long ago in the faraway village of liver-and-onions, the people who ate cream puffs came together and met in the streets and picked up their baggage and put their belongings on their shoulders and marched out of the village of liver-and-onions saying, "we shall find a new place for a village and the name of it shall be the village of cream puffs. [illustration: they held on to the long curved tails of the rusty rats] "'they marched out on the prairie with their baggage and belongings in sacks on their shoulders. and a blizzard came up. snow filled the sky. the wind blew and blew and made a noise like heavy wagon axles grinding and crying. "'the snow came on. the wind twisted all day and all night and all the next day. the wind changed black and twisted and spit icicles in their faces. they got lost in the blizzard. they expected to die and be buried in the snow for the wolves to come and eat them. "'then the five lucky rats came, the five rusty rats, rust on their skin and hair, rust on their feet and noses, rust all over, and especially, most especially of all, rust on their long curved tails. they dug their noses down into the snow and their long curved tails stuck up far above the snow where the people who were lost in the blizzard could take hold of the tails like handles. "'and so, while the wind and the snow blew and the blizzard beat its icicles in their faces, they held on to the long curved tails of the rusty rats till they came to the place where the village of cream puffs now stands. it was the rusty rats who saved their lives and showed them where to put their new village. that is why this statue now stands in the public square, this statue of the shapes of the five rusty rats, the five lucky rats with their noses down in the snow and their long curved tails lifted high out of the snow.' "that is the story as my grandfather told it to me. and he said it happened long ago, long before the snow birds began to wear slip-on hats and slip-on shoes, long before they learned how to slip off the slip-on hats and to slip off the slip-on shoes." "o-h-h-h," said one of the uncles. "um-m-m-m," said the other three uncles. "and sometime," added wing tip the spick, "when you go away from the village of liver-and-onions and cross the shampoo river and ride many miles across the upland prairie till you come to the village of cream puffs, you will find a girl there who loves four uncles very much. "and if you ask her politely, she will show you the red slippers with gold clocks on them, one clock to be early by, the other to be late by. and if you are still more polite she will take you through the middle of the town to the public square and show you the statue of the five rusty lucky rats with their long curved tails sticking up in the air like handles. and the tails are curved so long and so nice you will feel like going up and taking hold of them to see what will happen to you." [illustration] ---------------------------------------------------------------------- . five stories about the potato face blind man _people_: the potato face blind man any ice today pick ups lizzie lazarus poker face the baboon hot dog the tiger whitson whimble a man shoveling money a watermelon moon white gold boys blue silver girls big white moon spiders zizzies gimme the ax again [illustration] the potato face blind man who lost the diamond rabbit on his gold accordion there was a potato face blind man used to play an accordion on the main street corner nearest the postoffice in the village of liver-and-onions. any ice today came along and said, "it looks like it used to be an carat gold accordion with rich pawnshop diamonds in it; it looks like it used to be a grand accordion once and not so grand now." "oh, yes, oh, yes, it was gold all over on the outside," said the potato face blind man, "and there was a diamond rabbit next to the handles on each side, two diamond rabbits." "how do you mean diamond rabbits?" any ice today asked. "ears, legs, head, feet, ribs, tail, all fixed out in diamonds to make a nice rabbit with his diamond chin on his diamond toenails. when i play good pieces so people cry hearing my accordion music, then i put my fingers over and feel of the rabbit's diamond chin on his diamond toenails, 'attaboy, li'l bunny, attaboy, li'l bunny.'" "yes i hear you talking but it is like dream talking. i wonder why your accordion looks like somebody stole it and took it to a pawnshop and took it out and somebody stole it again and took it to a pawnshop and took it out and somebody stole it again. and they kept on stealing it and taking it out of the pawnshop and stealing it again till the gold wore off so it looks like a used-to-be-yesterday." "oh, yes, o-h, y-e-s, you are right. it is not like the accordion it used to be. it knows more knowledge than it used to know just the same as this potato face blind man knows more knowledge than he used to know." "tell me about it," said any ice today. "it is simple. if a blind man plays an accordion on the street to make people cry it makes them sad and when they are sad the gold goes away off the accordion. and if a blind man goes to sleep because his music is full of sleepy songs like the long wind in a sleepy valley, then while the blind man is sleeping the diamonds in the diamond rabbit all go away. i play a sleepy song and go to sleep and i wake up and the diamond ear of the diamond rabbit is gone. i play another sleepy song and go to sleep and wake up and the diamond tail of the diamond rabbit is gone. after a while all the diamond rabbits are gone, even the diamond chin sitting on the diamond toenails of the rabbits next to the handles of the accordion, even those are gone." "is there anything i can do?" asked any ice today. "i do it myself," said the potato face blind man. "if i am too sorry i just play the sleepy song of the long wind going up the sleepy valleys. and that carries me away where i have time and money to dream about the new wonderful accordions and postoffices where everybody that gets a letter and everybody that don't get a letter stops and remembers the potato face blind man." [illustration] [illustration] how the potato face blind man enjoyed himself on a fine spring morning on a friday morning when the flummywisters were yodeling yisters high in the elm trees, the potato face blind man came down to his work sitting at the corner nearest the postoffice in the village of liver-and-onions and playing his gold-that-used-to-be accordion for the pleasure of the ears of the people going into the postoffice to see if they got any letters for themselves or their families. "it is a good day, a lucky day," said the potato face blind man, "because for a beginning i have heard high in the elm trees the flummywisters yodeling their yisters in the long branches of the lingering leaves. so--so--i am going to listen to myself playing on my accordion the same yisters, the same yodels, drawing them like long glad breathings out of my glad accordion, long breathings of the branches of the lingering leaves." and he sat down in his chair. on the sleeve of his coat he tied a sign, "i am blind _too_." on the top button of his coat he hung a little thimble. on the bottom button of his coat he hung a tin copper cup. on the middle button he hung a wooden mug. by the side of him on the left side on the sidewalk he put a galvanized iron washtub, and on the right side an aluminum dishpan. "it is a good day, a lucky day, and i am sure many people will stop and remember the potato face blind man," he sang to himself like a little song as he began running his fingers up and down the keys of the accordion like the yisters of the lingering leaves in the elm trees. [illustration: "i am sure many people will stop and remember the potato face blind man"] then came pick ups. always it happened pick ups asked questions and wished to know. and so this is how the questions and answers ran when the potato face filled the ears of pick ups with explanations. "what is the piece you are playing on the keys of your accordion so fast sometimes, so slow sometimes, so sad some of the moments, so glad some of the moments?" "it is the song the mama flummywisters sing when they button loose the winter underwear of the baby flummywisters and sing: "fly, you little flummies, sing, you little wisters." "and why do you have a little thimble on the top button of your coat?" "that is for the dimes to be put in. some people see it and say, 'oh, i must put in a whole thimbleful of dimes.'" "and the tin copper cup?" "that is for the base ball players to stand off ten feet and throw in nickels and pennies. the one who throws the most into the cup will be the most lucky." "and the wooden mug?" "there is a hole in the bottom of it. the hole is as big as the bottom. the nickel goes in and comes out again. it is for the very poor people who wish to give me a nickel and yet get the nickel back." "the aluminum dishpan and the galvanized iron washtub--what are they doing by the side of you on both sides on the sidewalk?" "sometime maybe it will happen everybody who goes into the postoffice and comes out will stop and pour out all their money, because they might get afraid their money is no good any more. if such a happening ever happens then it will be nice for the people to have some place to pour their money. such is the explanation why you see the aluminum dishpan and galvanized iron tub." "explain your sign--why is it, 'i am blind _too_.'" "oh, i am sorry to explain to you, pick ups, why this is so which. some of the people who pass by here going into the postoffice and coming out, they have eyes--but they see nothing with their eyes. they look where they are going and they get where they wish to get, but they forget why they came and they do not know how to come away. they are my blind brothers. it is for them i have the sign that reads, 'i am blind _too_.'" "i have my ears full of explanations and i thank you," said pick ups. "good-by," said the potato face blind man as he began drawing long breathings like lingering leaves out of the accordion--along with the song the mama flummywisters sing when they button loose the winter underwear of the baby flummywisters. [illustration] poker face the baboon and hot dog the tiger when the moon has a green rim with red meat inside and black seeds on the red meat, then in the rootabaga country they call it a watermelon moon and look for anything to happen. it was a night when a watermelon moon was shining. lizzie lazarus came to the upstairs room of the potato face blind man. poker face the baboon and hot dog the tiger were with her. she was leading them with a pink string. "you see they are wearing pajamas," she said. "they sleep with you to-night and to-morrow they go to work with you like mascots." "how like mascots?" asked the potato face blind man. "they are luck bringers. they keep your good luck if it is good. they change your bad luck if it is bad." "i hear you and my ears get your explanations." so the next morning when the potato face blind man sat down to play his accordion on the corner nearest the postoffice in the village of liver-and-onions, next to him on the right hand side sitting on the sidewalk was poker face the baboon and on the left hand side sitting next to him was hot dog the tiger. they looked like dummies--they were so quiet. they looked as if they were made of wood and paper and then painted. in the eyes of poker face was something faraway. in the eyes of hot dog was something hungry. whitson whimble, the patent clothes wringer manufacturer, came by in his big limousine automobile car without horses to pull it. he was sitting back on the leather upholstered seat cushions. "stop here," he commanded the chauffeur driving the car. then whitson whimble sat looking. first he looked into the eyes of poker face the baboon and saw something faraway. then he looked into the eyes of hot dog the tiger and saw something hungry. then he read the sign painted by the potato face blind man saying, "you look at 'em and see 'em; i look at 'em and i don't. you watch what their eyes say; i can only feel their hair." then whitson whimble commanded the chauffeur driving the car, "go on." fifteen minutes later a man in overalls came down main street with a wheelbarrow. he stopped in front of the potato face blind man, poker face the baboon, and hot dog the tiger. "where is the aluminum dishpan?" he asked. "on my left side on the sidewalk," answered the potato face blind man. "where is the galvanized iron washtub?" "on my right side on the sidewalk." then the man in overalls took a shovel and began shoveling silver dollars out of the wheelbarrow into the aluminum dishpan and the galvanized iron washtub. he shoveled out of the wheelbarrow till the dishpan was full, till the washtub was full. then he put the shovel into the wheelbarrow and went up main street. six o'clock that night pick ups came along. the potato face blind man said to him, "i have to carry home a heavy load of money to-night, an aluminum dishpan full of silver dollars and a galvanized iron washtub full of silver dollars. so i ask you, will you take care of poker face the baboon and hot dog the tiger?" "yes," said pick ups, "i will." and he did. he tied a pink string to their legs and took them home and put them in the woodshed. poker face the baboon went to sleep on the soft coal at the north end of the woodshed and when he was asleep his face had something faraway in it and he was so quiet he looked like a dummy with brown hair of the jungle painted on his black skin and a black nose painted on his brown face. hot dog the tiger went to sleep on the hard coal at the south end of the woodshed and when he was asleep his eyelashes had something hungry in them and he looked like a painted dummy with black stripes painted over his yellow belly and a black spot painted away at the end of his long yellow tail. in the morning the woodshed was empty. pick ups told the potato face blind man, "they left a note in their own handwriting on perfumed pink paper. it said, '_mascots never stay long_.'" and that is why for many years the potato face blind man had silver dollars to spend--and that is why many people in the rootabaga country keep their eyes open for a watermelon moon in the sky with a green rim and red meat inside and black seeds making spots on the red meat. [illustration] [illustration] the toboggan-to-the-moon dream of the potato face blind man one morning in october the potato face blind man sat on the corner nearest the postoffice. any ice today came along and said, "this is the sad time of the year." "sad?" asked the potato face blind man, changing his accordion from his right knee to his left knee, and singing softly to the tune he was fumbling on the accordion keys, "be happy in the morning when the birds bring the beans." "yes," said any ice today, "is it not sad every year when the leaves change from green to yellow, when the leaves dry on the branches and fall into the air, and the wind blows them and they make a song saying, 'hush baby, hush baby,' and the wind fills the sky with them and they are like a sky full of birds who forget they know any songs." "it is sad and not sad," was the blind man's word. "listen," said the potato face. "for me this is the time of the year when the dream of the white moon toboggan comes back. five weeks before the first snow flurry this dream always comes back to me. it says, 'the black leaves are falling now and they fill the sky but five weeks go by and then for every black leaf there will be a thousand snow crystals shining white.'" "what was your dream of the white moon toboggan?" asked any ice today. "it came to me first when i was a boy, when i had my eyes, before my luck changed. i saw the big white spiders of the moon working, rushing around climbing up, climbing down, snizzling and sniffering. i looked a long while before i saw what the big white spiders on the moon were doing. i saw after a while they were weaving a long toboggan, a white toboggan, white and soft as snow. and after a long while of snizzling and sniffering, climbing up and climbing down, at last the toboggan was done, a snow white toboggan running from the moon down to the rootabaga country. "and sliding, sliding down from the moon on this toboggan were the white gold boys and the blue silver girls. they tumbled down at my feet because, you see, the toboggan ended right at my feet. i could lean over and pick up the white gold boys and the blue silver girls as they slid out of the toboggan at my feet. i could pick up a whole handful of them and hold them in my hand and talk with them. yet, you understand, whenever i tried to shut my hand and keep any of them they would snizzle and sniffer and jump out of the cracks between my fingers. once there was a little gold and silver dust on my left hand thumb, dust they snizzled out while slipping away from me. "once i heard a white gold boy and a blue silver girl whispering. they were standing on the tip of my right hand little finger, whispering. one said, 'i got pumpkins--what did you get?' the other said, 'i got hazel nuts.' i listened more and i found out there are millions of pumpkins and millions of hazel nuts so small you and i can not see them. these children from the moon, however, they can see them and whenever they slide down on the moon toboggan they take back their pockets full of things so little we have never seen them." "they are wonderful children," said any ice today. "and will you tell me how they get back to the moon after they slide down the toboggan?" "oh, that is easy," said potato face. "it is just as easy for them to slide _up_ to the moon as to slide down. sliding up and sliding down is the same for them. the big white spiders fixed it that way when they snizzled and sniffered and made the toboggan." [illustration] how gimme the ax found out about the zigzag railroad and who made it zigzag one day gimme the ax said to himself, "today i go to the postoffice and around, looking around. maybe i will hear about something happening last night when i was sleeping. maybe a policeman began laughing and fell in a cistern and came out with a wheelbarrow full of goldfish wearing new jewelry. how do i know? maybe the man in the moon going down a cellar stairs to get a pitcher of butter-milk for the woman in the moon to drink and stop crying, maybe he fell down the stairs and broke the pitcher and laughed and picked up the broken pieces and said to himself, 'one, two, three, four, accidents happen in the best regulated families.' how do i know?" so with his mind full of simple and refreshing thoughts, gimme the ax went out into the backyard garden and looked at the different necktie poppies growing early in the summer. then he picked one of the necktie poppies to wear for a necktie scarf going downtown to the postoffice and around looking around. "it is a good speculation to look nice around looking around in a necktie scarf," said gimme the ax. "it is a necktie with a picture like whiteface pony spots on a green frog swimming in the moonshine." so he went downtown. for the first time he saw the potato face blind man playing an accordion on the corner next nearest the postoffice. he asked the potato face to tell him why the railroad tracks run zigzag in the rootabaga country. "long ago," said the potato face blind man, "long before the necktie poppies began growing in the backyard, long before there was a necktie scarf like yours with whiteface pony spots on a green frog swimming in the moonshine, back in the old days when they laid the rails for the railroad they laid the rails straight." "then the zizzies came. the zizzy is a bug. he runs zigzag on zigzag legs, eats zigzag with zigzag teeth, and spits zigzag with a zigzag tongue. "millions of zizzies came hizzing with little hizzers on their heads and under their legs. they jumped on the rails with their zigzag legs, and spit and twisted with their zigzag teeth and tongues till they twisted the whole railroad and all the rails and tracks into a zigzag railroad with zigzag rails for the trains, the passenger trains and the freight trains, all to run zigzag on. "then the zizzies crept away into the fields where they sleep and cover themselves with zigzag blankets on special zigzag beds. "next day came shovelmen with their shovels, smooth engineers with smooth blue prints, and water boys with water pails and water dippers for the shovelmen to drink after shoveling the railroad straight. and i nearly forgot to say the steam and hoist operating engineers came and began their steam hoist and operating to make the railroad straight. "they worked hard. they made the railroad straight again. they looked at the job and said to themselves and to each other, 'this is it--we done it.' "next morning the zizzies opened their zigzag eyes and looked over to the railroad and the rails. when they saw the railroad all straight again, and the rails and the ties and the spikes all straight again, the zizzies didn't even eat breakfast that morning. "they jumped out of their zigzag beds, jumped onto the rails with their zigzag legs and spit and twisted till they spit and twisted all the rails and the ties and the spikes back into a zigzag like the letter z and the letter z at the end of the alphabet. "after that the zizzies went to breakfast. and they said to themselves and to each other, the same as the shovelmen, the smooth engineers and the steam hoist and operating engineers, 'this is it--we done it.'" "so that is the how of the which--it was the zizzies," said gimme the ax. "yes, it was the zizzies," said the potato face blind man. "that is the story told to me." "who told it to you?" "_two little zizzies._ they came to me one cold winter night and slept in my accordion where the music keeps it warm in winter. in the morning i said, 'good morning, zizzies, did you have a good sleep last night and pleasant dreams?' and after they had breakfast they told me the story. both told it zigzag but it was the same kind of zigzag each had together." [illustration] ---------------------------------------------------------------------- . three stories about the gold buckskin whincher _people_: blixie bimber peter potato blossom wishes jimmie the flea silas baxby fritz axenbax james sixbixdix jason squiff, the cistern cleaner rags habakuk, the rag man two daughters of the rag man two blue rats a circus man with spot cash a moving picture actor a taxicab driver [illustration] the story of blixie bimber and the power of the gold buckskin whincher blixie bimber grew up looking for luck. if she found a horseshoe she took it home and put it on the wall of her room with a ribbon tied to it. she would look at the moon through her fingers, under her arms, over her right shoulder but never--never over her _left_ shoulder. she listened and picked up everything anybody said about the ground hog and whether the ground hog saw his shadow when he came out the second of february. if she dreamed of onions she knew the next day she would find a silver spoon. if she dreamed of fishes she knew the next day she would meet a strange man who would call her by her first name. she grew up looking for luck. she was sixteen years old and quite a girl, with her skirts down to her shoe tops, when something happened. she was going to the postoffice to see if there was a letter for her from peter potato blossom wishes, her best chum, or a letter from jimmy the flea, her best friend she kept steady company with. jimmy the flea was a climber. he climbed skyscrapers and flagpoles and smokestacks and was a famous steeplejack. blixie bimber liked him because he was a steeplejack, a little, but more because he was a whistler. every time blixie said to jimmy, "i got the blues--whistle the blues out of me," jimmy would just naturally whistle till the blues just naturally went away from blixie. on the way to the postoffice, blixie found a gold buckskin _whincher_. there it lay in the middle of the sidewalk. how and why it came to be there she never knew and nobody ever told her. "it's luck," she said to herself as she picked it up quick. and so--she took it home and fixed it on a little chain and wore it around her neck. she did not know and nobody ever told her a gold buckskin whincher is different from just a plain common whincher. it has a _power_. and if a thing has a power over you then you just naturally can't help yourself. so--around her neck fixed on a little chain blixie bimber wore the gold buckskin whincher and never knew it had a power and all the time the power was working. "the first man you meet with an x in his name you must fall head over heels in love with him," said the silent power in the gold buckskin whincher. and that was why blixie bimber stopped at the postoffice and went back again asking the clerk at the postoffice window if he was sure there wasn't a letter for her. the name of the clerk was silas baxby. for six weeks he kept steady company with blixie bimber. they went to dances, hayrack rides, picnics and high jinks together. all the time the power in the gold buckskin whincher was working. it was hanging by a little chain around her neck and always working. it was saying, "the next man you meet with two x's in his name you must leave all and fall head over heels in love with him." she met the high school principal. his name was fritz axenbax. blixie dropped her eyes before him and threw smiles at him. and for six weeks he kept steady company with blixie bimber. they went to dances, hayrack rides, picnics and high jinks together. "why do you go with him for steady company?" her relatives asked. "it's a power he's got," blixie answered, "i just can't help it--it's a power." "one of his feet is bigger than the other--how can you keep steady company with him?" they asked again. all she would answer was, "it's a power." all the time, of course, the gold buckskin whincher on the little chain around her neck was working. it was saying, "if she meets a man with three x's in his name she must fall head over heels in love with him." at a band concert in the public square one night she met james sixbixdix. there was no helping it. she dropped her eyes and threw her smiles at him. and for six weeks they kept steady company going to band concerts, dances, hayrack rides, picnics and high jinks together. "why do you keep steady company with him? he's a musical soup eater," her relatives said to her. and she answered, "it's a power--i can't help myself." leaning down with her head in a rain water cistern one day, listening to the echoes against the strange wooden walls of the cistern, the gold buckskin whincher on the little chain around her neck slipped off and fell down into the rain water. "my luck is gone," said blixie. then she went into the house and made two telephone calls. one was to james sixbixdix telling him she couldn't keep the date with him that night. the other was to jimmy the flea, the climber, the steeplejack. "come on over--i got the blues and i want you to whistle 'em away," was what she telephoned jimmy the flea. and so--if you ever come across a gold buckskin whincher, be careful. it's got a power. it'll make you fall head over heels in love with the next man you meet with an x in his name. or it will do other strange things because different whinchers have different powers. [illustration] the story of jason squiff and why he had a popcorn hat, popcorn mittens and popcorn shoes jason squiff was a cistern cleaner. he had greenish yellowish hair. if you looked down into a cistern when he was lifting buckets of slush and mud you could tell where he was, you could pick him out down in the dark cistern, by the lights of his greenish yellowish hair. sometimes the buckets of slush and mud tipped over and ran down on the top of his head. this covered his greenish yellowish hair. and then it was hard to tell where he was and it was not easy to pick him out down in the dark where he was cleaning the cistern. one day jason squiff came to the bimber house and knocked on the door. "did i understand," he said, speaking to mrs. bimber, blixie bimber's mother, "do i understand you sent for me to clean the cistern in your back yard?" "you understand exactly such," said mrs. bimber, "and you are welcome as the flowers that bloom in the spring, tra-la-la." "then i will go to work and clean the cistern, tra-la-la," he answered, speaking to mrs. bimber. "i'm the guy, tra-la-la," he said further, running his excellent fingers through his greenish yellowish hair which was shining brightly. he began cleaning the cistern. blixie bimber came out in the back yard. she looked down in the cistern. it was all dark. it looked like nothing but all dark down there. by and by she saw something greenish yellowish. she watched it. soon she saw it was jason squiff's head and hair. and then she knew the cistern was being cleaned and jason squiff was on the job. so she sang tra-la-la and went back into the house and told her mother jason squiff was on the job. the last bucketful of slush and mud came at last for jason squiff. he squinted at the bottom. something was shining. he reached his fingers down through the slush and mud and took out what was shining. it was the gold buckskin whincher blixie bimber lost from the gold chain around her neck the week before when she was looking down into the cistern to see what she could see. it was exactly the same gold buckskin whincher shining and glittering like a sign of happiness. "it's luck," said jason squiff, wiping his fingers on his greenish yellowish hair. then he put the gold buckskin whincher in his vest pocket and spoke to himself again, "it's luck." a little after six o'clock that night jason squiff stepped into his house and home and said hello to his wife and daughters. they all began to laugh. their laughter was a ticklish laughter. "something funny is happening," he said. "and you are it," they all laughed at him again with ticklish laughter. then they showed him. his hat was popcorn, his mittens popcorn and his shoes popcorn. he didn't know the gold buckskin whincher had a power and was working all the time. he didn't know the whincher in his vest pocket was saying, "you have a letter q in your name and because you have the pleasure and happiness of having a q in your name you must have a popcorn hat, popcorn mittens and popcorn shoes." the next morning he put on another hat, another pair of mittens and another pair of shoes. and the minute he put them on they changed to popcorn. so he tried on all his hats, mittens and shoes. always they changed to popcorn the minute he had them on. [illustration: his hat was popcorn, his mittens popcorn and his shoes popcorn] he went downtown to the stores. he bought a new hat, mittens and shoes. and the minute he had them on they changed to popcorn. so he decided he would go to work and clean cisterns with his popcorn hat, popcorn mittens and popcorn shoes on. the people of the village of cream puffs enjoyed watching him walk up the street, going to clean cisterns. people five and six blocks away could see him coming and going with his popcorn hat, popcorn mittens and popcorn shoes. when he was down in a cistern the children enjoyed looking down into the cistern to see him work. when none of the slush and mud fell on his hat and mittens he was easy to find. the light of the shining popcorn lit up the whole inside of the cistern. sometimes, of course, the white popcorn got full of black slush and black mud. and then when jason squiff came up and walked home he was not quite so dazzling to look at. it was a funny winter for jason squiff. "it's a crime, a dirty crime," he said to himself. "now i can never be alone with my thoughts. everybody looks at me when i go up the street." "if i meet a funeral even the pall bearers begin to laugh at my popcorn hat. if i meet people going to a wedding they throw all the rice at me as if i am a bride and a groom all together. "the horses try to eat my hat wherever i go. three hats i have fed to horses this winter. "and if i accidentally drop one of my mittens the chickens eat it." then jason squiff began to change. he became proud. "i always wanted a white beautiful hat like this white popcorn hat," he said to himself. "and i always wanted white beautiful mittens and white beautiful shoes like these white popcorn mittens and shoes." when the boys yelled, "snow man! yah-de-dah-de-dah, snow man!" he just waved his hand to them with an upward gesture of his arm to show he was proud of how he looked. "they all watch for me," he said to himself, "i am distinquished--am i not?" he asked himself. and he put his right hand into his left hand and shook hands with himself and said, "you certainly look fixed up." one day he decided to throw away his vest. in the vest pocket was the gold buckskin whincher, with the power working, the power saying, "you have a letter q in your name and because you have the pleasure and happiness of having a q in your name you must have a popcorn hat, popcorn mittens and popcorn shoes." yes, he threw away the vest. he forgot all about the gold buckskin whincher being in the vest. he just handed the vest to a rag man. and the rag man put the vest with the gold buckskin whincher in a bag on his back and walked away. after that jason squiff was like other people. his hats would never change to popcorn nor his mittens to popcorn nor his shoes to popcorn. and when anybody looked at him down in a cistern cleaning the cistern or when anybody saw him walking along the street they knew him by his greenish yellowish hair which was always full of bright lights. and so--if you have a q in your name, be careful if you ever come across a gold buckskin whincher. remember different whinchers have different powers. [illustration] the story of rags habakuk, the two blue rats, and the circus man who came with spot cash money rags habakuk was going home. his day's work was done. the sun was down. street lamps began shining. burglars were starting on their night's work. it was no time for an honest ragman to be knocking on people's back doors, saying, "any rags?" or else saying, "any rags? any bottles? any bones?" or else saying "any rags? any bottles? any bones? any old iron? any copper, brass, old shoes all run down and no good to anybody to-day? any old clothes, old coats, pants, vests? i take any old clothes you got." yes, rags habakuk was going home. in the gunnysack bag on his back, humped up on top of the rag humps in the bag, was an old vest. it was the same old vest jason squiff threw out of a door at rags habakuk. in the pocket of the vest was the gold buckskin whincher with a power in it. well, rags habakuk got home just like always, sat down to supper and smacked his mouth and had a big supper of fish, just like always. then he went out to a shanty in the back yard and opened up the gunnysack rag bag and fixed things out classified just like every day when he came home he opened the gunnysack bag and fixed things out classified. the last thing of all he fixed out classified was the vest with the gold buckskin whincher in the pocket. "put it on--it's a glad rag," he said, looking at the vest. "it's a lucky vest." so he put his right arm in the right armhole and his left arm in the left armhole. and there he was with his arms in the armholes of the old vest all fixed out classified new. next morning rags habakuk kissed his wife g'by and his eighteen year old girl g'by and his nineteen year old girl g'by. he kissed them just like he always kissed them--in a hurry--and as he kissed each one he said, "i will be back soon if not sooner and when i come back i will return." yes, up the street went rags habakuk. and soon as he left home something happened. standing on his right shoulder was a blue rat and standing on his left shoulder was a blue rat. the only way he knew they were there was by looking at them. there they were, close to his ears. he could feel the far edge of their whiskers against his ears. "this never happened to me before all the time i been picking rags," he said. "two blue rats stand by my ears and never say anything even if they know i am listening to anything they tell me." so rags habakuk walked on two blocks, three blocks, four blocks, squinting with his right eye slanting at the blue rat on his right shoulder and squinting with his left eye slanting at the blue rat on his left shoulder. "if i stood on somebody's shoulder with my whiskers right up in somebody's ear i would say something for somebody to listen to," he muttered. of course, he did not understand it was the gold buckskin whincher and the power working. down in the pocket of the vest he had on, the gold buckskin whincher power was saying, "because you have two k's in your name you must have two blue rats on your shoulders, one blue rat for your right ear, one blue rat for your left ear." it was good business. never before did rags habakuk get so much old rags. "come again--you and your lucky blue rats," people said to him. they dug into their cellars and garrets and brought him bottles and bones and copper and brass and old shoes and old clothes, coats, pants, vests. every morning when he went up the street with the two blue rats on his shoulders, blinking their eyes straight ahead and chewing their whiskers so they sometimes tickled the ears of old rags habakuk, sometimes women came running out on the front porch to look at him and say, "well, if he isn't a queer old mysterious ragman and if those ain't queer old mysterious blue rats!" all the time the gold buckskin whincher and the power was working. it was saying, "so long as old rags habakuk keeps the two blue rats he shall have good luck--but if he ever sells one of the blue rats then one of his daughters shall marry a taxicab driver--and if he ever sells the other blue rat then his other daughter shall marry a moving-picture hero actor." then terrible things happened. a circus man came. "i give you one thousand dollars spot cash money for one of the blue rats," he expostulated with his mouth. "and i give you two thousand dollars spot cash money for the two of the blue rats both of them together." "show me how much spot cash money two thousand dollars is all counted out in one pile for one man to carry away home in his gunnysack rag bag," was the answer of rags habakuk. the circus man went to the bank and came back with spot cash greenbacks money. "this spot cash greenbacks money is made from the finest silk rags printed by the national government for the national republic to make business rich and prosperous," said the circus man, expostulating with his mouth. "t-h-e f-i-n-e-s-t s-i-l-k r-a-g-s," he expostulated again holding two fingers under the nose of rags habakuk. "i take it," said rags habakuk, "i take it. it is a whole gunnysack bag full of spot cash greenbacks money. i tell my wife it is printed by the national government for the national republic to make business rich and prosperous." then he kissed the blue rats, one on the right ear, the other on the left ear, and handed them over to the circus man. and that was why the next month his eighteen year old daughter married a taxicab driver who was so polite all the time to his customers that he never had time to be polite to his wife. and that was why his nineteen year old daughter married a moving-picture hero actor who worked so hard being nice and kind in the moving pictures that he never had enough left over for his wife when he got home after the day's work. and the lucky vest with the gold buckskin whincher was stolen from rags habakuk by the taxicab driver. [illustration] ---------------------------------------------------------------------- . four stories about the deep doom of dark doorways _people_: the rag doll the broom handle spoon lickers chocolate chins dirty bibs tin pan bangers clean ears easy ticklers musical soup eaters chubby chubs sleepy heads snoo foo blink, swink and jink blunk, swunk and junk missus sniggers eeta peeca pie meeny miney miney mo a potato bug millionaire bimbo the snip bevo the hike a ward alderman a barn boss a weather man a traffic policeman a monkey a widow woman an umbrella handle maker [illustration] the wedding procession of the rag doll and the broom handle and who was in it the rag doll had many friends. the whisk broom, the furnace shovel, the coffee pot, they all liked the rag doll very much. but when the rag doll married, it was the broom handle she picked because the broom handle fixed her eyes. a proud child, proud but careless, banged the head of the rag doll against a door one day and knocked off both the glass eyes sewed on long ago. it was then the broom handle found two black california prunes, and fastened the two california prunes just where the eyes belonged. so then the rag doll had two fine black eyes brand new. she was even nicknamed black eyes by some people. there was a wedding when the rag doll married the broom handle. it was a grand wedding with one of the grandest processions ever seen at a rag doll wedding. and we are sure no broom handle ever had a grander wedding procession when he got married. who marched in the procession? well, first came the spoon lickers. every one of them had a tea spoon, or a soup spoon, though most of them had a big table spoon. on the spoons, what did they have? oh, some had butter scotch, some had gravy, some had marshmallow fudge. every one had something slickery sweet or fat to eat on the spoon. and as they marched in the wedding procession of the rag doll and the broom handle, they licked their spoons and looked around and licked their spoons again. next came the tin pan bangers. some had dishpans, some had frying pans, some had potato peeling pans. all the pans were tin with tight tin bottoms. and the tin pan bangers banged with knives and forks and iron and wooden bangers on the bottoms of the tin pans. and as they marched in the wedding procession of the rag doll and the broom handle they banged their pans and looked around and banged again. then came the chocolate chins. they were all eating chocolates. and the chocolate was slippery and slickered all over their chins. some of them spattered the ends of their noses with black chocolate. some of them spread the brown chocolate nearly up to their ears. and then as they marched in the wedding procession of the rag doll and the broom handle they stuck their chins in the air and looked around and stuck their chins in the air again. then came the dirty bibs. they wore plain white bibs, checker bibs, stripe bibs, blue bibs and bibs with butterflies. but all the bibs were dirty. the plain white bibs were dirty, the checker bibs were dirty, the stripe bibs, the blue bibs and the bibs with butterflies on them, they were all dirty. and so in the wedding procession of the rag doll and the broom handle, the dirty bibs marched with their dirty fingers on the bibs and they looked around and laughed and looked around and laughed again. next came the clean ears. they were proud. how they got into the procession nobody knows. their ears were all clean. they were clean not only on the outside but they were clean on the inside. there was not a speck of dirt or dust or muss or mess on the inside nor the outside of their ears. and so in the wedding procession of the rag doll and the broom handle, they wiggled their ears and looked around and wiggled their ears again. the easy ticklers were next in the procession. their faces were shining. their cheeks were like bars of new soap. their ribs were strong and the meat and the fat was thick on their ribs. it was plain to see they were saying, "don't tickle me because i tickle so easy." and as they marched in the wedding procession of the rag doll and the broom handle, they tickled themselves and laughed and looked around and tickled themselves again. the music was furnished mostly by the musical soup eaters. they marched with big bowls of soup in front of them and big spoons for eating the soup. they whistled and chuzzled and snozzled the soup and the noise they made could be heard far up at the head of the procession where the spoon lickers were marching. so they dipped their soup and looked around and dipped their soup again. the chubby chubs were next. they were roly poly, round faced smackers and snoozers. they were not fat babies--oh no, oh no--not fat but just chubby and easy to squeeze. they marched on their chubby legs and chubby feet and chubbed their chubbs and looked around and chubbed their chubbs again. the last of all in the wedding procession of the rag doll and the broom handle were the sleepyheads. they were smiling and glad to be marching but their heads were slimpsing down and their smiles were half fading away and their eyes were half shut or a little more than half shut. they staggered just a little as though their feet were not sure where they were going. they were the sleepyheads, the last of all, in the wedding procession of the rag doll and the broom handle and the sleepyheads they never looked around at all. it _was_ a grand procession, don't you think so? [illustration] [illustration] how the hat ashes shovel helped snoo foo if you want to remember the names of all six of the sniggers children, remember that the three biggest were named blink, swink and jink but the three littlest ones were named blunk, swunk and junk. one day last january the three biggest had a fuss with the three littlest. the fuss was about a new hat for snoo foo, the snow man, about what kind of a hat he should wear and how he should wear it. blink, swink and jink said, "he wants a crooked hat put on straight." blunk, swunk and junk said, "he wants a straight hat put on crooked." they fussed and fussed. blink fussed with blunk, swink fussed with swunk, and jink fussed with junk. the first ones to make up after the fuss were jink and junk. they decided the best way to settle the fuss. "let's put a crooked hat on crooked," said jink. "no, let's put a straight hat on straight," said junk. then they stood looking and looking into each other's shiny laughing eyes and then both of them exploded to each other at the same time, "let's put on two hats, a crooked hat crooked and a straight hat straight." well, they looked around for hats. but there were not any hats anywhere, that is, no hats big enough for a snow man with a big head like snoo foo. so they went in the house and asked their mother for _the hat ashes shovel_. of course, in most any other house, the mother would be all worried if six children came tramping and clomping in, banging the door and all six ejaculating to their mother at once, "where is the hat ashes shovel?" but missus sniggers wasn't worried at all. she rubbed her chin with her finger and said softly, "oh lah de dah, oh lah de dah, where is that hat ashes shovel, last week i had it when i was making a hat for mister sniggers; i remember i had that hat ashes shovel right up here over the clock, oh lah de dah, oh lah de dah. go out and ring the front door bell," she said to jink sniggers. jink ran away to the front door. and missus sniggers and the five children waited. bling-bling the bell began ringing and--listen--the door of the clock opened and the hat ashes shovel fell out. "oh lah de dah, get out of here in a hurry," said missus sniggers. well, the children ran out and dug a big pail of hat ashes with the hat ashes shovel. and they made two hats for snoo foo. one was a crooked hat. the other was a straight hat. and they put the crooked hat on crooked and the straight hat on straight. and there stood snoo foo in the front yard and everybody who came by on the street, he would take off his hat to them, the crooked hat with his arm crooked and the straight hat with his arm straight. that was the end of the fuss between the sniggers children and it was jink, the littlest one of the biggest, and junk, the littlest one of the littlest, who settled the fuss by looking clean into each other's eyes and laughing. if you ever get into a fuss try this way of settling it. [illustration] three boys with jugs of molasses and secret ambitions in the village of liver-and-onions, if _one_ boy goes to the grocery for a jug of molasses it is just like always. and if _two_ boys go to the grocery for a jug of molasses together it is just like always. but if _three_ boys go to the grocery for a jug of molasses each and all together then it is not like always at all, at all. eeta peeca pie grew up with wishes and wishes working inside him. and for every wish inside him he had a freckle outside on his face. whenever he smiled the smile ran way back into the far side of his face and got lost in the wishing freckles. meeny miney grew up with suspicions and suspicions working inside him. and after a while some of the suspicions got fastened on his eyes and some of the suspicions got fastened on his mouth. so when he looked at other people straight in the face they used to say, "meeny miney looks so sad-like i wonder if he'll get by." miney mo was different. he wasn't sad-like and suspicious like meeny miney. nor was he full of wishes inside and freckles outside like eeta peeca pie. he was all mixed up inside with wishes and suspicions. so he had a few freckles and a few suspicions on his face. when he looked other people straight in the face they used to say, "i don't know whether to laugh or cry." so here we have 'em, three boys growing up with wishes, suspicions and mixed-up wishes and suspicions. they all looked different from each other. each one, however, had a secret ambition. and all three had the same secret ambition. an ambition is a little creeper that creeps and creeps in your heart night and day, singing a little song, "come and find me, come and find me." the secret ambition in the heart of eeta peeca pie, meeney miney, and miney mo was an ambition to go railroading, to ride on railroad cars night and day, year after year. the whistles and the wheels of railroad trains were music to them. whenever the secret ambition crept in their hearts and made them too sad, so sad it was hard to live and stand for it, they would all three put their hands on each other's shoulder and sing the song of joe. the chorus was like this: joe, joe, broke his toe, on the way to mexico. came back, broke his back, sliding on the railroad track. one fine summer morning all three mothers of all three boys gave each one a jug and said, "go to the grocery and get a jug of molasses." all three got to the grocery at the same time. and all three went out of the door of the grocery together, each with a jug of molasses together and each with his secret ambition creeping around in his heart, all three together. two blocks from the grocery they stopped under a slippery elm tree. eeta peeca pie was stretching his neck looking straight up into the slippery elm tree. he said it was always good for his freckles and it helped his wishes to stand under a slippery elm and look up. while he was looking up his left hand let go the jug handle of the jug of molasses. and the jug went ka-flump, ka-flumpety-flump down on the stone sidewalk, cracked to pieces and let the molasses go running out over the sidewalk. if you have never seen it, let me tell you molasses running out of a broken jug, over a stone sidewalk under a slippery elm tree, looks peculiar and mysterious. [illustration: they stepped into the molasses with their bare feet] eeta peeca pie stepped into the molasses with his bare feet. "it's a lotta fun," he said. "it tickles all over." so meeney miney and miney mo both stepped into the molasses with their bare feet. then what happened just happened. one got littler. another got littler. all three got littler. "you look to me only big as a potato bug," said eeta peeca pie to meeney miney and miney mo. "it's the same like you look to us," said meeney miney and miney mo to eeta peeca pie. and then because their secret ambition began to hurt them they all stood with hands on each other's shoulders and sang the mexico joe song. off the sidewalk they strolled, across a field of grass. they passed many houses of spiders and ants. in front of one house they saw mrs. spider over a tub washing clothes for mr. spider. "why do you wear that frying pan on your head?" they asked her. "in this country all ladies wear the frying pan on their head when they want a hat." "but what if you want a hat when you are frying with the frying pan?" asked eeta peeca pie. "that never happens to any respectable lady in this country." "don't you never have no new style hats?" asked meeney miney. "no, but we always have new style frying pans every spring and fall." hidden in the roots of a pink grass clump, they came to a city of twisted-nose spiders. on the main street was a store with a show window full of pink parasols. they walked in and said to the clerk, "we want to buy parasols." "we don't sell parasols here," said the spider clerk. "well, lend us a parasol apiece," said all three. "gladly, most gladly," said the clerk. "how do you do it?" asked eeta. "i don't have to," answered the spider clerk. "how did it begin?" "it never was otherwise." "don't you never get tired?" "every parasol is a joy." "what do you do when the parasols are gone?" "they always come back. these are the famous twisted-nose parasols made from the famous pink grass. you will lose them all, all three. then they will all walk back to me here in this store on main street. i can not sell you something i know you will surely lose. neither can i ask you to pay, for something you will forget, somewhere sometime, and when you forget it, it will walk back here to me again. look--look!" as he said "look," the door opened and five pink parasols came waltzing in and waltzed up into the show window. "they always come back. everybody forgets. take your parasols and go. you will forget them and they will come back to me." "he looks like he had wishes inside him," said eeta peeca pie. "he looks like he had suspicions," said meeney miney. "he looks like he was all mixed up wishes and suspicions," said miney mo. and once more because they all felt lonesome and their secret ambitions were creeping and eating, they put their hands on their shoulders and sang the mexico joe song. then came happiness. they entered the potato bug country. and they had luck first of all the first hour they were in the potato bug country. they met a potato bug millionaire. "how are you a millionaire?" they asked him. "because i got a million," he answered. "a million what?" "a million _fleems_." "who wants fleems?" "you want fleems if you're going to live here." "why so?" "because fleems is our money. in the potato bug country, if you got no fleems you can't buy nothing nor anything. but if you got a million fleems you're a potato bug millionaire." then he surprised them. "i like you because you got wishes and freckles," he said to eeta peeca pie, filling the pockets of eeta with fleems. "and i like you because you got suspicions and you're sad-like," he said to meeney miney filling meeney miney's pockets full of fleems. "and i like you because you got some wishes and some suspicions and you look mixed up," he said to miney mo, sticking handfuls and handfuls of fleems into the pockets of miney mo. wishes do come true. and suspicions do come true. here they had been wishing all their lives, and had suspicions of what was going to happen, and now it all came true. with their pockets filled with fleems they rode on all the railroad trains of the potato bug country. they went to the railroad stations and bought tickets for the fast trains and the slow trains and even the trains that back up and run backward instead of where they start to go. on the dining cars of the railroads of the potato bug country they ate wonder ham from the famous potato bug pigs, eggs from the potato bug hens, et cetera. it seemed to them they stayed a long while in the potato bug country, years and years. yes, the time came when all their fleems were gone. then whenever they wanted a railroad ride or something to eat or a place to sleep, they put their hands on each other's shoulders and sang the mexico joe song. in the potato bug country they all said the mexico joe song was wonderful. one morning while they were waiting to take an express train on the early ohio & southwestern they sat near the roots of a big potato plant under the big green leaves. and far above them they saw a dim black cloud and they heard a shaking and a rustling and a spattering. they did not know it was a man of the village of liver-and-onions. they did not know it was mr. sniggers putting paris green on the potato plants. a big drop of paris green spattered down and fell onto the heads and shoulders of all three, eeta peeca pie, meeny miney and miney mo. then what happened just happened. they got bigger and bigger--one, two, three. and when they jumped up and ran out of the potato rows, mr. sniggers thought they were boys playing tricks. when they got home to their mothers and told all about the jug of molasses breaking on the stone sidewalk under the slippery elm tree, their mothers said it was careless. the boys said it was lucky because it helped them get their secret ambitions. and a secret ambition is a little creeper that creeps and creeps in your heart night and day, singing a little song, "come and find me, come and find me." [illustration] [illustration] how bimbo the snip's thumb stuck to his nose when the wind changed once there was a boy in the village of liver-and-onions whose name was bimbo the snip. he forgot nearly everything his father and mother told him to do and told him not to do. one day his father, bevo the hike, came home and found bimbo the snip sitting on the front steps with his thumb fastened to his nose and the fingers wiggling. "i can't take my thumb away," said bimbo the snip, "because when i put my thumb to my nose and wiggled my fingers at the iceman the wind changed. and just like mother always said, if the wind changed the thumb would stay fastened to my nose and not come off." bevo the hike took hold of the thumb and pulled. he tied a clothes line rope around it and pulled. he pushed with his foot and heel against it. and all the time the thumb stuck fast and the fingers wiggled from the end of the nose of bimbo the snip. bevo the hike sent for the ward alderman. the ward alderman sent for the barn boss of the street cleaning department. the barn boss of the street cleaning department sent for the head vaccinator of the vaccination bureau of the health department. the head vaccinator of the vaccination bureau of the health department sent for the big main fixer of the weather bureau where they understand the tricks of the wind and the wind changing. and the big main fixer of the weather bureau said, "if you hit the thumb six times with the end of a traffic policeman's club, the thumb will come loose." so bevo the hike went to a traffic policeman standing on a street corner with a whistle telling the wagons and cars which way to go. he told the traffic policeman, "the wind changed and bimbo the snip's thumb is fastened to his nose and will not come loose till it is hit six times with the end of a traffic policeman's club." "i can't help you unless you find a monkey to take my place standing on the corner telling the wagons and cars which way to go," answered the traffic policeman. so bevo the hike went to the zoo and said to a monkey, "the wind changed and bimbo the snip's thumb is fastened to his nose and will not come loose till it is hit with the end of a traffic policeman's club six times and the traffic policeman cannot leave his place on the street corner telling the traffic which way to go unless a monkey comes and takes his place." the monkey answered, "get me a ladder with a whistle so i can climb up and whistle and tell the traffic which way to go." so bevo the hike hunted and hunted over the city and looked and looked and asked and asked till his feet and his eyes and his head and his heart were tired from top to bottom. then he met an old widow woman whose husband had been killed in a sewer explosion when he was digging sewer ditches. and the old woman was carrying a bundle of picked-up kindling wood in a bag on her back because she did not have money enough to buy coal. bevo the hike told her, "you have troubles. so have i. you are carrying a load on your back people can see. i am carrying a load and nobody sees it." "tell me your troubles," said the old widow woman. he told her. and she said, "in the next block is an old umbrella handle maker. he has a ladder with a whistle. he climbs on the ladder when he makes long long umbrella handles. and he has the whistle on the ladder to be whistling." bevo the hike went to the next block, found the house of the umbrella handle maker and said to him, "the wind changed and bimbo the snip's thumb is fastened to his nose and will not come loose till it is hit with the end of a traffic policeman's club six times and the traffic policeman cannot leave the corner where he is telling the traffic which way to go unless a monkey takes his place and the monkey cannot take his place unless he has a ladder with a whistle to stand on and whistle the wagons and cars which way to go." then the umbrella handle maker said, "to-night i have a special job because i must work on a long, long umbrella handle and i will need the ladder to climb up and the whistle to be whistling. but if you promise to have the ladder back by to-night you can take it." bevo the hike promised. then he took the ladder with a whistle to the monkey, the monkey took the place of the traffic policeman while the traffic policeman went to the home of bevo the hike where bimbo the snip was sitting on the front steps with his thumb fastened to his nose wiggling his fingers at everybody passing by on the street. the traffic policeman hit bimbo the snip's thumb five times with the club. and the thumb stuck fast. but the sixth time it was hit with the end of the traffic policeman's thumb club, it came loose. then bevo thanked the policeman, thanked the monkey, and took the ladder with the whistle back to the umbrella handle maker's house and thanked him. when bevo the hike got home that night bimbo the snip was in bed and all tickled. he said to his father, "i will be careful how i stick my thumb to my nose and wiggle my fingers the next time the wind changes." [illustration: the monkey took the place of the traffic policeman] ---------------------------------------------------------------------- . three stories about three ways the wind went winding _people_: two skyscrapers the northwest wind the golden spike limited train a tin brass goat a tin brass goose newsies young leather red slippers a man to be hanged five jackrabbits the wooden indian the shaghorn buffalo the night policeman [illustration] the two skyscrapers who decided to have a child two skyscrapers stood across the street from each other in the village of liver-and-onions. in the daylight when the streets poured full of people buying and selling, these two skyscrapers talked with each other the same as mountains talk. in the night time when all the people buying and selling were gone home and there were only policemen and taxicab drivers on the streets, in the night when a mist crept up the streets and threw a purple and gray wrapper over everything, in the night when the stars and the sky shook out sheets of purple and gray mist down over the town, then the two skyscrapers leaned toward each other and whispered. whether they whispered secrets to each other or whether they whispered simple things that you and i know and everybody knows, that is their secret. one thing is sure: they often were seen leaning toward each other and whispering in the night the same as mountains lean and whisper in the night. high on the roof of one of the skyscrapers was a tin brass goat looking out across prairies, and silver blue lakes shining like blue porcelain breakfast plates, and out across silver snakes of winding rivers in the morning sun. and high on the roof of the other skyscraper was a tin brass goose looking out across prairies, and silver blue lakes shining like blue porcelain breakfast plates, and out across silver snakes of winding rivers in the morning sun. now the northwest wind was a friend of the two skyscrapers. coming so far, coming five hundred miles in a few hours, coming so fast always while the skyscrapers were standing still, standing always on the same old street corners always, the northwest wind was a bringer of news. "well, i see the city is here yet," the northwest wind would whistle to the skyscrapers. and they would answer, "yes, and are the mountains standing yet way out yonder where you come from, wind?" "yes, the mountains are there yonder, and farther yonder is the sea, and the railroads are still going, still running across the prairie to the mountains, to the sea," the northwest wind would answer. and now there was a pledge made by the northwest wind to the two skyscrapers. often the northwest wind shook the tin brass goat and shook the tin brass goose on top of the skyscrapers. "are you going to blow loose the tin brass goat on my roof?" one asked. "are you going to blow loose the tin brass goose on my roof?" the other asked. "oh, no," the northwest wind laughed, first to one and then to the other, "if i ever blow loose your tin brass goat and if i ever blow loose your tin brass goose, it will be when i am sorry for you because you are up against hard luck and there is somebody's funeral." so time passed on and the two skyscrapers stood with their feet among the policemen and the taxicabs, the people buying and selling,--the customers with parcels, packages and bundles--while away high on their roofs stood the goat and the goose looking out on silver blue lakes like blue porcelain breakfast plates and silver snakes of rivers winding in the morning sun. so time passed on and the northwest wind kept coming, telling the news and making promises. so time passed on. and the two skyscrapers decided to have a child. and they decided when their child came it should be a _free_ child. "it must be a free child," they said to each other. "it must not be a child standing still all its life on a street corner. yes, if we have a child she must be free to run across the prairie, to the mountains, to the sea. yes, it must be a free child." so time passed on. their child came. it was a railroad train, the golden spike limited, the fastest long distance train in the rootabaga country. it ran across the prairie, to the mountains, to the sea. they were glad, the two skyscrapers were, glad to have a free child running away from the big city, far away to the mountains, far away to the sea, running as far as the farthest mountains and sea coasts touched by the northwest wind. they were glad their child was useful, the two skyscrapers were, glad their child was carrying a thousand people a thousand miles a day, so when people spoke of the golden spike limited, they spoke of it as a strong, lovely child. then time passed on. there came a day when the newsies yelled as though they were crazy. "yah yah, blah blah, yoh yoh," was what it sounded like to the two skyscrapers who never bothered much about what the newsies were yelling. "yah yah, blah blah, yoh yoh," was the cry of the newsies that came up again to the tops of the skyscrapers. at last the yelling of the newsies came so strong the skyscrapers listened and heard the newsies yammering, "all about the great train wreck! all about the golden spike disaster! many lives lost! many lives lost!" and the northwest wind came howling a slow sad song. and late that afternoon a crowd of policemen, taxicab drivers, newsies and customers with bundles, all stood around talking and wondering about two things next to each other on the street car track in the middle of the street. one was a tin brass goat. the other was a tin brass goose. and they lay next to each other. [illustration] the dollar watch and the five jack rabbits long ago, long before the waylacks lost the wonderful stripes of oat straw gold and the spots of timothy hay green in their marvelous curving tail feathers, long before the doo-doo-jangers whistled among the honeysuckle blossoms and the bitter-basters cried their last and dying wrangling cries, long before the sad happenings that came later, it was then, some years earlier than the year fifty fifty, that young leather and red slippers crossed the rootabaga country. to begin with, they were walking across the rootabaga country. and they were walking because it made their feet glad to feel the dirt of the earth under their shoes and they were close to the smells of the earth. they learned the ways of birds and bugs, why birds have wings, why bugs have legs, why the gladdywhingers have spotted eggs in a basket nest in a booblow tree, and why the chizzywhizzies scrape off little fiddle songs all summer long while the summer nights last. early one morning they were walking across the corn belt of the rootabaga country singing, "deep down among the dagger dancers." they had just had a breakfast of coffee and hot hankypank cakes covered with cow's butter. young leather said to red slippers, "what is the best secret we have come across this summer?" "that is easy to answer," red slippers said with a long flish of her long black eyelashes. "the best secret we have come across is a rope of gold hanging from every star in the sky and when we want to go up we go up." walking on they came to a town where they met a man with a sorry face. "why?" they asked him. and he answered, "my brother is in jail." "what for?" they asked him again. and he answered again, "my brother put on a straw hat in the middle of the winter and went out on the streets laughing; my brother had his hair cut pompompadour and went out on the streets bareheaded in the summertime laughing; and these things were against the law. worst of all he sneezed at the wrong time and he sneezed before the wrong persons; he sneezed when it was not wise to sneeze. so he will be hanged to-morrow morning. the gallows made of lumber and the rope made of hemp--they are waiting for him to-morrow morning. they will tie around his neck the hangman's necktie and hoist him high." the man with a sorry face looked more sorry than ever. it made young leather feel reckless and it made red slippers feel reckless. they whispered to each other. then young leather said, "take this dollar watch. give it to your brother. tell him when they are leading him to the gallows he must take this dollar watch in his hand, wind it up and push on the stem winder. the rest will be easy." so the next morning when they were leading the man to be hanged to the gallows made of lumber and the rope made of hemp, where they were going to hoist him high because he sneezed in the wrong place before the wrong people, he used his fingers winding up the watch and pushing on the stem winder. there was a snapping and a slatching like a gas engine slipping into a big pair of dragon fly wings. the dollar watch changed into a dragon fly ship. the man who was going to be hanged jumped into the dragon fly ship and flew whonging away before anybody could stop him. young leather and red slippers were walking out of the town laughing and singing again, "deep down among the dagger dancers." the man with a sorry face, not so sorry now any more, came running after them. behind the man and running after him were five long-legged spider jack-rabbits. "these are for you," was his exclamation. and they all sat down on the stump of a booblow tree. he opened his sorry face and told the secrets of the five long-legged spider jack-rabbits to young leather and red slippers. they waved good-by and went on up the road leading the five new jack-rabbits. in the next town they came to was a skyscraper higher than all the other skyscrapers. a rich man dying wanted to be remembered and left in his last will and testament a command they should build a building so high it would scrape the thunder clouds and stand higher than all other skyscrapers with his name carved in stone letters on the top of it, and an electric sign at night with his name on it, and a clock on the tower with his name on it. "i am hungry to be remembered and have my name spoken by many people after i am dead," the rich man told his friends. "i command you, therefore, to throw the building high in the air because the higher it goes the longer i will be remembered and the longer the years men will mention my name after i am dead." so there it was. young leather and red slippers laughed when they first saw the skyscraper, when they were far off along a country road singing their old song, "deep down among the dagger dancers." "we got a show and we give a performance and we want the whole town to see it," was what young leather and red slippers said to the mayor of the town when they called on him at the city hall. "we want a license and a permit to give this free show in the public square." "what do you do?" asked the mayor. "we jump five jack-rabbits, five long-legged spider jack-rabbits over the highest skyscraper you got in your city," they answered him. "if it's free and you don't sell anything nor take any money away from us while it is daylight and you are giving your performance, then here is your license permit," said the mayor speaking in the manner of a politician who has studied politics. thousands of people came to see the show on the public square. they wished to know how it would look to see five long-legged, spider jack-rabbits jump over the highest skyscraper in the city. four of the jack-rabbits had stripes. the fifth had stripes--and spots. before they started the show young leather and red slippers held the jack-rabbits one by one in their arms and petted them, rubbed the feet and rubbed the long ears and ran their fingers along the long legs of the jumpers. "zingo," they yelled to the first jack-rabbit. he got all ready. "and now zingo!" they yelled again. and the jack-rabbit took a run, lifted off his feet and went on and on and up and up till he went over the roof of the skyscraper and then went down and down till he lit on his feet and came running on his long legs back to the public square where he started from, back where young leather and red slippers petted him and rubbed his long ears and said, "that's the boy." then three jack-rabbits made the jump over the skyscraper. "zingo," they heard and got ready. "and now zingo," they heard and all three together in a row, their long ears touching each other, they lifted off their feet and went on and on and up and up till they cleared the roof of the skyscraper. then they came down and down till they lit on their feet and came running to the hands of young leather and red slippers to have their long legs and their long ears rubbed and petted. then came the turn of the fifth jack-rabbit, the beautiful one with stripes and spots. "ah, we're sorry to see you go, ah-h, we're sorry," they said, rubbing his long ears and feeling of his long legs. then young leather and red slippers kissed him on the nose, kissed the last and fifth of the five long-legged spider jack-rabbits. "good-by, old bunny, good-by, you're the dandiest bunny there ever was," they whispered in his long ears. and he, because he knew what they were saying and why they were saying it, he wiggled his long ears and looked long and steady at them from his deep eyes. "zango," they yelled. he got ready. "and now zango!" they yelled again. and the fifth jack-rabbit with his stripes and spots lifted off his feet and went on and on and on and up and up and when he came to the roof of the skyscraper he kept on going on and on and up and up till after a while he was gone all the way out of sight. they waited and watched, they watched and waited. he never came back. he never was heard of again. he was gone. with the stripes on his back and the spots on his hair, he was gone. and young leather and red slippers said they were glad they had kissed him on the nose before he went away on a long trip far off, so far off he never came back. [illustration] [illustration] the wooden indian and the shaghorn buffalo one night a milk white moon was shining down on main street. the sidewalks and the stones, the walls and the windows all stood out milk white. and there was a thin blue mist drifted and shifted like a woman's veil up and down main street, up to the moon and back again. yes, all main street was a mist blue and a milk white, mixed up and soft all over and all through. it was past midnight. the wooden indian in front of the cigar store stepped down off his stand. the shaghorn buffalo in front of the haberdasher shop lifted his head and shook his whiskers, raised his hoofs out of his hoof-tracks. then--this is what happened. they moved straight toward each other. in the middle of main street they met. the wooden indian jumped straddle of the shaghorn buffalo. and the shaghorn buffalo put his head down and ran like a prairie wind straight west on main street. at the high hill over the big bend of the clear green river they stopped. they stood looking. drifting and shifting like a woman's blue veil, the blue mist filled the valley and the milk white moon filled the valley. and the mist and the moon touched with a lingering, wistful kiss the clear green water of the clear green river. so they stood looking, the wooden indian with his copper face and wooden feathers, and the shaghorn buffalo with his big head and heavy shoulders slumping down close to the ground. [illustration: so they stood looking] and after they had looked a long while, and each of them got an eyeful of the high hill, the big bend and the moon mist on the river all blue and white and soft, after they had looked a long while, they turned around and the shaghorn buffalo put his head down and ran like a prairie wind down main street till he was exactly in front of the cigar store and the haberdasher shop. then whisk! both of them were right back like they were before, standing still, taking whatever comes. this is the story as it came from the night policeman of the village of cream puffs. he told the people the next day, "i was sitting on the steps of the cigar store last night watching for burglars. and when i saw the wooden indian step down and the shaghorn buffalo step out, and the two of them go down main street like the wind, i says to myself, marvelish, 'tis marvelish, 'tis marvelish." ---------------------------------------------------------------------- . four stories about dear, dear eyes _people_: the white horse girl the blue wind boy the gray man on horseback six girls with balloons henry hagglyhoagly susan slackentwist two wool yarn mittens peter potato blossom wishes her father many shoes slippers a slipper moon [illustration] the white horse girl and the blue wind boy when the dishes are washed at night time and the cool of the evening has come in summer or the lamps and fires are lit for the night in winter, then the fathers and mothers in the rootabaga country sometimes tell the young people the story of the white horse girl and the blue wind boy. the white horse girl grew up far in the west of the rootabaga country. all the years she grew up as a girl she liked to ride horses. best of all things for her was to be straddle of a white horse loping with a loose bridle among the hills and along the rivers of the west rootabaga country. she rode one horse white as snow, another horse white as new washed sheep wool, and another white as silver. and she could not tell because she did not know which of these three white horses she liked best. "snow is beautiful enough for me any time," she said, "new washed sheep wool, or silver out of a ribbon of the new moon, any or either is white enough for me. i like the white manes, the white flanks, the white noses, the white feet of all my ponies. i like the forelocks hanging down between the white ears of all three--my ponies." and living neighbor to the white horse girl in the same prairie country, with the same black crows flying over their places, was the blue wind boy. all the years he grew up as a boy he liked to walk with his feet in the dirt and the grass listening to the winds. best of all things for him was to put on strong shoes and go hiking among the hills and along the rivers of the west rootabaga country, listening to the winds. there was a blue wind of day time, starting sometimes six o'clock on a summer morning or eight o'clock on a winter morning. and there was a night wind with blue of summer stars in summer and blue of winter stars in winter. and there was yet another, a blue wind of the times between night and day, a blue dawn and evening wind. all three of these winds he liked so well he could not say which he liked best. "the early morning wind is strong as the prairie and whatever i tell it i know it believes and remembers," he said, "and the night wind with the big dark curves of the night sky in it, the night wind gets inside of me and understands all my secrets. and the blue wind of the times between, in the dusk when it is neither night nor day, this is the wind that asks me questions and tells me to wait and it will bring me whatever i want." of course, it happened as it had to happen, the white horse girl and the blue wind boy met. she, straddling one of her white horses, and he, wearing his strong hiking shoes in the dirt and the grass, it had to happen they should meet among the hills and along the rivers of the west rootabaga country where they lived neighbors. and of course, she told him all about the snow white horse and the horse white as new washed sheep wool and the horse white as a silver ribbon of the new moon. and he told her all about the blue winds he liked listening to, the early morning wind, the night sky wind, and the wind of the dusk between, the wind that asked him questions and told him to wait. one day the two of them were gone. on the same day of the week the white horse girl and the blue wind boy went away. and their fathers and mothers and sisters and brothers and uncles and aunts wondered about them and talked about them, because they didn't tell anybody beforehand they were going. nobody at all knew beforehand or afterward why they were going away, the real honest why of it. they left a short letter. it read: _to all our sweethearts, old folks and young folks:_ _we have started to go where the white horses come from and where the blue winds begin. keep a corner in your hearts for us while we are gone._ _the white horse girl._ _the blue wind boy._ that was all they had to guess by in the west rootabaga country, to guess and guess where two darlings had gone. many years passed. one day there came riding across the rootabaga country a gray man on horseback. he looked like he had come a long ways. so they asked him the question they always asked of any rider who looked like he had come a long ways, "did you ever see the white horse girl and the blue wind boy?" "yes," he answered, "i saw them. "it was a long, long ways from here i saw them," he went on, "it would take years and years to ride to where they are. they were sitting together and talking to each other, sometimes singing, in a place where the land runs high and tough rocks reach up. and they were looking out across water, blue water as far as the eye could see. and away far off the blue waters met the blue sky. "'look!' said the boy, 'that's where the blue winds begin.' "and far out on the blue waters, just a little this side of where the blue winds begin, there were white manes, white flanks, white noses, white galloping feet. "'look!' said the girl, 'that's where the white horses come from.' "and then nearer to the land came thousands in an hour, millions in a day, white horses, some white as snow, some like new washed sheep wool, some white as silver ribbons of the new moon. "i asked them, 'whose place is this?' they answered, 'it belongs to us; this is what we started for; this is where the white horses come from; this is where the blue winds begin.'" and that was all the gray man on horseback would tell the people of the west rootabaga country. that was all he knew, he said, and if there was any more he would tell it. and the fathers and mothers and sisters and brothers and uncles and aunts of the white horse girl and the blue wind boy wondered and talked often about whether the gray man on horseback made up the story out of his head or whether it happened just like he told it. anyhow this is the story they tell sometimes to the young people of the west rootabaga country when the dishes are washed at night and the cool of the evening has come in summer or the lamps and fires are lit for the night in winter. [illustration] what six girls with balloons told the gray man on horseback once there came riding across the rootabaga country a gray man on horseback. he looked as if he had come a long ways. he looked like a brother to the same gray man on horseback who said he had seen the white horse girl and the blue wind boy. he stopped in the village of cream puffs. his gray face was sad and his eyes were gray deep and sad. he spoke short and seemed strong. sometimes his eyes looked as if they were going to flash, but instead of fire they filled with shadows. yet--he did laugh once. it did happen once he lifted his head and face to the sky and let loose a long ripple of laughs. on main street near the roundhouse of the big spool, where they wind up the string that pulls the light little town back when the wind blows it away, there he was riding slow on his gray horse when he met six girls with six fine braids of yellow hair and six balloons apiece. that is, each and every one of the six girls had six fine long braids of yellow hair and each braid of hair had a balloon tied on the end. a little blue wind was blowing and the many balloons tied to the braids of the six girls swung up and down and slow and fast whenever the blue wind went up and down and slow and fast. for the first time since he had been in the village, the eyes of the gray man filled with lights and his face began to look hopeful. he stopped his horse when he came even with the six girls and the balloons floating from the braids of yellow hair. "where you going?" he asked. "who--hoo-hoo? who--who--who?" the six girls cheeped out. "all six of you and your balloons, where you going?" "oh, hoo-hoo-hoo, back where we came from," and they all turned their heads back and forth and sideways, which of course turned all the balloons back and forth and sideways because the balloons were fastened to the fine braids of hair which were fastened to their heads. "and where do you go when you get back where you came from?" he asked just to be asking. "oh, hoo-hoo-hoo, then we start out and go straight ahead and see what we can see," they all answered just to be answering and they dipped their heads and swung them up which of course dipped all the balloons and swung them up. so they talked, he asking just to be asking and the six balloon girls answering just to be answering. at last his sad mouth broke into a smile and his eyes were lit like a morning sun coming up over harvest fields. and he said to them, "tell me why are balloons--that is what i want you to tell me--why are balloons?" the first little girl put her thumb under her chin, looked up at her six balloons floating in the little blue wind over her head, and said: "balloons are wishes. the wind made them. the west wind makes the red balloons. the south wind makes the blue. the yellow and green balloons come from the east wind and the north wind." the second little girl put her first finger next to her nose, looked up at her six balloons dipping up and down like hill flowers in a small wind, and said: "a balloon used to be a flower. it got tired. then it changed itself to a balloon. i listened one time to a yellow balloon. it was talking to itself like people talk. it said, 'i used to be a yellow pumpkin flower stuck down close to the ground, now i am a yellow balloon high up in the air where nobody can walk on me and i can see everything.'" the third little girl held both of her ears like she was afraid they would wiggle while she slid with a skip, turned quick, and looking up at her balloons, spoke these words: "a balloon is foam. it comes the same as soap bubbles come. a long time ago it used to be sliding along on water, river water, ocean water, waterfall water, falling and falling over a rocky waterfall, any water you want. the wind saw the bubble and picked it up and carried it away, telling it, 'now you're a balloon--come along and see the world.'" the fourth little girl jumped straight into the air so all six of her balloons made a jump like they were going to get loose and go to the sky--and when the little girl came down from her jump and was standing on her two feet with her head turned looking up at the six balloons, she spoke the shortest answer of all, saying: "balloons are to make us look up. they help our necks." the fifth little girl stood first on one foot, then another, bent her head down to her knees and looked at her toes, then swinging straight up and looking at the flying spotted yellow and red and green balloons, she said: "balloons come from orchards. look for trees where half is oranges and half is orange balloons. look for apple trees where half is red pippins and half is red pippin balloons. look for watermelons too. a long green balloon with white and yellow belly stripes is a ghost. it came from a watermelon said good-by." the sixth girl, the last one, kicked the heel of her left foot with the toe of her right foot, put her thumbs under her ears and wiggled all her fingers, then stopped all her kicking and wiggling, and stood looking up at her balloons all quiet because the wind had gone down--and she murmured like she was thinking to herself: "balloons come from fire chasers. every balloon has a fire chaser chasing it. all the fire chasers are made terrible quick and when they come they burn quick, so the balloon is made light so it can run away terrible quick. balloons slip away from fire. if they don't they can't be balloons. running away from fire keeps them light." all the time he listened to the six girls the face of the gray man kept getting more hopeful. his eyes lit up. twice he smiled. and after he said good-by and rode up the street, he lifted his head and face to the sky and let loose a long ripple of laughs. he kept looking back when he left the village and the last thing he saw was the six girls each with six balloons fastened to the six braids of yellow hair hanging down their backs. the sixth little girl kicked the heel of her left foot with the toe of her right foot and said, "he is a nice man. i think he must be our uncle. if he comes again we shall all ask him to tell us where he thinks balloons come from." and the other five girls all answered, "yes," or "yes, yes," or "yes, yes, yes," real fast like a balloon with a fire chaser after it. [illustration] how henry hagglyhoagly played the guitar with his mittens on sometimes in january the sky comes down close if we walk on a country road, and turn our faces up to look at the sky. sometimes on that kind of a january night the stars look like numbers, look like the arithmetic writing of a girl going to school and just beginning arithmetic. it was this kind of a night henry hagglyhoagly was walking down a country road on his way to the home of susan slackentwist, the daughter of the rutabaga king near the village of liver-and-onions. when henry hagglyhoagly turned his face up to look at the sky it seemed to him as though the sky came down close to his nose, and there was a writing in stars as though some girl had been doing arithmetic examples, writing number and number and and over and over again across the sky. "why is it so bitter cold weather?" henry hagglyhoagly asked himself, "if i say many bitter bitters it is not so bitter as the cold wind and the cold weather." "you are good, mittens, keeping my fingers warm," he said every once in a while to the wool yarn mittens on his hands. the wind came tearing along and put its chilly, icy, clammy clamps on the nose of henry hagglyhoagly, fastening the clamps like a nipping, gripping clothes pin on his nose. he put his wool yarn mittens up on his nose and rubbed till the wind took off the chilly, icy, clammy clamps. his nose was warm again; he said, "thank you, mittens, for keeping my nose warm." [illustration: it seemed to him as though the sky came down close to his nose] he spoke to his wool yarn mittens as though they were two kittens or pups, or two little cub bears, or two little idaho ponies. "you're my chums keeping me company," he said to the mittens. "do you know what we got here under our left elbow?" he said to the mittens, "i shall mention to you what is here under my left elbow. "it ain't a mandolin, it ain't a mouth organ nor an accordion nor a concertina nor a fiddle. it is a guitar, a spanish spinnish splishy guitar made special. "yes, mittens, they said a strong young man like me ought to have a piano because a piano is handy to play for everybody in the house and a piano is handy to put a hat and overcoat on or books or flowers. "i snizzled at 'em, mittens. i told 'em i seen a spanish spinnish splishy guitar made special in a hardware store window for eight dollars and a half. "and so, mittens--are you listening, mittens?--after cornhusking was all husked and the oats thrashing all thrashed and the rutabaga digging all dug, i took eight dollars and a half in my inside vest pocket and i went to the hardware store. "i put my thumbs in my vest pocket and i wiggled my fingers like a man when he is proud of what he is going to have if he gets it. and i said to the head clerk in the hardware store, 'sir, the article i desire to purchase this evening as one of your high class customers, the article i desire to have after i buy it for myself, is the article there in the window, sir, the spanish spinnish splishy guitar.' "and, mittens, if you are listening, i am taking this spanish spinnish splishy guitar to go to the home of susan slackentwist, the daughter of the rutabaga king near the village of liver-and-onions, to sing a serenade song." the cold wind of the bitter cold weather blew and blew, trying to blow the guitar out from under the left elbow of henry hagglyhoagly. and the worse the wind blew the tighter he held his elbow holding the guitar where he wanted it. he walked on and on with his long legs stepping long steps till at last he stopped, held his nose in the air, and sniffed. "do i sniff something or do i not?" he asked, lifting his wool yarn mittens to his nose and rubbing his nose till it was warm. again he sniffed. "ah hah, yeah, yeah, this is the big rutabaga field near the home of the rutabaga king and the home of his daughter, susan slackentwist." at last he came to the house, stood under the window and slung the guitar around in front of him to play the music to go with the song. "and now," he asked his mittens, "shall i take you off or keep you on? if i take you off the cold wind of the bitter cold weather will freeze my hands so stiff and bitter cold my fingers will be too stiff to play the guitar. _i will play with mittens on._" which he did. he stood under the window of susan slackentwist and played the guitar with his mittens on, the warm wool yarn mittens he called his chums. it was the first time any strong young man going to see his sweetheart ever played the guitar with his mittens on when it was a bitter night with a cold wind and cold weather. susan slackentwist opened her window and threw him a snow-bird feather to keep for a keepsake to remember her by. and for years afterward many a sweetheart in the rootabaga country told her lover, "if you wish to marry me let me hear you under my window on a winter night playing the guitar with wool yarn mittens on." and when henry hagglyhoagly walked home on his long legs stepping long steps, he said to his mittens, "this spanish spinnish splishy guitar made special will bring us luck." and when he turned his face up, the sky came down close and he could see stars fixed like numbers and the arithmetic writing of a girl going to school learning to write number and number and and over and over. [illustration] [illustration] never kick a slipper at the moon when a girl is growing up in the rootabaga country she learns some things to do, some things _not_ to do. "never kick a slipper at the moon if it is the time for the dancing slipper moon when the slim early moon looks like the toe and the heel of a dancer's foot," was the advice mr. wishes, the father of peter potato blossom wishes, gave to his daughter. "why?" she asked him. "because your slipper will go straight up, on and on to the moon, and fasten itself on the moon as if the moon is a foot ready for dancing," said mr. wishes. "a long time ago there was one night when a secret word was passed around to all the shoes standing in the bedrooms and closets. "the whisper of the secret was: 'to-night all the shoes and the slippers and the boots of the world are going walking without any feet in them. to-night when those who put us on their feet in the daytime, are sleeping in their beds, we all get up and walk and go walking where we walk in the daytime.' "and in the middle of the night, when the people in the beds were sleeping, the shoes and the slippers and the boots everywhere walked out of the bedrooms and the closets. along the sidewalks on the streets, up and down stairways, along hallways, the shoes and slippers and the boots tramped and marched and stumbled. "some walked pussyfoot, sliding easy and soft just like people in the daytime. some walked clumping and clumping, coming down heavy on the heels and slow on the toes, just like people in the daytime. "some turned their toes in and walked pigeon-toe, some spread their toes out and held their heels in, just like people in the daytime. some ran glad and fast, some lagged slow and sorry. "now there was a little girl in the village of cream puffs who came home from a dance that night. and she was tired from dancing round dances and square dances, one steps and two steps, toe dances and toe and heel dances, dances close up and dances far apart, she was so tired she took off only one slipper, tumbled onto her bed and went to sleep with one slipper on. "she woke up in the morning when it was yet dark. and she went to the window and looked up in the sky and saw a dancing slipper moon dancing far and high in the deep blue sea of the moon sky. "'oh--what a moon--what a dancing slipper of a moon!' she cried with a little song to herself. "she opened the window, saying again, 'oh! what a moon!'--and kicked her foot with the slipper on it straight toward the moon. "the slipper flew off and flew up and went on and on and up and up in the moonshine. "it never came back, that slipper. it was never seen again. when they asked the girl about it she said, 'it slipped off my foot and went up and up and the last i saw of it the slipper was going on straight to the moon.'" and these are the explanations why fathers and mothers in the rootabaga country say to their girls growing up, "never kick a slipper at the moon if it is the time of the dancing slipper moon when the ends of the moon look like the toe and the heel of a dancer's foot." ---------------------------------------------------------------------- . one story--"only the fire-born understand blue" _people_: fire the goat flim the goose shadows [illustration] sand flat shadows fire the goat and flim the goose slept out. stub pines stood over them. and away up next over the stub pines were stars. it was a white sand flat they slept on. the floor of the sand flat ran straight to the big lake of the booming rollers. and just over the sand flat and just over the booming rollers was a high room where the mist people were making pictures. gray pictures, blue and sometimes a little gold, and often silver, were the pictures. and next just over the high room where the mist people were making pictures, next just over were the stars. over everything and always last and highest of all, were the stars. fire the goat took off his horns. flim the goose took off his wings. "this is where we sleep," they said to each other, "here in the stub pines on the sand flats next to the booming rollers and high over everything and always last and highest of all, the stars." fire the goat laid his horns under his head. flim the goose laid his wings under his head. "this is the best place for what you want to keep," they said to each other. then they crossed their fingers for luck and lay down and went to sleep and slept. and while they slept the mist people went on making pictures. gray pictures, blue and sometimes a little gold but more often silver, such were the pictures the mist people went on making while fire the goat and flim the goose went on sleeping. and over everything and always last and highest of all, were the stars. they woke up. fire the goat took his horns out and put them on. "it's morning now," he said. flim the goose took his wings out and put them on. "it's another day now," he said. then they sat looking. away off where the sun was coming up, inching and pushing up far across the rim curve of the big lake of the booming rollers, along the whole line of the east sky, there were people and animals, all black or all so gray they were near black. there was a big horse with his mouth open, ears laid back, front legs thrown in two curves like harvest sickles. there was a camel with two humps, moving slow and grand like he had all the time of all the years of all the world to go in. there was an elephant without any head, with six short legs. there were many cows. there was a man with a club over his shoulder and a woman with a bundle on the back of her neck. and they marched on. they were going nowhere, it seemed. and they were going slow. they had plenty of time. there was nothing else to do. it was fixed for them to do it, long ago it was fixed. and so they were marching. sometimes the big horse's head sagged and dropped off and came back again. sometimes the humps of the camel sagged and dropped off and came back again. and sometimes the club on the man's shoulder got bigger and heavier and the man staggered under it and then his legs got bigger and stronger and he steadied himself and went on. and again sometimes the bundle on the back of the neck of the woman got bigger and heavier and the bundle sagged and the woman staggered and her legs got bigger and stronger and she steadied herself and went on. this was the show, the hippodrome, the spectacular circus that passed on the east sky before the eyes of fire the goat and flim the goose. "which is this, who are they and why do they come?" flim the goose asked fire the goat. [illustration: away off where the sun was coming up, there were people and animals] "do you ask me because you wish me to tell you?" asked fire the goat. "indeed it is a question to which i want an honest answer." "has never the father or mother nor the uncle or aunt nor the kith and kin of flim the goose told him the what and the which of this?" "never has the such of this which been put here this way to me by anybody." flim the goose held up his fingers and said, "i don't talk to you with my fingers crossed." and so fire the goat began to explain to flim the goose all about the show, the hippodrome, the mastodonic cyclopean spectacle which was passing on the east sky in front of the sun coming up. "people say they are shadows," began fire the goat. "that is a name, a word, a little cough and a couple of syllables. "for some people shadows are comic and only to laugh at. for some other people shadows are like a mouth and its breath. the breath comes out and it is nothing. it is like air and nobody can make it into a package and carry it away. it will not melt like gold nor can you shovel it like cinders. so to these people it means nothing. "and then there are other people," fire the goat went on. "there are other people who understand shadows. the fire-born understand. the fire-born know where shadows come from and why they are. "long ago, when the makers of the world were done making the round earth, the time came when they were ready to make the animals to put on the earth. they were not sure how to make the animals. they did not know what shape animals they wanted. "and so they practised. they did not make real animals at first. they made only shapes of animals. and these shapes were shadows, shadows like these you and i, fire the goat and flim the goose, are looking at this morning across the booming rollers on the east sky where the sun is coming up. "the shadow horse over there on the east sky with his mouth open, his ears laid back, and his front legs thrown in a curve like harvest sickles, that shadow horse was one they made long ago when they were practising to make a real horse. that shadow horse was a mistake and they threw him away. never will you see two shadow horses alike. all shadow horses on the sky are different. each one is a mistake, a shadow horse thrown away because he was not good enough to be a real horse. "that elephant with no head on his neck, stumbling so grand on six legs--and that grand camel with two humps, one bigger than the other--and those cows with horns in front and behind--they are all mistakes, they were all thrown away because they were not made good enough to be real elephants, real cows, real camels. they were made just for practice, away back early in the world before any real animals came on their legs to eat and live and be here like the rest of us. "that man--see him now staggering along with the club over his shoulder--see how his long arms come to his knees and sometimes his hands drag below his feet. see how heavy the club on his shoulders loads him down and drags him on. he is one of the oldest shadow men. he was a mistake and they threw him away. he was made just for practice. "and that woman. see her now at the end of that procession across the booming rollers on the east sky. see her the last of all, the end of the procession. on the back of her neck a bundle. sometimes the bundle gets bigger. the woman staggers. her legs get bigger and stronger. she picks herself up and goes along shaking her head. she is the same as the others. she is a shadow and she was made as a mistake. early, early in the beginnings of the world she was made, for practice. "listen, flim the goose. what i am telling you is a secret of the fire-born. i do not know whether you understand. we have slept together a night on the sand flats next to the booming rollers, under the stub pines with the stars high over--and so i tell what the fathers of the fire-born tell their sons." and that day fire the goat and flim the goose moved along the sand flat shore of the big lake of the booming rollers. it was a blue day, with a fire-blue of the sun mixing itself in the air and the water. off to the north the booming rollers were blue sea-green. to the east they were sometimes streak purple, sometimes changing bluebell stripes. and to the south they were silver blue, sheet blue. where the shadow hippodrome marched on the east sky that morning was a long line of blue-bird spots. "only the fire-born understand blue," said fire the goat to flim the goose. and that night as the night before they slept on a sand flat. and again fire the goat took off his horns and laid them under his head while he slept and flim the goose took off his wings and laid them under his head while he slept. and twice in the night, fire the goat whispered in his sleep, whispered to the stars, "only the fire-born understand blue." ---------------------------------------------------------------------- . two stories about corn fairies, blue foxes, flongboos and happenings that happened in the united states and canada _people_: spink skabootch a man corn fairies blue foxes flongboos a philadelphia policeman passenger conductor chicago newspapers the head spotter of the weather makers at medicine hat [illustration] how to tell corn fairies if you see 'em if you have ever watched the little corn begin to march across the black lands and then slowly change to big corn and go marching on from the little corn moon of summer to the big corn harvest moon of autumn, then you must have guessed who it is that helps the corn come along. it is the corn fairies. leave out the corn fairies and there wouldn't be any corn. all children know this. all boys and girls know that corn is no good unless there are corn fairies. have you ever stood in illinois or iowa and watched the late summer wind or the early fall wind running across a big cornfield? it looks as if a big, long blanket were being spread out for dancers to come and dance on. if you look close and if you listen close you can see the corn fairies come dancing and singing--sometimes. if it is a wild day and a hot sun is pouring down while a cool north wind blows--and this happens sometimes--then you will be sure to see thousands of corn fairies marching and countermarching in mocking grand marches over the big, long blanket of green and silver. then too they sing, only you must listen with your littlest and newest ears if you wish to hear their singing. they sing soft songs that go pla-sizzy pla-sizzy-sizzy, and each song is softer than an eye wink, softer than a nebraska baby's thumb. and spink, who is a little girl living in the same house with the man writing this story, and skabootch, who is another little girl in the same house--both spink and skabootch are asking the question, "how can we tell corn fairies if we see 'em? if we meet a corn fairy how will we know it?" and this is the explanation the man gave to spink who is older than skabootch, and to skabootch who is younger than spink:-- all corn fairies wear overalls. they work hard, the corn fairies, and they are proud. the reason they are proud is because they work so hard. and the reason they work so hard is because they have overalls. but understand this. the overalls are corn gold cloth, woven from leaves of ripe corn mixed with ripe october corn silk. in the first week of the harvest moon coming up red and changing to yellow and silver the corn fairies sit by thousands between the corn rows weaving and stitching the clothes they have to wear next winter, next spring, next summer. they sit cross-legged when they sew. and it is a law among them each one must point the big toe at the moon while sewing the harvest moon clothes. when the moon comes up red as blood early in the evening they point their big toes slanting toward the east. then towards midnight when the moon is yellow and half way up the sky their big toes are only half slanted as they sit cross-legged sewing. and after midnight when the moon sails its silver disk high overhead and toward the west, then the corn fairies sit sewing with their big toes pointed nearly straight up. if it is a cool night and looks like frost, then the laughter of the corn fairies is something worth seeing. all the time they sit sewing their next year clothes they are laughing. it is not a law they have to laugh. they laugh because they are half-tickled and glad because it is a good corn year. and whenever the corn fairies laugh then the laugh comes out of the mouth like a thin gold frost. if you should be lucky enough to see a thousand corn fairies sitting between the corn rows and all of them laughing, you would laugh with wonder yourself to see the gold frost coming from their mouths while they laughed. travelers who have traveled far, and seen many things, say that if you know the corn fairies with a real knowledge you can always tell by the stitches in their clothes what state they are from. in illinois the corn fairies stitch fifteen stitches of ripe corn silk across the woven corn leaf cloth. in iowa they stitch sixteen stitches, in nebraska seventeen, and the farther west you go the more corn silk stitches the corn fairies have in the corn cloth clothes they wear. in minnesota one year there were fairies with a blue sash of corn-flowers across the breast. in the dakotas the same year all the fairies wore pumpkin-flower neckties, yellow four-in-hands and yellow ascots. and in one strange year it happened in both the states of ohio and texas the corn fairies wore little wristlets of white morning glories. the traveler who heard about this asked many questions and found out the reason why that year the corn fairies wore little wristlets of white morning glories. he said, "whenever fairies are sad they wear white. and this year, which was long ago, was the year men were tearing down all the old zigzag rail fences. now those old zigzag rail fences were beautiful for the fairies because a hundred fairies could sit on one rail and thousands and thousands of them could sit on the zigzags and sing pla-sizzy pla-sizzy, softer than an eye-wink, softer than a baby's thumb, all on a moonlight summer night. and they found out that year was going to be the last year of the zigzag rail fences. it made them sorry and sad, and when they are sorry and sad they wear white. so they picked the wonderful white morning glories running along the zigzag rail fences and made them into little wristlets and wore those wristlets the next year to show they were sorry and sad." of course, all this helps you to know how the corn fairies look in the evening, the night time and the moonlight. now we shall see how they look in the day time. in the day time the corn fairies have their overalls of corn gold cloth on. and they walk among the corn rows and climb the corn stalks and fix things in the leaves and stalks and ears of the corn. they help it to grow. each one carries on the left shoulder a mouse brush to brush away the field mice. and over the right shoulder each one has a cricket broom to sweep away the crickets. the brush is a whisk brush to brush away mice that get foolish. and the broom is to sweep away crickets that get foolish. around the middle of each corn fairy is a yellow-belly belt. and stuck in this belt is a purple moon shaft hammer. whenever the wind blows strong and nearly blows the corn down, then the fairies run out and take their purple moon shaft hammers out of their yellow-belly belts and nail down nails to keep the corn from blowing down. when a rain storm is blowing up terrible and driving all kinds of terribles across the cornfield, then you can be sure of one thing. running like the wind among the corn rows are the fairies, jerking their purple moon shaft hammers out of their belts and nailing nails down to keep the corn standing up so it will grow and be ripe and beautiful when the harvest moon comes again in the fall. spink and skabootch ask where the corn fairies get the nails. the answer to spink and skabootch is, "next week you will learn all about where the corn fairies get the nails to nail down the corn if you will keep your faces washed and your ears washed till next week." and the next time you stand watching a big cornfield in late summer or early fall, when the wind is running across the green and silver, listen with your littlest and newest ears. maybe you will hear the corn fairies going pla-sizzy pla-sizzy-sizzy, softer than an eye wink, softer than a nebraska baby's thumb. [illustration] how the animals lost their tails and got them back traveling from philadelphia to medicine hat far up in north america, near the saskatchewan river, in the winnipeg wheat country, not so far from the town of moose jaw named for the jaw of a moose shot by a hunter there, up where the blizzards and the chinooks begin, where nobody works unless they have to and they nearly all have to, there stands the place known as medicine hat. and there on a high stool in a high tower on a high hill sits the head spotter of the weather makers. when the animals lost their tails it was because the head spotter of the weather makers at medicine hat was careless. the tails of the animals were stiff and dry because for a long while there was dusty dry weather. then at last came rain. and the water from the sky poured on the tails of the animals and softened them. then the chilly chills came whistling with icy mittens and they froze all the tails stiff. a big wind blew up and blew and blew till all the tails of the animals blew off. it was easy for the fat stub hogs with their fat stub tails. but it was not so easy for the blue fox who uses his tail to help him when he runs, when he eats, when he walks or talks, when he makes pictures or writes letters in the snow or when he puts a snack of bacon meat with stripes of fat and lean to hide till he wants it under a big rock by a river. [illustration: there on a high stool in a high tower, on a high hill sits the head spotter of the weather makers] it was easy enough for the rabbit who has long ears and no tail at all except a white thumb of cotton. but it was hard for the yellow flongboo who at night lights up his house in a hollow tree with his fire yellow torch of a tail. it is hard for the yellow flongboo to lose his tail because it lights up his way when he sneaks at night on the prairie, sneaking up on the flangwayers, the hippers and hangjasts, so good to eat. the animals picked a committee of representatives to represent them in a parleyhoo to see what steps could be taken by talking to do something. there were sixty-six representatives on the committee and they decided to call it the committee of sixty six. it was a distinguished committee and when they all sat together holding their mouths under their noses (just like a distinguished committee) and blinking their eyes up over their noses and cleaning their ears and scratching themselves under the chin looking thoughtful (just like a distinguished committee) then anybody would say just to look at them, "this must be quite a distinguished committee." of course, they would all have looked more distinguished if they had had their tails on. if the big wavy streak of a blue tail blows off behind a blue fox, he doesn't look near so distinguished. or, if the long yellow torch of a tail blows off behind a yellow flongboo, he doesn't look so distinguished as he did before the wind blew. so the committee of sixty six had a meeting and a parleyhoo to decide what steps could be taken by talking to do something. for chairman they picked an old flongboo who was an umpire and used to umpire many mix-ups. among the flongboos he was called "the umpire of umpires," "the king of umpires," "the prince of umpires," "the peer of umpires." when there was a fight and a snag and a wrangle between two families living next door neighbors to each other and this old flongboo was called in to umpire and to say which family was right and which family was wrong, which family started it and which family ought to stop it, he used to say, "the best umpire is the one who knows just how far to go and how far not to go." he was from massachusetts, born near chappaquiddick, this old flongboo, and he lived there in a horse chestnut tree six feet thick half way between south hadley and northampton. and at night, before he lost his tail, he lighted up the big hollow cave inside the horse chestnut tree with his yellow torch of a tail. after he was nominated with speeches and elected with votes to be the chairman, he stood up on the platform and took a gavel and banged with the gavel and made the committee of sixty six come to order. "it is no picnic to lose your tail and we are here for business," he said, banging his gavel again. a blue fox from waco, texas, with his ears full of dry bluebonnet leaves from a hole where he lived near the brazos river, stood up and said, "mr. chairman, do i have the floor?" "you have whatever you get away with--i get your number," said the chairman. "i make a motion," said the blue fox from waco, "and i move you, sir, that this committee get on a train at philadelphia and ride on the train till it stops and then take another train and take more trains and keep on riding till we get to medicine hat, near the saskatchewan river, in the winnipeg wheat country where the head spotter of the weather makers sits on a high stool in a high tower on a high hill spotting the weather. there we will ask him if he will respectfully let us beseech him to bring back weather that will bring back our tails. it was the weather took away our tails; it is the weather can bring back our tails." "all in favor of the motion," said the chairman, "will clean their right ears with their right paws." and all the blue foxes and all the yellow flongboos began cleaning their right ears with their right paws. "all who are against the motion will clean their left ears with their left paws," said the chairman. and all the blue foxes and all the yellow flongboos began cleaning their left ears with their left paws. "the motion is carried both ways--it is a razmataz," said the chairman. "once again, all in favor of the motion will stand up on the toes of their hind legs and stick their noses straight up in the air." and all the blue foxes and all the yellow flongboos stood up on the toes of their hind legs and stuck their noses straight up in the air. "and now," said the chairman, "all who are against the motion will stand on the top and the apex of their heads, stick their hind legs straight up in the air, and make a noise like a woof woof." and then not one of the blue foxes and not one of the yellow flongboos stood on the top and the apex of his head nor stuck his hind legs up in the air nor made a noise like a woof woof. "the motion is carried and this is no picnic," said the chairman. so the committee went to philadelphia to get on a train to ride on. "would you be so kind as to tell us the way to the union depot," the chairman asked a policeman. it was the first time a flongboo ever spoke to a policeman on the streets of philadelphia. "it pays to be polite," said the policeman. "may i ask you again if you would kindly direct us to the union depot? we wish to ride on a train," said the flongboo. "polite persons and angry persons are different kinds," said the policeman. the flongboo's eyes changed their lights and a slow torch of fire sprang out behind where his tail used to be. and speaking to the policeman, he said, "sir, i must inform you, publicly and respectfully, that we are the committee of sixty six. we are honorable and distinguished representatives from places your honest and ignorant geography never told you about. this committee is going to ride on the cars to medicine hat near the saskatchewan river in the winnipeg wheat country where the blizzards and chinooks begin. we have a special message and a secret errand for the head spotter of the weather makers." "i am a polite friend of all respectable people--that is why i wear this star to arrest people who are not respectable," said the policeman, touching with his pointing finger the silver and nickel star fastened with a safety pin on his blue uniform coat. "this is the first time ever in the history of the united states that a committee of sixty-six blue foxes and flongboos has ever visited a city in the united states," insinuated the flongboo. "i beg to be mistaken," finished the policeman. "the union depot is under that clock." and he pointed to a clock near by. "i thank you for myself, i thank you for the committee of sixty six, i thank you for the sake of all the animals in the united states who have lost their tails," finished the chairman. over to the philadelphia union depot they went, all sixty-six, half blue foxes, half flongboos. as they pattered pitty-pat, pitty-pat, each with feet and toenails, ears and hair, everything but tails, into the philadelphia union depot, they had nothing to say. and yet though they had nothing to say the passengers in the union depot waiting for trains thought they had something to say and were saying it. so the passengers in the union depot waiting for trains listened. but with all their listening the passengers never heard the blue foxes and yellow flongboos say anything. "they are saying it to each other in some strange language from where they belong," said one passenger waiting for a train. "they have secrets to keep among each other, and never tell us," said another passenger. "we will find out all about it reading the newspapers upside down to-morrow morning," said a third passenger. then the blue foxes and the yellow flongboos pattered pitty-pat, pitty-pat, each with feet and toenails, ears and hair, everything except tails, pattered scritch scratch over the stone floors out into the train shed. they climbed into a special smoking car hooked on ahead of the engine. "this car hooked on ahead of the engine was put on special for us so we will always be ahead and we will get there before the train does," said the chairman to the committee. the train ran out of the train shed. it kept on the tracks and never left the rails. it came to the horseshoe curve near altoona where the tracks bend like a big horseshoe. instead of going around the long winding bend of the horseshoe tracks up and around the mountains, the train acted different. the train jumped off the tracks down into the valley and cut across in a straight line on a cut-off, jumped on the tracks again and went on toward ohio. the conductor said, "if you are going to jump the train off the tracks, tell us about it beforehand." "when we lost our tails nobody told us about it beforehand," said the old flongboo umpire. two baby blue foxes, the youngest on the committee, sat on the front platform. mile after mile of chimneys went by. four hundred smokestacks stood in a row and tubs on tubs of sooty black soot marched out. "this is the place where the black cats come to be washed," said the first baby blue fox. "i believe your affidavit," said the second blue fox. crossing ohio and indiana at night the flongboos took off the roof of the car. the conductor told them, "i must have an explanation." "it was between us and the stars," they told him. the train ran into chicago. that afternoon there were pictures upside down in the newspapers showing the blue foxes and the yellow flongboos climbing telephone poles standing on their heads eating pink ice cream with iron axes. each blue fox and yellow flongboo got a newspaper for himself and each one looked long and careful upside down to see how he looked in the picture in the newspaper climbing a telephone pole standing on his head eating pink ice cream with an iron ax. crossing minnesota the sky began to fill with the snow ghosts of minnesota snow weather. again the foxes and flongboos lifted the roof off the car, telling the conductor they would rather wreck the train than miss the big show of the snow ghosts of the first minnesota snow weather of the winter. some went to sleep but the two baby blue foxes stayed up all night watching the snow ghosts and telling snow ghost stories to each other. early in the night the first baby blue fox said to the second, "who are the snow ghosts the ghosts of?" the second baby blue fox answered, "everybody who makes a snowball, a snow man, a snow fox or a snow fish or a snow pattycake, everybody has a snow ghost." and that was only the beginning of their talk. it would take a big book to tell all that the two baby foxes told each other that night about the minnesota snow ghosts, because they sat up all night telling old stories their fathers and mothers and grandfathers and grandmothers told them, and making up new stories never heard before about where the snow ghosts go on christmas morning and how the snow ghosts watch the new year in. somewhere between winnipeg and moose jaw, somewhere it was they stopped the train and all ran out in the snow where the white moon was shining down a valley of birch trees. it was the snowbird valley where all the snowbirds of canada come early in the winter and make their snow shoes. at last they came to medicine hat, near the saskatchewan river, where the blizzards and the chinooks begin, where nobody works unless they have to and they nearly all have to. there they ran in the snow till they came to the place where the head spotter of the weather makers sits on a high stool in a high tower on a high hill watching the weather. "let loose another big wind to blow back our tails to us, let loose a big freeze to freeze our tails onto us again, and so let us get back our lost tails," they said to the head spotter of the weather makers. which was just what he did, giving them exactly what they wanted, so they all went back home satisfied, the blue foxes each with a big wavy brush of a tail to help him when he runs, when he eats, when he walks or talks, when he makes pictures or writes letters in the snow or when he puts a snack of bacon meat with stripes of fat and lean to hide till he wants it under a big rock by the river--and the yellow flongboos each with a long yellow torch of a tail to light up his home in a hollow tree or to light up his way when he sneaks at night on the prairie, sneaking up on the flangwayer, the hipper or the hangjast. [illustration] [illustration: "but how," he demanded, "how do i get ashore?"] the boy scout and other stories for boys by richard harding davis illustrated new york charles scribner's sons copyright, , , , , , by charles scribner's sons publisher's note richard harding davis, as a friend and fellow author has written of him, was "youth incarnate," and there is probably nothing that he wrote of which a boy would not some day come to feel the appeal. but there are certain of his stories that go with especial directness to a boy's heart and sympathies and make for him quite unforgettable literature. a few of these were made some years ago into a volume, "stories for boys," and found a large and enthusiastic special public in addition to davis's general readers; and the present collection from stories more recently published is issued with the same motive. this book takes its title from "the boy scout," the first of its tales; and it includes "the boy who cried wolf," "blood will tell," the immortal "gallegher," and "the bar sinister," davis's famous dog story. it is a fresh volume added to what augustus thomas calls "safe stuff to give to a young fellow who likes to take off his hat and dilate his nostrils and feel the wind in his face." contents page the boy scout the boy who cried wolf gallegher blood will tell the bar sinister illustrations "but how," he demanded, "how do i get ashore?" frontispiece jimmie dropped the valise, forced his cramped fingers into straight lines, and saluted "for god's sake," hade begged, "let me go" "why, it's gallegher," said the night editor in front of david's nose he shook a fist as large as a catcher's glove she dug the shapeless hat into david's shoulder "he's a coward! i've done with him" for a long time he kneels in the sawdust the boy scout and other stories for boys the boy scout a rule of the boy scouts is every day to do some one a good turn. not because the copy-books tell you it deserves another, but in spite of that pleasing possibility. if you are a true scout, until you have performed your act of kindness your day is dark. you are as unhappy as is the grown-up who has begun his day without shaving or reading the new york _sun_. but as soon as you have proved yourself you may, with a clear conscience, look the world in the face and untie the knot in your kerchief. jimmie reeder untied the accusing knot in his scarf at just ten minutes past eight on a hot august morning after he had given one dime to his sister sadie. with that she could either witness the first-run films at the palace, or by dividing her fortune patronize two of the nickel shows on lenox avenue. the choice jimmie left to her. he was setting out for the annual encampment of the boy scouts at hunter's island, and in the excitement of that adventure even the movies ceased to thrill. but sadie also could be unselfish. with a heroism of a camp-fire maiden she made a gesture which might have been interpreted to mean she was returning the money. "i can't, jimmie!" she gasped. "i can't take it off you. you saved it, and you ought to get the fun of it." "i haven't saved it yet," said jimmie. "i'm going to cut it out of the railroad fare. i'm going to get off at city island instead of at pelham manor and walk the difference. that's ten cents cheaper." sadie exclaimed with admiration: "an' you carryin' that heavy grip!" "aw, that's nothin'," said the man of the family. "good-by, mother. so long, sadie." to ward off further expressions of gratitude he hurriedly advised sadie to take in "the curse of cain" rather than "the mohawks' last stand," and fled down the front steps. he wore his khaki uniform. on his shoulders was his knapsack, from his hands swung his suitcase and between his heavy stockings and his "shorts" his kneecaps, unkissed by the sun, as yet unscathed by blackberry vines, showed as white and fragile as the wrists of a girl. as he moved toward the "l" station at the corner, sadie and his mother waved to him; in the street, boys too small to be scouts hailed him enviously; even the policeman glancing over the newspapers on the news-stand nodded approval. "you a scout, jimmie?" he asked. "no," retorted jimmie, for was not he also in uniform? "i'm santa claus out filling christmas stockings." the patrolman also possessed a ready wit. "then get yourself a pair," he advised. "if a dog was to see your legs----" jimmie escaped the insult by fleeing up the steps of the elevated. an hour later, with his valise in one hand and staff in the other, he was tramping up the boston post road and breathing heavily. the day was cruelly hot. before his eyes, over an interminable stretch of asphalt, the heat waves danced and flickered. already the knapsack on his shoulders pressed upon him like an old man of the sea; the linen in the valise had turned to pig iron, his pipe-stem legs were wabbling, his eyes smarted with salt sweat, and the fingers supporting the valise belonged to some other boy, and were giving that boy much pain. but as the motor-cars flashed past with raucous warnings, or, that those who rode might better see the boy with bare knees, passed at "half speed," jimmie stiffened his shoulders and stepped jauntily forward. even when the joy-riders mocked with "oh, you scout!" he smiled at them. he was willing to admit to those who rode that the laugh was on the one who walked. and he regretted--oh, so bitterly--having left the train. he was indignant that for his "one good turn a day" he had not selected one less strenuous. that, for instance, he had not assisted a frightened old lady through the traffic. to refuse the dime she might have offered, as all true scouts refuse all tips, would have been easier than to earn it by walking five miles, with the sun at ninety-nine degrees, and carrying excess baggage. twenty times james shifted the valise to the other hand, twenty times he let it drop and sat upon it. and then, as again he took up his burden, the good samaritan drew near. he drew near in a low gray racing-car at the rate of forty miles an hour, and within a hundred feet of jimmie suddenly stopped and backed toward him. the good samaritan was a young man with white hair. he wore a suit of blue, a golf cap; the hands that held the wheel were disguised in large yellow gloves. he brought the car to a halt and surveyed the dripping figure in the road with tired and uncurious eyes. [illustration: jimmie dropped the valise, forced his cramped fingers into straight lines, and saluted.] "you a boy scout?" he asked. with alacrity for the twenty-first time jimmie dropped the valise, forced his cramped fingers into straight lines, and saluted. the young man in the car nodded toward the seat beside him. "get in," he commanded. when james sat panting happily at his elbow the old young man, to jimmie's disappointment, did not continue to shatter the speed limit. instead, he seemed inclined for conversation, and the car, growling indignantly, crawled. "i never saw a boy scout before," announced the old young man. "tell me about it. first, tell me what you do when you're not scouting." jimmie explained volubly. when not in uniform he was an office-boy and from pedlers and beggars guarded the gates of carroll and hastings, stock-brokers. he spoke the names of his employers with awe. it was a firm distinguished, conservative, and long-established. the white-haired young man seemed to nod in assent. "do you know them?" demanded jimmie suspiciously. "are you a customer of ours?" "i know them," said the young man. "they are customers of mine." jimmie wondered in what way carroll and hastings were customers of the white-haired young man. judging him by his outer garments, jimmie guessed he was a fifth avenue tailor; he might be even a haberdasher. jimmie continued. he lived, he explained, with his mother at one hundred and forty-sixth street; sadie, his sister, attended the public school; he helped support them both, and he now was about to enjoy a well-earned vacation camping out on hunter's island, where he would cook his own meals and, if the mosquitoes permitted, sleep in a tent. "and you like that?" demanded the young man. "you call that fun?" "sure!" protested jimmie. "don't _you_ go camping out?" "i go camping out," said the good samaritan, "whenever i leave new york." jimmie had not for three years lived in wall street not to understand that the young man spoke in metaphor. "you don't look," objected the young man critically, "as though you were built for the strenuous life." jimmie glanced guiltily at his white knees. "you ought ter see me two weeks from now," he protested. "i get all sunburnt and hard--hard as anything!" the young man was incredulous. "you were near getting sunstroke when i picked you up," he laughed. "if you're going to hunter's island why didn't you take the third avenue to pelham manor?" "that's right!" assented jimmie eagerly. "but i wanted to save the ten cents so's to send sadie to the movies. so i walked." the young man looked his embarrassment. "i beg your pardon," he murmured. but jimmie did not hear him. from the back of the car he was dragging excitedly at the hated suitcase. "stop!" he commanded. "i got ter get out. i got ter _walk_." the young man showed his surprise. "walk!" he exclaimed. "what is it--a bet?" jimmie dropped the valise and followed it into the roadway. it took some time to explain to the young man. first, he had to be told about the scout law and the one good turn a day, and that it must involve some personal sacrifice. and, as jimmie pointed out, changing from a slow suburban train to a racing-car could not be listed as a sacrifice. he had not earned the money, jimmie argued; he had only avoided paying it to the railroad. if he did not walk he would be obtaining the gratitude of sadie by a falsehood. therefore, he must walk. "not at all," protested the young man. "you've got it wrong. what good will it do your sister to have you sunstruck? i think you _are_ sunstruck. you're crazy with the heat. you get in here, and we'll talk it over as we go along." hastily jimmie backed away. "i'd rather walk," he said. the young man shifted his legs irritably. "then how'll this suit you?" he called. "we'll declare that first 'one good turn' a failure and start afresh. do me a good turn." jimmie halted in his tracks and looked back suspiciously. "i'm going to hunter's island inn," called the young man, "and i've lost my way. you get in here and guide me. that'll be doing me a good turn." on either side of the road, blotting out the landscape, giant hands picked out in electric-light bulbs pointed the way to hunter's island inn. jimmie grinned and nodded toward them. "much obliged," he called, "i got ter walk." turning his back upon temptation, he wabbled forward into the flickering heat waves. the young man did not attempt to pursue. at the side of the road, under the shade of a giant elm, he had brought the car to a halt and with his arms crossed upon the wheel sat motionless, following with frowning eyes the retreating figure of jimmie. but the narrow-chested and knock-kneed boy staggering over the sun-baked asphalt no longer concerned him. it was not jimmie, but the code preached by jimmie, and not only preached but before his eyes put into practice, that interested him. the young man with white hair had been running away from temptation. at forty miles an hour he had been running away from the temptation to do a fellow mortal "a good turn." that morning, to the appeal of a drowning cæsar to "help me, cassius, or i sink," he had answered, "sink!" that answer he had no wish to reconsider. that he might not reconsider he had sought to escape. it was his experience that a sixty-horse-power racing-machine is a jealous mistress. for retrospective, sentimental, or philanthropic thoughts she grants no leave of absence. but he had not escaped. jimmie had halted him, tripped him by the heels and set him again to thinking. within the half-hour that followed those who rolled past saw at the side of the road a car with her engine running, and leaning upon the wheel, as unconscious of his surroundings as though he sat at his own fireplace, a young man who frowned and stared at nothing. the half-hour passed and the young man swung his car back toward the city. but at the first roadhouse that showed a blue-and-white telephone sign he left it, and into the iron box at the end of the bar dropped a nickel. he wished to communicate with mr. carroll, of carroll and hastings; and when he learned mr. carroll had just issued orders that he must not be disturbed, the young man gave his name. the effect upon the barkeeper was instantaneous. with the aggrieved air of one who feels he is the victim of a jest he laughed scornfully. "what are you putting over?" he demanded. the young man smiled reassuringly. he had begun to speak and, though apparently engaged with the beer-glass he was polishing, the barkeeper listened. down in wall street the senior member of carroll and hastings also listened. he was alone in the most private of all his private offices, and when interrupted had been engaged in what, of all undertakings, is the most momentous. on the desk before him lay letters to his lawyer, to the coroner, to his wife; and hidden by a mass of papers, but within reach of his hand, an automatic pistol. the promise it offered of swift release had made the writing of the letters simple, had given him a feeling of complete detachment, had released him, at least in thought, from all responsibilities. and when at his elbow the telephone coughed discreetly, it was as though some one had called him from a world from which already he had made his exit. mechanically, through mere habit, he lifted the receiver. the voice over the telephone came in brisk staccato sentences. "that letter i sent this morning? forget it. tear it up. i've been thinking and i'm going to take a chance. i've decided to back you boys, and i know you'll make good. i'm speaking from a roadhouse in the bronx; going straight from here to the bank. so you can begin to draw against us within an hour. and--hello!--will three millions see you through?" from wall street there came no answer, but from the hands of the barkeeper a glass crashed to the floor. the young man regarded the barkeeper with puzzled eyes. "he doesn't answer," he exclaimed. "he must have hung up." "he must have fainted!" said the barkeeper. the white-haired one pushed a bill across the counter. "to pay for breakage," he said, and disappeared down pelham parkway. throughout the day, with the bill, for evidence, pasted against the mirror, the barkeeper told and retold the wondrous tale. "he stood just where you're standing now," he related, "blowing in million-dollar bills like you'd blow suds off a beer. if i'd knowed it was _him_, i'd have hit him once, and hid him in the cellar for the reward. who'd i think he was? i thought he was a wire-tapper, working a con game!" mr. carroll had not "hung up," but when in the bronx the beer-glass crashed, in wall street the receiver had slipped from the hand of the man who held it, and the man himself had fallen forward. his desk hit him in the face and woke him--woke him to the wonderful fact that he still lived; that at forty he had been born again; that before him stretched many more years in which, as the young man with the white hair had pointed out, he still could make good. the afternoon was far advanced when the staff of carroll and hastings were allowed to depart, and, even late as was the hour, two of them were asked to remain. into the most private of the private offices carroll invited gaskell, the head clerk; in the main office hastings had asked young thorne, the bond clerk, to be seated. until the senior partner has finished with gaskell young thorne must remain seated. "gaskell," said mr. carroll, "if we had listened to you, if we'd run this place as it was when father was alive, this never would have happened. it _hasn't_ happened, but we've had our lesson. and after this we're going slow and going straight. and we don't need you to tell us how to do that. we want you to go away--on a month's vacation. when i thought we were going under i planned to send the children on a sea-voyage with the governess--so they wouldn't see the newspapers. but now that i can look them in the eye again, i need them, i can't let them go. so, if you'd like to take your wife on an ocean trip to nova scotia and quebec, here are the cabins i reserved for the kids. they call it the royal suite--whatever that is--and the trip lasts a month. the boat sails to-morrow morning. don't sleep too late or you may miss her." * * * * * the head clerk was secreting the tickets in the inside pocket of his waistcoat. his fingers trembled, and when he laughed his voice trembled. "miss the boat!" the head clerk exclaimed. "if she gets away from millie and me she's got to start now. we'll go on board to-night!" a half-hour later millie was on her knees packing a trunk, and her husband was telephoning to the drug-store for a sponge bag and a cure for sea-sickness. owing to the joy in her heart and to the fact that she was on her knees, millie was alternately weeping into the trunk-tray and offering up incoherent prayers of thanksgiving. suddenly she sank back upon the floor. "john!" she cried, "doesn't it seem sinful to sail away in a 'royal suite' and leave this beautiful flat empty?" over the telephone john was having trouble with the drug clerk. "no!" he explained, "i'm not sea-sick _now_. the medicine i want is to be taken later. i _know_ i'm speaking from the pavonia; but the pavonia isn't a ship; it's an apartment-house." he turned to millie. "we can't be in two places at the same time," he suggested. "but, think," insisted millie, "of all the poor people stifling to-night in this heat, trying to sleep on the roofs and fire-escapes; and our flat so cool and big and pretty--and no one in it." john nodded his head proudly. "i know it's big," he said, "but it isn't big enough to hold all the people who are sleeping to-night on the roofs and in the parks." "i was thinking of your brother--and grace," said millie. "they've been married only two weeks now, and they're in a stuffy hall bedroom and eating with all the other boarders. think what our flat would mean to them; to be by themselves, with eight rooms and their own kitchen and bath, and our new refrigerator and the gramophone! it would be heaven! it would be a real honeymoon!" abandoning the drug clerk, john lifted millie in his arms and kissed her, for next to his wife nearest his heart was the younger brother. * * * * * the younger brother and grace were sitting on the stoop of the boarding-house. on the upper steps, in their shirt-sleeves, were the other boarders; so the bride and bridegroom spoke in whispers. the air of the cross street was stale and stagnant; from it rose exhalations of rotting fruit, the gases of an open subway, the smoke of passing taxicabs. but between the street and the hall bedroom, with its odors of a gas-stove and a kitchen, the choice was difficult. "we've got to cool off somehow," the young husband was saying, "or you won't sleep. shall we treat ourselves to ice-cream sodas or a trip on the weehawken ferry-boat?" "the ferry-boat!" begged the girl, "where we can get away from all these people." a taxicab with a trunk in front whirled into the street, kicked itself to a stop, and the head clerk and millie spilled out upon the pavement. they talked so fast, and the younger brother and grace talked so fast, that the boarders, although they listened intently, could make nothing of it. they distinguished only the concluding sentences: "why don't you drive down to the wharf with us," they heard the elder brother ask, "and see our royal suite?" but the younger brother laughed him to scorn. "what's your royal suite," he mocked, "to our royal palace?" an hour later, had the boarders listened outside the flat of the head clerk, they would have heard issuing from his bathroom the cooling murmur of running water and from his gramophone the jubilant notes of "alexander's ragtime band." when in his private office carroll was making a present of the royal suite to the head clerk, in the main office hastings, the junior partner, was addressing "champ" thorne, the bond clerk. he addressed him familiarly and affectionately as "champ." this was due partly to the fact that twenty-six years before thorne had been christened champneys and to the coincidence that he had captained the football eleven of one of the big three to the championship. "champ," said mr. hastings, "last month, when you asked me to raise your salary, the reason i didn't do it was not because you didn't deserve it, but because i believed if we gave you a raise you'd immediately get married." the shoulders of the ex-football captain rose aggressively; he snorted with indignation. "and why should i _not_ get married?" he demanded. "you're a fine one to talk! you're the most offensively happy married man i ever met." "perhaps i know i am happy better than you do," reproved the junior partner; "but i know also that it takes money to support a wife." "you raise me to a hundred a week," urged champ, "and i'll make it support a wife whether it supports me or not." "a month ago," continued hastings, "we could have _promised_ you a hundred, but we didn't know how long we could pay it. we didn't want you to rush off and marry some fine girl----" "some fine girl!" muttered mr. thorne. "the finest girl!" "the finer the girl," hastings pointed out, "the harder it would have been for you if we had failed and you had lost your job." the eyes of the young man opened with sympathy and concern. "is it as bad as that?" he murmured. hastings sighed happily. "it _was_," he said, "but this morning the young man of wall street did us a good turn--saved us--saved our creditors, saved our homes, saved our honor. we're going to start fresh and pay our debts, and we agreed the first debt we paid would be the small one we owe you. you've brought us more than we've given, and if you'll stay with us we're going to 'see' your fifty and raise it a hundred. what do you say?" young mr. thorne leaped to his feet. what he said was: "where'n hell's my hat?" but by the time he had found the hat and the door he mended his manners. "i say, 'thank you a thousand times,'" he shouted over his shoulder. "excuse me, but i've got to go. i've got to break the news to----" he did not explain to whom he was going to break the news; but hastings must have guessed, for again he sighed happily and then, a little hysterically, laughed aloud. several months had passed since he had laughed aloud. in his anxiety to break the news champ thorne almost broke his neck. in his excitement he could not remember whether the red flash meant the elevator was going down or coming up, and sooner than wait to find out he started to race down eighteen flights of stairs when fortunately the elevator-door swung open. "you get five dollars," he announced to the elevator man, "if you drop to the street without a stop. beat the speed limit! act like the building is on fire and you're trying to save me before the roof falls." senator barnes and his entire family, which was his daughter barbara, were at the ritz-carlton. they were in town in august because there was a meeting of the directors of the brazil and cuyaba rubber company, of which company senator barnes was president. it was a secret meeting. those directors who were keeping cool at the edge of the ocean had been summoned by telegraph; those who were steaming across the ocean, by wireless. up from the equator had drifted the threat of a scandal, sickening, grim, terrible. as yet it burned beneath the surface, giving out only an odor, but an odor as rank as burning rubber itself. at any moment it might break into flame. for the directors, was it the better wisdom to let the scandal smoulder, and take a chance, or to be the first to give the alarm, the first to lead the way to the horror and stamp it out? it was to decide this that, in the heat of august, the directors and the president had foregathered. champ thorne knew nothing of this; he knew only that by a miracle barbara barnes was in town; that at last he was in a position to ask her to marry him; that she would certainly say she would. that was all he cared to know. a year before he had issued his declaration of independence. before he could marry, he told her, he must be able to support a wife on what he earned, without her having to accept money from her father, and until he received "a minimum wage" of five thousand dollars they must wait. "what is the matter with my father's money?" barbara had demanded. thorne had evaded the direct question. "there is too much of it," he said. "do you object to the way he makes it?" insisted barbara. "because rubber is most useful. you put it in golf balls and auto tires and galoches. there is nothing so perfectly respectable as galoches. and what is there 'tainted' about a raincoat?" thorne shook his head unhappily. "it's not the finished product to which i refer," he stammered; "it's the way they get the raw material." "they get it out of trees," said barbara. then she exclaimed with enlightenment----"oh!" she cried, "you are thinking of the congo. there it is terrible! _that_ is slavery. but there are no slaves on the amazon. the natives are free and the work is easy. they just tap the trees the way the farmers gather sugar in vermont. father has told me about it often." thorne had made no comment. he could abuse a friend, if the friend were among those present, but denouncing any one he disliked as heartily as he disliked senator barnes was a public service he preferred to leave to others. and he knew besides that, if the father she loved and the man she loved distrusted each other, barbara would not rest until she learned the reason why. one day, in a newspaper, barbara read of the puju mayo atrocities, of the indian slaves in the jungles and back waters of the amazon, who are offered up as sacrifices to "red rubber." she carried the paper to her father. what it said, her father told her, was untrue, and if it were true it was the first he had heard of it. senator barnes loved the good things of life, but the thing he loved most was his daughter; the thing he valued the highest was her good opinion. so when for the first time she looked at him in doubt, he assured her he at once would order an investigation. "but, of course," he added, "it will be many months before our agents can report. on the amazon news travels very slowly." in the eyes of his daughter the doubt still lingered. "i am afraid," she said, "that that is true." that was six months before the directors of the brazil and cuyaba rubber company were summoned to meet their president at his rooms in the ritz-carlton. they were due to arrive in half an hour, and while senator barnes awaited their coming barbara came to him. in her eyes was a light that helped to tell the great news. it gave him a sharp, jealous pang. he wanted at once to play a part in her happiness, to make her grateful to him, not alone to this stranger who was taking her away. so fearful was he that she would shut him out of her life that had she asked for half his kingdom he would have parted with it. "and besides giving my consent," said the rubber king, "for which no one seems to have asked, what can i give my little girl to make her remember her old father? some diamonds to put on her head, or pearls to hang around her neck, or does she want a vacant lot on fifth avenue?" the lovely hands of barbara rested upon his shoulders; her lovely face was raised to his; her lovely eyes were appealing, and a little frightened. "what would one of those things cost?" asked barbara. the question was eminently practical. it came within the scope of the senator's understanding. after all, he was not to be cast into outer darkness. his smile was complacent. he answered airily: "anything you like," he said; "a million dollars?" the fingers closed upon his shoulders. the eyes, still frightened, still searched his in appeal. "then for my wedding-present," said the girl, "i want you to take that million dollars and send an expedition to the amazon. and i will choose the men. men unafraid; men not afraid of fever or sudden death; not afraid to tell the truth--even to _you_. and all the world will know. and they--i mean _you_--will set those people free!" senator barnes received the directors with an embarrassment which he concealed under a manner of just indignation. "my mind is made up," he told them. "existing conditions cannot continue. and to that end, at my own expense, i am sending an expedition across south america. it will investigate, punish, and establish reforms. i suggest, on account of this damned heat, we do now adjourn." that night, over on long island, carroll told his wife all, or nearly all. he did not tell her about the automatic pistol. and together on tiptoe they crept to the nursery and looked down at their sleeping children. when she rose from her knees the mother said, "but how can i thank him?" by "him" she meant the young man of wall street. "you never can thank him," said carroll; "that's the worst of it." but after a long silence the mother said: "i will send him a photograph of the children. do you think he will understand?" down at seabright, hastings and his wife walked in the sunken garden. the moon was so bright that the roses still held their color. "i would like to thank him," said the young wife. she meant the young man of wall street. "but for him we would have lost _this_." her eyes caressed the garden, the fruit-trees, the house with wide, hospitable verandas. "to-morrow i will send him some of these roses," said the young wife. "will he understand that they mean our home?" at a scandalously late hour, in a scandalous spirit of independence, champ thorne and barbara were driving around central park in a taxicab. "how strangely the lord moves, his wonders to perform," misquoted barbara. "had not the young man of wall street saved mr. hastings, mr. hastings could not have raised your salary; you would not have asked me to marry you, and had you not asked me to marry you, father would not have given me a wedding-present, and----" "and," said champ, taking up the tale, "thousands of slaves would still be buried in the jungles, hidden away from their wives and children, and the light of the sun and their fellow men. they still would be dying of fever, starvation, tortures." he took her hand in both of his and held her finger-tips against his lips. "and they will never know," he whispered, "when their freedom comes, that they owe it all to _you_." * * * * * on hunter's island jimmie reeder and his bunkie, sam sturges, each on his canvas cot, tossed and twisted. the heat, the moonlight, and the mosquitoes would not let them even think of sleep. "that was bully," said jimmie, "what you did to-day about saving that dog. if it hadn't been for you he'd ha' drownded." "he would _not_!" said sammy with punctilious regard for the truth; "it wasn't deep enough." "well, the scout-master ought to know," argued jimmie; "he said it was the best 'one good turn' of the day!" modestly sam shifted the limelight so that it fell upon his bunkie. "i'll bet," he declared loyally, "_your_ 'one good turn' was a better one!" jimmie yawned, and then laughed scornfully. "me," he scoffed, "i didn't do nothing. i sent my sister to the movies." the boy who cried wolf before he finally arrested him, "jimmie" sniffen had seen the man with the golf-cap, and the blue eyes that laughed at you, three times. twice, unexpectedly, he had come upon him in a wood road and once on round hill where the stranger was pretending to watch the sunset. jimmie knew people do not climb hills merely to look at sunsets, so he was not deceived. he guessed the man was a german spy seeking gun sites, and secretly vowed to "stalk" him. from that moment, had the stranger known it, he was as good as dead. for a boy scout with badges on his sleeve for "stalking" and "path-finding," not to boast of others for "gardening" and "cooking," can outwit any spy. even had general baden-powell remained in mafeking and not invented the boy scout, jimmie sniffen would have been one. because by birth he was a boy, and by inheritance a scout. in westchester county the sniffens are one of the county families. if it isn't a sarles, it's a sniffen; and with brundages, platts, and jays, the sniffens date back to when the acres of the first charles ferris ran from the boston post road to the coach road to albany, and when the first gouverneur morris stood on one of his hills and saw the indian canoes in the hudson and in the sound and rejoiced that all the land between belonged to him. if you do not believe in heredity, the fact that jimmie's great-great-grandfather was a scout for general washington and hunted deer, and even bear, over exactly the same hills where jimmie hunted weasels will count for nothing. it will not explain why to jimmie, from tarrytown to port chester, the hills, the roads, the woods, and the cowpaths, caves, streams, and springs hidden in the woods were as familiar as his own kitchen garden. nor explain why, when you could not see a pease and elliman "for sale" sign nailed to a tree, jimmie could see in the highest branches a last year's bird's nest. or why, when he was out alone playing indians and had sunk his scout's axe into a fallen log and then scalped the log, he felt that once before in those same woods he had trailed that same indian, and with his own tomahawk split open his skull. sometimes when he knelt to drink at a secret spring in the forest, the autumn leaves would crackle and he would raise his eyes fearing to see a panther facing him. "but there ain't no panthers in westchester," jimmie would reassure himself. and in the distance the roar of an automobile climbing a hill with the muffler open would seem to suggest he was right. but still jimmie remembered once before he had knelt at that same spring, and that when he raised his eyes he had faced a crouching panther. "mebbe dad told me it happened to grandpop," jimmie would explain, "or i dreamed it, or, mebbe, i read it in a story book." the "german spy" mania attacked round hill after the visit to the boy scouts of clavering gould, the war correspondent. he was spending the week-end with "squire" harry van vorst, and as young van vorst, besides being a justice of the peace and a master of beagles and president of the country club, was also a local "councilman" for the round hill scouts, he brought his guest to a camp-fire meeting to talk to them. in deference to his audience, gould told them of the boy scouts he had seen in belgium and of the part they were playing in the great war. it was his peroration that made trouble. "and any day," he assured his audience, "this country may be at war with germany; and every one of you boys will be expected to do his bit. you can begin now. when the germans land it will be near new haven, or new bedford. they will first capture the munition works at springfield, hartford, and watervliet so as to make sure of their ammunition, and then they will start for new york city. they will follow the new haven and new york central railroads, and march straight through this village. i haven't the least doubt," exclaimed the enthusiastic war prophet, "that at this moment german spies are as thick in westchester as blackberries. they are here to select camp sites and gun positions, to find out which of these hills enfilade the others and to learn to what extent their armies can live on the country. they are counting the cows, the horses, the barns where fodder is stored; and they are marking down on their maps the wells and streams." as though at that moment a german spy might be crouching behind the door, mr. gould spoke in a whisper. "keep your eyes open!" he commanded. "watch every stranger. if he acts suspiciously, get word quick to your sheriff, or to judge van vorst here. remember the scouts' motto, 'be prepared!'" that night as the scouts walked home, behind each wall and hayrick they saw spiked helmets. young van vorst was extremely annoyed. "next time you talk to my scouts," he declared, "you'll talk on 'votes for women.' after what you said to-night every real-estate agent who dares open a map will be arrested. we're not trying to drive people away from westchester, we're trying to sell them building sites." "_you_ are not!" retorted his friend, "you own half the county now, and you're trying to buy the other half." "i'm a justice of the peace," explained van vorst. "i don't know _why_ i am, except that they wished it on me. all i get out of it is trouble. the italians make charges against my best friends for over-speeding, and i have to fine them, and my best friends bring charges against the italians for poaching, and when i fine the italians they send me black hand letters. and now every day i'll be asked to issue a warrant for a german spy who is selecting gun sites. and he will turn out to be a millionaire who is tired of living at the ritz-carlton and wants to 'own his own home' and his own golf-links. and he'll be so hot at being arrested that he'll take his millions to long island and try to break into the piping rock club. and it will be your fault!" the young justice of the peace was right. at least so far as jimmie sniffen was concerned, the words of the war prophet had filled one mind with unrest. in the past jimmie's idea of a holiday had been to spend it scouting in the woods. in this pleasure he was selfish. he did not want companions who talked, and trampled upon the dead leaves so that they frightened the wild animals and gave the indians warning. jimmie liked to pretend. he liked to fill the woods with wary and hostile adversaries. it was a game of his own inventing. if he crept to the top of a hill and, on peering over it, surprised a fat woodchuck, he pretended the woodchuck was a bear, weighing two hundred pounds; if, himself unobserved, he could lie and watch, off its guard, a rabbit, squirrel, or, most difficult of all, a crow, it became a deer and that night at supper jimmie made believe he was eating venison. sometimes he was a scout of the continental army and carried despatches to general washington. the rules of that game were that if any man ploughing in the fields, or cutting trees in the woods, or even approaching along the same road, saw jimmie before jimmie saw him, jimmie was taken prisoner, and before sunrise was shot as a spy. he was seldom shot. or else why on his sleeve was the badge for "stalking"? but always to have to make believe became monotonous. even "dry shopping" along the rue de la paix, when you pretend you can have anything you see in any window, leaves one just as rich, but unsatisfied. so the advice of the war correspondent to seek out german spies came to jimmie like a day at the circus, like a week at the danbury fair. it not only was a call to arms, to protect his flag and home, but a chance to play in earnest the game in which he most delighted. no longer need he pretend. no longer need he waste his energies in watching, unobserved, a greedy rabbit rob a carrot field. the game now was his fellow-man and his enemy; not only his enemy, but the enemy of his country. in his first effort jimmie was not entirely successful. the man looked the part perfectly; he wore an auburn beard, disguising spectacles, and he carried a suspicious knapsack. but he turned out to be a professor from the museum of natural history, who wanted to dig for indian arrow-heads. and when jimmie threatened to arrest him, the indignant gentleman arrested jimmie. jimmie escaped only by leading the professor to a secret cave of his own, though on some one else's property, where one not only could dig for arrow-heads, but find them. the professor was delighted, but for jimmie it was a great disappointment. the week following jimmie was again disappointed. on the bank of the kensico reservoir, he came upon a man who was acting in a mysterious and suspicious manner. he was making notes in a book, and his runabout which he had concealed in a wood road was stuffed with blue-prints. it did not take jimmie long to guess his purpose. he was planning to blow up the kensico dam, and cut off the water supply of new york city. seven millions of people without water! without firing a shot, new york must surrender! at the thought jimmie shuddered, and at the risk of his life, by clinging to the tail of a motor truck, he followed the runabout into white plains. but there it developed the mysterious stranger, so far from wishing to destroy the kensico dam, was the state engineer who had built it, and, also, a large part of the panama canal. nor in his third effort was jimmie more successful. from the heights of pound ridge he discovered on a hilltop below him a man working along upon a basin of concrete. the man was a german-american, and already on jimmie's list of "suspects." that for the use of the german artillery he was preparing a concrete bed for a siege gun was only too evident. but closer investigation proved that the concrete was only two inches thick. and the hyphenated one explained that the basin was built over a spring, in the waters of which he planned to erect a fountain and raise goldfish. it was a bitter blow. jimmie became discouraged. meeting judge van vorst one day in the road he told him his troubles. the young judge proved unsympathetic. "my advice to you, jimmie," he said, "is to go slow. accusing everybody of espionage is a very serious matter. if you call a man a spy, it's sometimes hard for him to disprove it; and the name sticks. so, go slow--very slow. before you arrest any more people, come to me first for a warrant." so, the next time jimmie proceeded with caution. besides being a farmer in a small way, jimmie's father was a handy man with tools. he had no union card, but, in laying shingles along a blue chalk line, few were as expert. it was august, there was no school, and jimmie was carrying a dinner-pail to where his father was at work on a new barn. he made a cross-cut through the woods, and came upon the young man in the golf-cap. the stranger nodded, and his eyes, which seemed to be always laughing, smiled pleasantly. but he was deeply tanned, and, from the waist up, held himself like a soldier, so, at once, jimmie mistrusted him. early the next morning jimmie met him again. it had not been raining, but the clothes of the young man were damp. jimmie guessed that while the dew was still on the leaves the young man had been forcing his way through underbrush. the stranger must have remembered jimmie, for he laughed and exclaimed: "ah, my friend with the dinner-pail! it's luck you haven't got it now, or i'd hold you up. i'm starving!" jimmie smiled in sympathy. "it's early to be hungry," said jimmie; "when did you have your breakfast?" "i didn't," laughed the young man. "i went out to walk up an appetite, and i lost myself. but i haven't lost my appetite. which is the shortest way back to bedford?" "the first road to your right," said jimmie. "is it far?" asked the stranger anxiously. that he was very hungry was evident. "it's a half-hour's walk," said jimmie. "if i live that long," corrected the young man; and stepped out briskly. jimmie knew that within a hundred yards a turn in the road would shut him from sight. so, he gave the stranger time to walk that distance, and then, diving into the wood that lined the road, "stalked" him. from behind a tree he saw the stranger turn and look back, and seeing no one in the road behind him, also leave it and plunge into the woods. he had not turned toward bedford; he had turned to the left. like a runner stealing bases, jimmie slipped from tree to tree. ahead of him he heard the stranger trampling upon dead twigs, moving rapidly as one who knew his way. at times through the branches jimmie could see the broad shoulders of the stranger, and again could follow his progress only by the noise of the crackling twigs. when the noises ceased, jimmie guessed the stranger had reached the wood road, grass-grown and moss-covered, that led to middle patent. so, he ran at right angles until he also reached it, and as now he was close to where it entered the main road, he approached warily. but he was too late. there was a sound like the whir of a rising partridge, and ahead of him from where it had been hidden, a gray touring-car leaped into the highway. the stranger was at the wheel. throwing behind it a cloud of dust, the car raced toward greenwich. jimmie had time to note only that it bore a connecticut state license; that in the wheel-ruts the tires printed little v's, like arrow-heads. for a week jimmie saw nothing of the spy, but for many hot and dusty miles he stalked arrow-heads. they lured him north, they lured him south, they were stamped in soft asphalt, in mud, dust, and fresh-spread tarvia. wherever jimmie walked, arrow-heads ran before. in his sleep as in his copy-book, he saw endless chains of v's. but not once could he catch up with the wheels that printed them. a week later, just at sunset as he passed below round hill, he saw the stranger on top of it. on the skyline, in silhouette against the sinking sun, he was as conspicuous as a flagstaff. but to approach him was impossible. for acres round hill offered no other cover than stubble. it was as bald as a skull. until the stranger chose to descend, jimmie must wait. and the stranger was in no haste. the sun sank and from the west jimmie saw him turn his face east toward the sound. a storm was gathering, drops of rain began to splash and as the sky grew black the figure on the hilltop faded into the darkness. and then, at the very spot where jimmie had last seen it, there suddenly flared two tiny flashes of fire. jimmie leaped from cover. it was no longer to be endured. the spy was signalling. the time for caution had passed, now was the time to act. jimmie raced to the top of the hill, and found it empty. he plunged down it, vaulted a stone wall, forced his way through a tangle of saplings, and held his breath to listen. just beyond him, over a jumble of rocks, a hidden stream was tripping and tumbling. joyfully it laughed and gurgled. jimmie turned hot. it sounded as though from the darkness the spy mocked him. jimmie shook his fist at the enshrouding darkness. above the tumult of the coming storm and the tossing tree-tops, he raised his voice. "you wait!" he shouted. "i'll get you yet! next time, i'll bring a gun." next time was the next morning. there had been a hawk hovering over the chicken yard, and jimmie used that fact to explain his borrowing the family shotgun. he loaded it with buckshot, and, in the pocket of his shirt buttoned his license to "hunt, pursue and kill, to take with traps or other devices." he remembered that judge van vorst had warned him, before he arrested more spies, to come to him for a warrant. but with an impatient shake of the head jimmie tossed the recollection from him. after what he had seen he could not possibly be again mistaken. he did not need a warrant. what he had seen was his warrant--plus the shotgun. as a "pathfinder" should, he planned to take up the trail where he had lost it, but, before he reached round hill, he found a warmer trail. before him, stamped clearly in the road still damp from the rain of the night before, two lines of little arrow-heads pointed the way. they were so fresh that at each twist in the road, lest the car should be just beyond him, jimmie slackened his steps. after half a mile the scent grew hot. the tracks were deeper, the arrow-heads more clearly cut, and jimmie broke into a run. then, the arrow-heads swung suddenly to the right, and in a clearing at the edge of a wood, were lost. but the tires had pressed deep into the grass, and just inside the wood, he found the car. it was empty. jimmie was drawn two ways. should he seek the spy on the nearest hilltop, or, until the owner returned, wait by the car? between lying in ambush and action, jimmie preferred action. but, he did not climb the hill nearest the car; he climbed the hill that overlooked that hill. flat on the ground, hidden in the goldenrod, he lay motionless. before him, for fifteen miles stretched hills and tiny valleys. six miles away to his right rose the stone steeple, and the red roofs of greenwich. directly before him were no signs of habitation, only green forests, green fields, gray stone walls, and, where a road ran up-hill, a splash of white, that quivered in the heat. the storm of the night before had washed the air. each leaf stood by itself. nothing stirred; and in the glare of the august sun every detail of the landscape was as distinct as those in a colored photograph; and as still. in his excitement the scout was trembling. "if he moves," he sighed happily, "i've got him!" opposite, across a little valley was the hill at the base of which he had found the car. the slope toward him was bare, but the top was crowned with a thick wood; and along its crest, as though establishing an ancient boundary, ran a stone wall, moss-covered and wrapped in poison-ivy. in places, the branches of the trees, reaching out to the sun, overhung the wall and hid it in black shadows. jimmie divided the hill into sectors. he began at the right, and slowly followed the wall. with his eyes he took it apart, stone by stone. had a chipmunk raised his head, jimmie would have seen him. so, when from the stone wall, like the reflection of the sun upon a window-pane, something flashed, jimmie knew he had found his spy. a pair of binoculars had betrayed him. jimmie now saw him clearly. he sat on the ground at the top of the hill opposite, in the deep shadow of an oak, his back against the stone wall. with the binoculars to his eyes he had leaned too far forward, and upon the glass the sun had flashed a warning. jimmie appreciated that his attack must be made from the rear. backward, like a crab he wriggled free of the goldenrod, and hidden by the contour of the hill, raced down it and into the woods on the hill opposite. when he came to within twenty feet of the oak beneath which he had seen the stranger, he stood erect, and as though avoiding a live wire, stepped on tiptoe to the wall. the stranger still sat against it. the binoculars hung from a cord around his neck. across his knees was spread a map. he was marking it with a pencil, and as he worked he hummed a tune. jimmie knelt, and resting the gun on the top of the wall, covered him. "throw up your hands!" he commanded. the stranger did not start. except that he raised his eyes he gave no sign that he had heard. his eyes stared across the little sun-filled valley. they were half closed as though in study, as though perplexed by some deep and intricate problem. they appeared to see beyond the sun-filled valley some place of greater moment, some place far distant. then the eyes smiled, and slowly, as though his neck were stiff, but still smiling, the stranger turned his head. when he saw the boy, his smile was swept away in waves of surprise, amazement, and disbelief. these were followed instantly by an expression of the most acute alarm. "don't point that thing at me!" shouted the stranger. "is it loaded?" with his cheek pressed to the stock and his eye squinted down the length of the brown barrel, jimmie nodded. the stranger flung up his open palms. they accented his expression of amazed incredulity. he seemed to be exclaiming, "can such things be?" "get up!" commanded jimmie. with alacrity the stranger rose. "walk over there," ordered the scout. "walk backward. stop! take off those field-glasses and throw them to me." without removing his eyes from the gun the stranger lifted the binoculars from his neck and tossed them to the stone wall. "see here!" he pleaded, "if you'll only point that damned blunderbuss the other way, you can have the glasses, and my watch, and clothes, and all my money; only don't----" jimmie flushed crimson. "you can't bribe me," he growled. at least, he tried to growl, but because his voice was changing, or because he was excited the growl ended in a high squeak. with mortification, jimmie flushed a deeper crimson. but the stranger was not amused. at jimmie's words he seemed rather the more amazed. "i'm not trying to bribe you," he protested. "if you don't want anything, why are you holding me up?" "i'm not," returned jimmie, "i'm arresting you!" the stranger laughed with relief. again his eyes smiled. "oh," he cried, "i see! have i been trespassing?" with a glance jimmie measured the distance between himself and the stranger. reassured, he lifted one leg after the other over the wall. "if you try to rush me," he warned, "i'll shoot you full of buckshot." the stranger took a hasty step _backward_. "don't worry about that," he exclaimed. "i'll not rush you. why am i arrested?" hugging the shotgun with his left arm, jimmie stopped and lifted the binoculars. he gave them a swift glance, slung them over his shoulder, and again clutched his weapon. his expression was now stern and menacing. "the name on them," he accused, "is 'weiss, berlin.' is that your name?" the stranger smiled, but corrected himself, and replied gravely, "that's the name of the firm that makes them." jimmie exclaimed in triumph. "hah!" he cried, "made in germany!" the stranger shook his head. "i don't understand," he said. "where _would_ a weiss glass be made?" with polite insistence he repeated, "would you mind telling me why i am arrested, and who _you_ might happen to be?" jimmie did not answer. again he stooped and picked up the map, and as he did so, for the first time the face of the stranger showed that he was annoyed. jimmie was not at home with maps. they told him nothing. but the penciled notes on this one made easy reading. at his first glance he saw, "correct range, , yards"; "this stream not fordable"; "slope of hill degrees inaccessible for artillery." "wire entanglements here"; "forage for five squadrons." jimmie's eyes flashed. he shoved the map inside his shirt, and with the gun motioned toward the base of the hill. "keep forty feet ahead of me," he commanded, "and walk to your car." the stranger did not seem to hear him. he spoke with irritation. "i suppose," he said, "i'll have to explain to you about that map." "not to me, you won't," declared his captor. "you're going to drive straight to judge van vorst's, and explain to _him_!" the stranger tossed his arms even higher. "thank god!" he exclaimed gratefully. with his prisoner jimmie encountered no further trouble. he made a willing captive. and if in covering the five miles to judge van vorst's he exceeded the speed limit, the fact that from the rear seat jimmie held the shotgun against the base of his skull was an extenuating circumstance. they arrived in the nick of time. in his own car young van vorst and a bag of golf clubs were just drawing away from the house. seeing the car climbing the steep driveway that for a half-mile led from his lodge to his front door, and seeing jimmie standing in the tonneau brandishing a gun, the judge hastily descended. the sight of the spy hunter filled him with misgiving, but the sight of him gave jimmie sweet relief. arresting german spies for a small boy is no easy task. for jimmie the strain was great. and now that he knew he had successfully delivered him into the hands of the law, jimmie's heart rose with happiness. the added presence of a butler of magnificent bearing and of an athletic looking chauffeur increased his sense of security. their presence seemed to afford a feeling of security to the prisoner also. as he brought the car to a halt, he breathed a sigh. it was a sigh of deep relief. jimmie fell from the tonneau. in concealing his sense of triumph, he was not entirely successful. "i got him!" he cried. "i didn't make no mistake about _this_ one!" "what one?" demanded van vorst. jimmie pointed dramatically at his prisoner. with an anxious expression the stranger was tenderly fingering the back of his head. he seemed to wish to assure himself that it was still there. "_that_ one!" cried jimmie. "he's a german spy!" the patience of judge van vorst fell from him. in his exclamation was indignation, anger, reproach. "jimmie!" he cried. jimmie thrust into his hand the map. it was his "exhibit a." "look what he's wrote," commanded the scout. "it's all military words. and these are his glasses. i took 'em off him. they're made in _germany_! i been stalking him for a week. he's a spy!" when jimmie thrust the map before his face, van vorst had glanced at it. then he regarded it more closely. as he raised his eyes they showed that he was puzzled. but he greeted the prisoner politely. "i'm extremely sorry you've been annoyed," he said. "i'm only glad it's no worse. he might have shot you. he's mad over the idea that every stranger he sees----" the prisoner quickly interrupted. "please!" he begged, "don't blame the boy. he behaved extremely well. might i speak with you--_alone_?" he asked. judge van vorst led the way across the terrace, and to the smoking-room, that served also as his office, and closed the door. the stranger walked directly to the mantelpiece and put his finger on a gold cup. "i saw your mare win that at belmont park," he said. "she must have been a great loss to you?" "she was," said van vorst. "the week before she broke her back, i refused three thousand for her. will you have a cigarette?" the stranger waved aside the cigarettes. "i brought you inside," he said, "because i didn't want your servants to hear; and because i don't want to hurt that boy's feelings. he's a fine boy; and he's a damned clever scout. i knew he was following me and i threw him off twice, but to-day he caught me fair. if i really had been a german spy, i couldn't have got away from him. and i want him to think he _has_ captured a german spy. because he deserves just as much credit as though he had, and because it's best he shouldn't know whom he _did_ capture." van vorst pointed to the map. "my bet is," he said, "that you're an officer of the state militia, taking notes for the fall manoeuvres. am i right?" the stranger smiled in approval, but shook his head. "you're warm," he said, "but it's more serious than manoeuvres. it's the real thing." from his pocketbook he took a visiting card and laid it on the table. "i'm 'sherry' mccoy," he said, "captain of artillery in the united states army." he nodded to the hand telephone on the table. "you can call up governor's island and get general wood or his aide, captain dorey, on the phone. they sent me here. ask _them_. i'm not picking out gun sites for the germans; i'm picking out positions of defense for americans when the germans come!" van vorst laughed derisively. "my word!" he exclaimed. "you're as bad as jimmie!" captain mccoy regarded him with disfavor. "and you, sir," he retorted, "are as bad as ninety million other americans. you _won't_ believe! when the germans are shelling this hill, when they're taking your hunters to pull their cook-wagons, maybe, you'll believe _then_." "are you serious?" demanded van vorst. "and you an army officer?" "that's why i am serious," returned mccoy. "_we_ know. but when we try to prepare for what is coming, we must do it secretly--in underhand ways, for fear the newspapers will get hold of it and ridicule us, and accuse us of trying to drag the country into war. that's why we have to prepare under cover. that's why i've had to skulk around these hills like a chicken thief. and," he added sharply, "that's why that boy must not know who i am. if he does, the general staff will get a calling down at washington, and i'll have my ears boxed." van vorst moved to the door. "he will never learn the truth from me," he said. "for i will tell him you are to be shot at sunrise." "good!" laughed the captain. "and tell me his name. if ever we fight over westchester county, i want that lad for my chief of scouts. and give him this. tell him to buy a new scout uniform. tell him it comes from you." but no money could reconcile jimmie to the sentence imposed upon his captive. he received the news with a howl of anguish. "you mustn't," he begged; "i never knowed you'd _shoot_ him! i wouldn't have caught him if i'd knowed that. i couldn't sleep if i thought he was going to be shot at sunrise." at the prospect of unending nightmares jimmie's voice shook with terror. "make it for twenty years," he begged. "make it for ten," he coaxed, "but, _please_, promise you won't shoot him." when van vorst returned to captain mccoy, he was smiling, and the butler who followed, bearing a tray and tinkling glasses, was trying not to smile. "i gave jimmie your ten dollars," said van vorst, "and made it twenty, and he has gone home. you will be glad to hear that he begged me to spare your life, and that your sentence has been commuted to twenty years in a fortress. i drink to your good fortune." "no!" protested captain mccoy, "we will drink to jimmie!" when captain mccoy had driven away, and his own car and the golf clubs had again been brought to the steps, judge van vorst once more attempted to depart; but he was again delayed. other visitors were arriving. up the driveway a touring-car approached, and though it limped on a flat tire, it approached at reckless speed. the two men in the front seat were white with dust; their faces, masked by automobile glasses, were indistinguishable. as though preparing for an immediate exit, the car swung in a circle until its nose pointed down the driveway up which it had just come. raising his silk mask the one beside the driver shouted at judge van vorst. his throat was parched, his voice was hoarse and hot with anger. "a gray touring-car," he shouted. "it stopped here. we saw it from that hill. then the damn tire burst, and we lost our way. where did he go?" "who?" demanded van vorst, stiffly, "captain mccoy?" the man exploded with an oath. the driver, with a shove of his elbow, silenced him. "yes, captain mccoy," assented the driver eagerly. "which way did he go?" "to new york," said van vorst. the driver shrieked at his companion. "then, he's doubled back," he cried. "he's gone to new haven." he stooped and threw in the clutch. the car lurched forward. a cold terror swept young van vorst. "what do you want with him?" he called. "who _are_ you?" over one shoulder the masked face glared at him. above the roar of the car the words of the driver were flung back. "we're secret service from washington," he shouted. "he's from their embassy. he's a german spy!" leaping and throbbing at sixty miles an hour, the car vanished in a curtain of white, whirling dust. gallegher a newspaper story we had had so many office-boys before gallegher came among us that they had begun to lose the characteristics of individuals, and became merged in a composite photograph of small boys, to whom we applied the generic title of "here, you"; or "you, boy." we had had sleepy boys, and lazy boys, and bright, "smart" boys, who became so familiar on so short an acquaintance that we were forced to part with them to save our own self-respect. they generally graduated into district-messenger boys, and occasionally returned to us in blue coats with nickel-plated buttons, and patronized us. but gallegher was something different from anything we had experienced before. gallegher was short and broad in build, with a solid, muscular broadness, and not a fat and dumpy shortness. he wore perpetually on his face a happy and knowing smile, as if you and the world in general were not impressing him as seriously as you thought you were, and his eyes, which were very black and very bright, snapped intelligently at you like those of a little black-and-tan terrier. all gallegher knew had been learnt on the streets; not a very good school in itself, but one that turns out very knowing scholars. and gallegher had attended both morning and evening sessions. he could not tell you who the pilgrim fathers were, nor could he name the thirteen original states, but he knew all the officers of the twenty-second police district by name, and he could distinguish the clang of a fire-engine's gong from that of a patrol-wagon or an ambulance fully two blocks distant. it was gallegher who rang the alarm when the woolwich mills caught fire, while the officer on the beat was asleep, and it was gallegher who led the "black diamonds" against the "wharf rats," when they used to stone each other to their heart's content on the coal-wharves of richmond. i am afraid, now that i see these facts written down, that gallegher was not a reputable character; but he was so very young and so very old for his years that we all liked him very much nevertheless. he lived in the extreme northern part of philadelphia, where the cotton and woollen mills run down to the river, and how he ever got home after leaving the _press_ building at two in the morning, was one of the mysteries of the office. sometimes he caught a night car, and sometimes he walked all the way, arriving at the little house, where his mother and himself lived alone, at four in the morning. occasionally he was given a ride on an early milk-cart, or on one of the newspaper delivery wagons, with its high piles of papers still damp and sticky from the press. he knew several drivers of "night hawks"--those cabs that prowl the streets at night looking for belated passengers--and when it was a very cold morning he would not go home at all, but would crawl into one of these cabs and sleep, curled up on the cushions, until daylight. besides being quick and cheerful, gallegher possessed a power of amusing the _press's_ young men to a degree seldom attained by the ordinary mortal. his clog-dancing on the city editor's desk, when that gentleman was up-stairs fighting for two more columns of space, was always a source of innocent joy to us, and his imitations of the comedians of the variety halls delighted even the dramatic critic, from whom the comedians themselves failed to force a smile. but gallegher's chief characteristic was his love for that element of news generically classed as "crime." not that he ever did anything criminal himself. on the contrary, his was rather the work of the criminal specialist, and his morbid interest in the doings of all queer characters, his knowledge of their methods, their present whereabouts, and their past deeds of transgression often rendered him a valuable ally to our police reporter, whose daily feuilletons were the only portion of the paper gallegher deigned to read. in gallegher the detective element was abnormally developed. he had shown this on several occasions, and to excellent purpose. once the paper had sent him into a home for destitute orphans which was believed to be grievously mismanaged, and gallegher, while playing the part of a destitute orphan, kept his eyes open to what was going on around him so faithfully that the story he told of the treatment meted out to the real orphans was sufficient to rescue the unhappy little wretches from the individual who had them in charge, and to have the individual himself sent to jail. gallegher's knowledge of the aliases, terms of imprisonment, and various misdoings of the leading criminals in philadelphia was almost as thorough as that of the chief of police himself, and he could tell to an hour when "dutchy mack" was to be let out of prison, and could identify at a glance "dick oxford, confidence man," as "gentleman dan, petty thief." there were, at this time, only two pieces of news in any of the papers. the least important of the two was the big fight between the champion of the united states and the would-be champion, arranged to take place near philadelphia; the second was the burrbank murder, which was filling space in newspapers all over the world, from new york to bombay. richard f. burrbank was one of the most prominent of new york's railroad lawyers; he was also, as a matter of course, an owner of much railroad stock, and a very wealthy man. he had been spoken of as a political possibility for many high offices, and, as the counsel for a great railroad, was known even further than the great railroad itself had stretched its system. at six o'clock one morning he was found by his butler lying at the foot of the hall stairs with two pistol wounds above his heart. he was quite dead. his safe, to which only he and his secretary had the keys, was found open, and $ , in bonds, stocks, and money, which had been placed there only the night before, was found missing. the secretary was missing also. his name was stephen s. hade, and his name and his description had been telegraphed and cabled to all parts of the world. there was enough circumstantial evidence to show, beyond any question or possibility of mistake, that he was the murderer. it made an enormous amount of talk, and unhappy individuals were being arrested all over the country, and sent on to new york for identification. three had been arrested at liverpool, and one man just as he landed at sydney, australia. but so far the murderer had escaped. we were all talking about it one night, as everybody else was all over the country, in the local room, and the city editor said it was worth a fortune to any one who chanced to run across hade and succeeded in handing him over to the police. some of us thought hade had taken passage from some one of the smaller seaports, and others were of the opinion that he had buried himself in some cheap lodging-house in new york, or in one of the smaller towns in new jersey. "i shouldn't be surprised to meet him out walking, right here in philadelphia," said one of the staff. "he'll be disguised, of course, but you could always tell him by the absence of the trigger finger on his right hand. it's missing, you know; shot off when he was a boy." "you want to look for a man dressed like a tough," said the city editor; "for as this fellow is to all appearances a gentleman, he will try to look as little like a gentleman as possible." "no, he won't," said gallegher, with that calm impertinence that made him dear to us. "he'll dress just like a gentleman. toughs don't wear gloves, and you see he's got to wear 'em. the first thing he thought of after doing for burrbank was of that gone finger, and how he was to hide it. he stuffed the finger of that glove with cotton so's to make it look like a whole finger, and the first time he takes off that glove they've got him--see, and he knows it. so what youse want to do is to look for a man with gloves on. i've been a-doing it for two weeks now, and i can tell you it's hard work, for everybody wears gloves this kind of weather. but if you look long enough you'll find him. and when you think it's him, go up to him and hold out your hand in a friendly way, like a bunco-steerer, and shake his hand; and if you feel that his forefinger ain't real flesh, but just wadded cotton, then grip to it with your right and grab his throat with your left, and holler for help." there was an appreciative pause. "i see, gentlemen," said the city editor, dryly, "that gallegher's reasoning has impressed you; and i also see that before the week is out all of my young men will be under bonds for assaulting innocent pedestrians whose only offense is that they wear gloves in midwinter." * * * * * it was about a week after this that detective hefflefinger, of inspector byrnes's staff, came over to philadelphia after a burglar, of whose whereabouts he had been misinformed by telegraph. he brought the warrant, requisition, and other necessary papers with him, but the burglar had flown. one of our reporters had worked on a new york paper, and knew hefflefinger, and the detective came to the office to see if he could help him in his so far unsuccessful search. he gave gallegher his card, and after gallegher had read it, and had discovered who the visitor was, he became so demoralized that he was absolutely useless. "one of byrnes's men" was a much more awe-inspiring individual to gallegher than a member of the cabinet. he accordingly seized his hat and overcoat, and leaving his duties to be looked after by others, hastened out after the object of his admiration, who found his suggestions and knowledge of the city so valuable, and his company so entertaining, that they became very intimate, and spent the rest of the day together. in the meanwhile the managing editor had instructed his subordinates to inform gallegher, when he condescended to return, that his services were no longer needed. gallegher had played truant once too often. unconscious of this, he remained with his new friend until late the same evening, and started the next afternoon toward the _press_ office. * * * * * as i have said, gallegher lived in the most distant part of the city, not many minutes' walk from the kensington railroad station, where trains ran into the suburbs and on to new york. it was in front of this station that a smoothly shaven, well-dressed man brushed past gallegher and hurried up the steps to the ticket office. he held a walking-stick in his right hand, and gallegher, who now patiently scrutinized the hands of every one who wore gloves, saw that while three fingers of the man's hand were closed around the cane, the fourth stood out in almost a straight line with his palm. gallegher stopped with a gasp and with a trembling all over his little body, and his brain asked with a throb if it could be possible. but possibilities and probabilities were to be discovered later. now was the time for action. he was after the man in a moment, hanging at his heels and his eyes moist with excitement. he heard the man ask for a ticket to torresdale, a little station just outside of philadelphia, and when he was out of hearing, but not out of sight, purchased one for the same place. the stranger went into the smoking-car, and seated himself at one end toward the door. gallegher took his place at the opposite end. he was trembling all over, and suffered from a slight feeling of nausea. he guessed it came from fright, not of any bodily harm that might come to him, but of the probability of failure in his adventure and of its most momentous possibilities. the stranger pulled his coat collar up around his ears, hiding the lower portion of his face, but not concealing the resemblance in his troubled eyes and close-shut lips to the likenesses of the murderer hade. they reached torresdale in half an hour, and the stranger, alighting quickly, struck off at a rapid pace down the country road leading to the station. gallegher gave him a hundred yards' start, and then followed slowly after. the road ran between fields and past a few frame-houses set far from the road in kitchen gardens. once or twice the man looked back over his shoulder, but he saw only a dreary length of road with a small boy splashing through the slush in the midst of it and stopping every now and again to throw snowballs at belated sparrows. after a ten minutes' walk the stranger turned into a side road which led to only one place, the eagle inn, an old roadside hostelry known now as the headquarters for pothunters from the philadelphia game market and the battleground of many a cock-fight. gallegher knew the place well. he and his young companions had often stopped there when out chestnutting on holidays in the autumn. the son of the man who kept it had often accompanied them on their excursions, and though the boys of the city streets considered him a dumb lout, they respected him somewhat owing to his inside knowledge of dog and cock-fights. the stranger entered the inn at a side door, and gallegher, reaching it a few minutes later, let him go for the time being, and set about finding his occasional playmate, young keppler. keppler's offspring was found in the woodshed. "tain't hard to guess what brings you out here," said the tavern-keeper's son, with a grin; "it's the fight." "what fight?" asked gallegher, unguardedly. "what fight? why, _the_ fight," returned his companion, with the slow contempt of superior knowledge. "it's to come off here to-night. you knew that as well as me; anyway your sportin' editor knows it. he got the tip last night, but that won't help you any. you needn't think there's any chance of your getting a peep at it. why, tickets is two hundred and fifty apiece!" "whew!" whistled gallegher, "where's it to be?" "in the barn," whispered keppler. "i helped 'em fix the ropes this morning, i did." "gosh, but you're in luck," exclaimed gallegher, with flattering envy. "couldn't i jest get a peep at it?" "maybe," said the gratified keppler. "there's a winder with a wooden shutter at the back of the barn. you can get in by it, if you have some one to boost you up to the sill." "sa-a-y," drawled gallegher, as if something had but just that moment reminded him. "who's that gent who come down the road just a bit ahead of me--him with the cape-coat! has he got anything to do with the fight?" "him?" repeated keppler in tones of sincere disgust. "no-oh, he ain't no sport. he's queer, dad thinks. he come here one day last week about ten in the morning, said his doctor told him to go out 'en the country for his health. he's stuck up and citified, and wears gloves, and takes his meals private in his room, and all that sort of ruck. they was saying in the saloon last night that they thought he was hiding from something, and dad, just to try him, asks him last night if he was coming to see the fight. he looked sort of scared, and said he didn't want to see no fight. and then dad says, 'i guess you mean you don't want no fighters to see you.' dad didn't mean no harm by it, just passed it as a joke; but mr. carleton, as he calls himself, got white as a ghost an' says, 'i'll go to the fight willing enough,' and begins to laugh and joke. and this morning he went right into the bar-room, where all the sports were setting, and said he was going into town to see some friends; and as he starts off he laughs an' says, 'this don't look as if i was afraid of seeing people, does it?' but dad says it was just bluff that made him do it, and dad thinks that if he hadn't said what he did, this mr. carleton wouldn't have left his room at all." gallegher had got all he wanted, and much more than he had hoped for--so much more that his walk back to the station was in the nature of a triumphal march. he had twenty minutes to wait for the next train, and it seemed an hour. while waiting he sent a telegram to hefflefinger at his hotel. it read: your man is near the torresdale station, on pennsylvania railroad; take cab, and meet me at station. wait until i come. gallegher. with the exception of one at midnight, no other train stopped at torresdale that evening, hence the direction to take a cab. the train to the city seemed to gallegher to drag itself by inches. it stopped and backed at purposeless intervals, waited for an express to precede it, and dallied at stations, and when, at last, it reached the terminus, gallegher was out before it had stopped and was in the cab and off on his way to the home of the sporting editor. the sporting editor was at dinner and came out in the hall to see him, with his napkin in his hand. gallegher explained breathlessly that he had located the murderer for whom the police of two continents were looking, and that he believed, in order to quiet the suspicions of the people with whom he was hiding, that he would be present at the fight that night. the sporting editor led gallegher into his library and shut the door. "now," he said, "go over all that again." gallegher went over it again in detail, and added how he had sent for hefflefinger to make the arrest in order that it might be kept from the knowledge of the local police and from the philadelphia reporters. "what i want hefflefinger to do is to arrest hade with the warrant he has for the burglar," explained gallegher; "and to take him on to new york on the owl train that passes torresdale at one. it don't get to jersey city until four o'clock, one hour after the morning papers go to press. of course, we must fix hefflefinger so's he'll keep quiet and not tell who his prisoner really is." the sporting editor reached his hand out to pat gallegher on the head, but changed his mind and shook hands with him instead. "my boy," he said, "you are an infant phenomenon. if i can pull the rest of this thing off to-night it will mean the $ , reward and fame galore for you and the paper. now, i'm going to write a note to the managing editor, and you can take it around to him and tell him what you've done and what i am going to do, and he'll take you back on the paper and raise your salary. perhaps you didn't know you've been discharged?" "do you think you ain't a-going to take me with you?" demanded gallegher. "why, certainly not. why should i? it all lies with the detective and myself now. you've done your share, and done it well. if the man's caught, the reward's yours. but you'd only be in the way now. you'd better go to the office and make your peace with the chief." "if the paper can get along without me, i can get along without the old paper," said gallegher, hotly. "and if i ain't a-going with you, you ain't neither, for i know where hefflefinger is to be, and you don't, and i won't tell you." "oh, very well, very well," replied the sporting editor, weakly capitulating. "i'll send the note by a messenger; only mind, if you lose your place, don't blame me." gallegher wondered how this man could value a week's salary against the excitement of seeing a noted criminal run down, and of getting the news to the paper, and to that one paper alone. from that moment the sporting editor sank in gallegher's estimation. mr. dwyer sat down at his desk and scribbled off the following note: i have received reliable information that hade, the burrbank murderer, will be present at the fight to-night. we have arranged it so that he will be arrested quietly and in such a manner that the fact may be kept from all other papers. i need not point out to you that this will be the most important piece of news in the country to-morrow. yours, etc., michael e. dwyer. the sporting editor stepped into the waiting cab, while gallegher whispered the directions to the driver. he was told to go first to a district-messenger office, and from there up to the ridge avenue road, out broad street, and on to the old eagle inn, near torresdale. * * * * * it was a miserable night. the rain and snow were falling together, and freezing as they fell. the sporting editor got out to send his message to the _press_ office, and then lighting a cigar, and turning up the collar of his great-coat, curled up in the corner of the cab. "wake me when we get there, gallegher," he said. he knew he had a long ride, and much rapid work before him, and he was preparing for the strain. to gallegher the idea of going to sleep seemed almost criminal. from the dark corner of the cab his eyes shone with excitement, and with the awful joy of anticipation. he glanced every now and then to where the sporting editor's cigar shone in the darkness, and watched it as it gradually burnt more dimly and went out. the lights in the shop windows threw a broad glare across the ice on the pavements, and the lights from the lamp-posts tossed the distorted shadow of the cab, and the horse, and the motionless driver, sometimes before and sometimes behind them. after half an hour gallegher slipped down to the bottom of the cab and dragged out a lap-robe, in which he wrapped himself. it was growing colder, and the damp, keen wind swept in through the cracks until the window-frames and woodwork were cold to the touch. an hour passed, and the cab was still moving more slowly over the rough surface of partly paved streets, and by single rows of new houses standing at different angles to each other in fields covered with ash-heaps and brick-kilns. here and there the gaudy lights of a drug-store, and the forerunner of suburban civilization, shone from the end of a new block of houses, and the rubber cape of an occasional policeman showed in the light of the lamp-post that he hugged for comfort. then even the houses disappeared, and the cab dragged its way between truck farms, with desolate-looking glass-covered beds, and pools of water, half-caked with ice, and bare trees, and interminable fences. once or twice the cab stopped altogether, and gallegher could hear the driver swearing to himself, or at the horse, or the roads. at last they drew up before the station at torresdale. it was quite deserted, and only a single light cut a swath in the darkness and showed a portion of the platform, the ties, and the rails glistening in the rain. they walked twice past the light before a figure stepped out of the shadow and greeted them cautiously. "i am mr. dwyer, of the _press_," said the sporting editor, briskly. "you've heard of me, perhaps. well, there shouldn't be any difficulty in our making a deal, should there? this boy here has found hade, and we have reason to believe he will be among the spectators at the fight to-night. we want you to arrest him quietly, and as secretly as possible. you can do it with your papers and your badge easily enough. we want you to pretend that you believe he is this burglar you came over after. if you will do this, and take him away without any one so much as suspecting who he really is, and on the train that passes here at . for new york, we will give you $ out of the $ , reward. if, however, one other paper, either in new york or philadelphia, or anywhere else, knows of the arrest, you won't get a cent. now, what do you say?" the detective had a great deal to say. he wasn't at all sure the man gallegher suspected was hade; he feared he might get himself into trouble by making a false arrest, and if it should be the man, he was afraid the local police would interfere. "we've no time to argue or debate this matter," said dwyer, warmly. "we agree to point hade out to you in the crowd. after the fight is over you arrest him as we have directed, and you get the money and the credit of the arrest. if you don't like this, i will arrest the man myself, and have him driven to town, with a pistol for a warrant." hefflefinger considered in silence and then agreed unconditionally. "as you say, mr. dwyer," he returned. "i've heard of you for a thoroughbred sport. i know you'll do what you say you'll do; and as for me i'll do what you say and just as you say, and it's a very pretty piece of work as it stands." they all stepped back into the cab, and then it was that they were met by a fresh difficulty, how to get the detective into the barn where the fight was to take place, for neither of the two men had $ to pay for his admittance. but this was overcome when gallegher remembered the window of which young keppler had told him. in the event of hade's losing courage and not daring to show himself in the crowd around the ring, it was agreed that dwyer should come to the barn and warn hefflefinger; but if he should come, dwyer was merely to keep near him and to signify by a prearranged gesture which one of the crowd he was. they drew up before a great black shadow of a house, dark, forbidding, and apparently deserted. but at the sound of the wheels on the gravel the door opened, letting out a stream of warm, cheerful light, and a man's voice said, "put out those lights. don't youse know no better than that?" this was keppler, and he welcomed mr. dwyer with effusive courtesy. the two men showed in the stream of light, and the door closed on them, leaving the house as it was at first, black and silent, save for the dripping of the rain and snow from the eaves. the detective and gallegher put out the cab's lamps and led the horse toward a long, low shed in the rear of the yard, which they now noticed was almost filled with teams of many different makes, from the hobson's choice of a livery stable to the brougham of the man about town. "no," said gallegher, as the cabman stopped to hitch the horse beside the others, "we want it nearest that lower gate. when we newspaper men leave this place we'll leave it in a hurry, and the man who is nearest town is likely to get there first. you won't be a-following of no hearse when you make your return trip." gallegher tied the horse to the very gate-post itself, leaving the gate open and allowing a clear road and a flying start for the prospective race to newspaper row. the driver disappeared under the shelter of the porch, and gallegher and the detective moved off cautiously to the rear of the barn. "this must be the window," said hefflefinger, pointing to a broad wooden shutter some feet from the ground. "just you give me a boost once, and i'll get that open in a jiffy," said gallegher. the detective placed his hands on his knees, and gallegher stood upon his shoulders, and with the blade of his knife lifted the wooden button that fastened the window on the inside, and pulled the shutter open. then he put one leg inside over the sill, and leaning down helped to draw his fellow-conspirator up to a level with the window. "i feel just like i was burglarizing a house," chuckled gallegher, as he dropped noiselessly to the floor below and refastened the shutter. the barn was a large one, with a row of stalls on either side in which horses and cows were dozing. there was a haymow over each row of stalls, and at one end of the barn a number of fence-rails had been thrown across from one mow to the other. these rails were covered with hay. in the middle of the floor was the ring. it was not really a ring, but a square, with wooden posts at its four corners through which ran a heavy rope. the space enclosed by the rope was covered with sawdust. gallegher could not resist stepping into the ring, and after stamping the sawdust once or twice, as if to assure himself that he was really there, began dancing around it, and indulging in such a remarkable series of fistic manoeuvres with an imaginary adversary that the unimaginative detective precipitately backed into a corner of the barn. "now, then," said gallegher, having apparently vanquished his foe, "you come with me." his companion followed quickly as gallegher climbed to one of the hay-mows, and, crawling carefully out on the fence-rail, stretched himself at full length, face downward. in this position, by moving the straw a little, he could look down, without being himself seen, upon the heads of whomsoever stood below. "this is better'n a private box, ain't it?" said gallegher. the boy from the newspaper office and the detective lay there in silence, biting at straws and tossing anxiously on their comfortable bed. it seemed fully two hours before they came. gallegher had listened without breathing, and with every muscle on a strain, at least a dozen times, when some movement in the yard had led him to believe that they were at the door. and he had numerous doubts and fears. sometimes it was that the police had learnt of the fight, and had raided keppler's in his absence, and again it was that the fight had been postponed, or, worst of all, that it would be put off until so late that mr. dwyer could not get back in time for the last edition of the paper. their coming, when at last they came, was heralded by an advance-guard of two sporting men, who stationed themselves at either side of the big door. "hurry up, now, gents," one of the men said with a shiver, "don't keep this door open no longer'n is needful." it was not a very large crowd, but it was wonderfully well selected. it ran, in the majority of its component parts, to heavy white coats with pearl buttons. the white coats were shouldered by long blue coats with astrakhan fur trimmings, the wearers of which preserved a cliqueness not remarkable when one considers that they believed every one else present to be either a crook or a prize-fighter. there were well-fed, well-groomed club-men and brokers in the crowd, a politician or two, a popular comedian with his manager, amateur boxers from the athletic clubs, and quiet, close-mouthed sporting men from every city in the country. their names if printed in the papers would have been as familiar as the types of the papers themselves. and among these men, whose only thought was of the brutal sport to come, was hade, with dwyer standing at ease at his shoulder--hade, white, and visibly in deep anxiety, hiding his pale face beneath a cloth travelling-cap, and with his chin muffled in a woollen scarf. he had dared to come because he feared his danger from the already suspicious keppler was less than if he stayed away. and so he was there, hovering restlessly on the border of the crowd, feeling his danger and sick with fear. when hefflefinger first saw him he started up on his hands and elbows and made a movement forward as if he would leap down then and there and carry off his prisoner single-handed. "lie down," growled gallegher; "an officer of any sort wouldn't live three minutes in that crowd." the detective drew back slowly and buried himself again in the straw, but never once through the long fight which followed did his eyes leave the person of the murderer. the newspaper men took their places in the foremost row close around the ring, and kept looking at their watches and begging the master of ceremonies to "shake it up, do." there was a great deal of betting, and all of the men handled the great rolls of bills they wagered with a flippant recklessness which could only be accounted for in gallegher's mind by temporary mental derangement. some one pulled a box out into the ring and the master of ceremonies mounted it, and pointed out in forcible language that as they were almost all already under bonds to keep the peace, it behooved all to curb their excitement and to maintain a severe silence, unless they wanted to bring the police upon them and have themselves "sent down" for a year or two. then two very disreputable-looking persons tossed their respective principals' high hats into the ring, and the crowd, recognizing in this relic of the days when brave knights threw down their gauntlets in the lists as only a sign that the fight was about to begin, cheered tumultuously. this was followed by a sudden surging forward, and a mutter of admiration much more flattering than the cheers had been, when the principals followed their hats and, slipping out of their great-coats, stood forth in all the physical beauty of the perfect brute. their pink skin was as soft and healthy-looking as a baby's, and glowed in the lights of the lanterns like tinted ivory, and underneath this silken covering the great biceps and muscles moved in and out and looked like the coils of a snake around the branch of a tree. gentleman and blackguard shouldered each other for a nearer view; the coachmen, whose metal buttons were unpleasantly suggestive of police, put their hands, in the excitement of the moment, on the shoulders of their masters; the perspiration stood out in great drops on the foreheads of the backers, and the newspaper men bit somewhat nervously at the ends of their pencils. and in the stalls the cows munched contentedly at their cuds and gazed with gentle curiosity at their two fellow-brutes, who stood waiting the signal to fall upon and kill each other, if need be, for the delectation of their brothers. "take your places," commanded the master of ceremonies. in the moment in which the two men faced each other the crowd became so still that, save for the beating of the rain upon the shingled roof and the stamping of a horse in one of the stalls, the place was as silent as a church. "time," shouted the master of ceremonies. the two men sprang into a posture of defense, which was lost as quickly as it was taken, one great arm shot out like a piston-rod; there was the sound of bare fists beating on naked flesh; there was an exultant indrawn gasp of savage pleasure and relief from the crowd, and the great fight had begun. how the fortunes of war rose and fell, and changed and rechanged that night, is an old story to those who listen to such stories; and those who do not will be glad to be spared the telling of it. it was, they say, one of the bitterest fights between two men that this country has ever known. but all that is of interest here is that after an hour of this desperate, brutal business the champion ceased to be the favorite; the man whom he had taunted and bullied, and for whom the public had but little sympathy, was proving himself a likely winner, and under his cruel blows, as sharp and clean as those from a cutlass, his opponent was rapidly giving way. the men about the ropes were past all control now; they drowned keppler's petitions for silence with oaths and in inarticulate shouts of anger, as if the blows had fallen upon them, and in mad rejoicings. they swept from one end of the ring to the other, with every muscle leaping in unison with those of the man they favored, and when a new york correspondent muttered over his shoulder that this would be the biggest sporting surprise since the heenan-sayers fight, mr. dwyer nodded his head sympathetically in assent. in the excitement and tumult it is doubtful if any heard the three quickly repeated blows that fell heavily from the outside upon the big doors of the barn. if they did, it was already too late to mend matters, for the door fell, torn from its hinges, and as it fell a captain of police sprang into the light from out of the storm, with his lieutenants and their men crowding close at his shoulder. in the panic and stampede that followed, several of the men stood as helplessly immovable as though they had seen a ghost; others made a mad rush into the arms of the officers and were beaten back against the ropes of the ring; others dived headlong into the stalls, among the horses and cattle, and still others shoved the rolls of money they held into the hands of the police and begged like children to be allowed to escape. the instant the door fell and the raid was declared hefflefinger slipped over the cross rails on which he had been lying, hung for an instant by his hands, and then dropped into the centre of the fighting mob on the floor. he was out of it in an instant with the agility of a pickpocket, was across the room and at hade's throat like a dog. the murderer, for the moment, was the calmer man of the two. "here," he panted, "hands off, now. there's no need for all this violence. there's no great harm in looking at a fight, is there? there's a hundred-dollar bill in my right hand; take it and let me slip out of this. no one is looking. here." but the detective only held him the closer. "i want you for burglary," he whispered under his breath. "you've got to come with me now, and quick. the less fuss you make, the better for both of us. if you don't know who i am, you can feel my badge under my coat there. i've got the authority. it's all regular, and when we're out of this d--d row i'll show you the papers." he took one hand from hade's throat and pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. "it's a mistake. this is an outrage," gasped the murderer, white and trembling, but dreadfully alive and desperate for his liberty. "let me go, i tell you! take your hands off of me! do i look like a burglar, you fool?" "i know who you look like," whispered the detective, with his face close to the face of his prisoner. "now, will you go easy as a burglar, or shall i tell these men who you are and what i _do_ want you for? shall i call out your real name or not? shall i tell them? quick, speak up; shall i?" there was something so exultant--something so unnecessarily savage in the officer's face that the man he held saw that the detective knew him for what he really was, and the hands that had held his throat slipped down around his shoulders, or he would have fallen. the man's eyes opened and closed again, and he swayed weakly backward and forward, and choked as if his throat were dry and burning. even to such a hardened connoisseur in crime as gallegher, who stood closely by, drinking it in, there was something so abject in the man's terror that he regarded him with what was almost a touch of pity. "for god's sake," hade begged, "let me go. come with me to my room and i'll give you half the money. i'll divide with you fairly. we can both get away. there's a fortune for both of us there. we both can get away. you'll be rich for life. do you understand--for life!" but the detective, to his credit, only shut his lips the tighter. "that's enough," he whispered, in return. "that's more than i expected. you've sentenced yourself already. come!" [illustration: "for god's sake," hade begged, "let me go."] two officers in uniform barred their exit at the door, but hefflefinger smiled easily and showed his badge. "one of byrnes's men," he said, in explanation; "came over expressly to take this chap. he's a burglar; 'arlie' lane, _alias_ carleton. i've shown the papers to the captain. it's all regular. i'm just going to get his traps at the hotel and walk him over to the station. i guess we'll push right on to new york to-night." the officers nodded and smiled their admiration for the representative of what is, perhaps, the best detective force in the world, and let him pass. then hefflefinger turned and spoke to gallegher, who still stood as watchful as a dog at his side. "i'm going to his room to get the bonds and stuff," he whispered; "then i'll march him to the station and take that train. i've done my share; don't forget yours!" "oh, you'll get your money right enough," said gallegher. "and, sa-ay," he added, with the appreciative nod of an expert, "do you know, you did it rather well." mr. dwyer had been writing while the raid was settling down, as he had been writing while waiting for the fight to begin. now he walked over to where the other correspondents stood in angry conclave. the newspaper men had informed the officers who hemmed them in that they represented the principal papers of the country, and were expostulating vigorously with the captain, who had planned the raid, and who declared they were under arrest. "don't be an ass, scott," said mr. dwyer, who was too excited to be polite or politic. "you know our being here isn't a matter of choice. we came here on business, as you did, and you've no right to hold us." "if we don't get our stuff on the wire at once," protested a new york man, "we'll be too late for to-morrow's paper, and----" captain scott said he did not care a profanely small amount for to-morrow's paper, and that all he knew was that to the station-house the newspaper men would go. there they would have a hearing, and if the magistrate chose to let them off, that was the magistrate's business, but that his duty was to take them into custody. "but then it will be too late, don't you understand?" shouted mr. dwyer. "you've got to let us go _now_, at once." "i can't do it, mr. dwyer," said the captain, "and that's all there is to it. why, haven't i just sent the president of the junior republican club to the patrol-wagon, the man that put this coat on me, and do you think i can let you fellows go after that? you were all put under bonds to keep the peace not three days ago, and here you're at it--fighting like badgers. it's worth my place to let one of you off." what mr. dwyer said next was so uncomplimentary to the gallant captain scott that that overwrought individual seized the sporting editor by the shoulder, and shoved him into the hands of two of his men. this was more than the distinguished mr. dwyer could brook, and he excitedly raised his hand in resistance. but before he had time to do anything foolish his wrist was gripped by one strong little hand, and he was conscious that another was picking the pocket of his great-coat. he slapped his hands to his sides, and, looking down, saw gallegher standing close behind him and holding him by the wrist. mr. dwyer had forgotten the boy's existence, and would have spoken sharply if something in gallegher's innocent eyes had not stopped him. gallegher's hand was still in that pocket in which mr. dwyer had shoved his notebook filled with what he had written of gallegher's work and hade's final capture, and with a running descriptive account of the fight. with his eyes fixed on mr. dwyer, gallegher drew it out, and with a quick movement shoved it inside his waistcoat. mr. dwyer gave a nod of comprehension. then glancing at his two guardsmen, and finding that they were still interested in the wordy battle of the correspondents with their chief, and had seen nothing, he stooped and whispered to gallegher: "the forms are locked at twenty minutes to three. if you don't get there by that time it will be of no use, but if you're on time you'll beat the town--and the country too." gallegher's eyes flashed significantly, and, nodding his head to show he understood, started boldly on a run toward the door. but the officers who guarded it brought him to an abrupt halt, and, much to mr. dwyer's astonishment, drew from him what was apparently a torrent of tears. "let me go to me father. i want me father," the boy shrieked hysterically. "they've 'rested father. oh, daddy, daddy. they're a-goin' to take you to prison." "who is your father, sonny?" asked one of the guardians of the gate. "keppler's me father," sobbed gallegher. "they're a-goin' to lock him up, and i'll never see him no more." "oh, yes, you will," said the officer, good-naturedly; "he's there in that first patrol-wagon. you can run over and say good night to him, and then you'd better get to bed. this ain't no place for kids of your age." "thank you, sir," sniffed gallegher, tearfully, as the two officers raised their clubs, and let him pass out into the darkness. the yard outside was in a tumult, horses were stamping, and plunging, and backing the carriages into one another; lights were flashing from every window of what had been apparently an uninhabited house, and the voices of the prisoners were still raised in angry expostulation. three police patrol-wagons were moving about the yard, filled with unwilling passengers, who sat or stood, packed together like sheep and with no protection from the sleet and rain. gallegher stole off into a dark corner, and watched the scene until his eyesight became familiar with the position of the land. then with his eyes fixed fearfully on the swinging light of a lantern with which an officer was searching among the carriages, he groped his way between horses' hoofs and behind the wheels of carriages to the cab which he had himself placed at the furthermost gate. it was still there, and the horse, as he had left it, with its head turned toward the city. gallegher opened the big gate noiselessly, and worked nervously at the hitching strap. the knot was covered with a thin coating of ice, and it was several minutes before he could loosen it. but his teeth finally pulled it apart, and with the reins in his hands he sprang upon the wheel. and as he stood so, a shock of fear ran down his back like an electric current, his breath left him, and he stood immovable, gazing with wide eyes into the darkness. the officer with the lantern had suddenly loomed up from behind a carriage not fifty feet distant, and was standing perfectly still, with his lantern held over his head, peering so directly toward gallegher that the boy felt that he must see him. gallegher stood with one foot on the hub of the wheel and with the other on the box waiting to spring. it seemed a minute before either of them moved, and then the officer took a step forward, and demanded sternly, "who is that? what are you doing there?" there was no time for parley then. gallegher felt that he had been taken in the act, and that his only chance lay in open flight. he leaped up on the box, pulling out the whip as he did so, and with a quick sweep lashed the horse across the head and back. the animal sprang forward with a snort, narrowly clearing the gate-post, and plunged off into the darkness. "stop!" cried the officer. so many of gallegher's acquaintances among the 'longshoremen and mill hands had been challenged in so much the same manner that gallegher knew what would probably follow if the challenge was disregarded. so he slipped from his seat to the footboard below, and ducked his head. the three reports of a pistol, which rang out briskly from behind him, proved that his early training had given him a valuable fund of useful miscellaneous knowledge. "don't you be scared," he said, reassuringly, to the horse; "he's firing in the air." the pistol-shots were answered by the impatient clangor of a patrol-wagon's gong, and glancing over his shoulder gallegher saw its red and green lanterns tossing from side to side and looking in the darkness like the side-lights of a yacht plunging forward in a storm. "i hadn't bargained to race you against no patrol-wagons," said gallegher to his animal; "but if they want a race, we'll give them a tough tussle for it, won't we?" philadelphia, lying four miles to the south, sent up a faint yellow glow to the sky. it seemed very far away, and gallegher's braggadocio grew cold within him at the loneliness of his adventure and the thought of the long ride before him. it was still bitterly cold. the rain and sleet beat through his clothes, and struck his skin with a sharp, chilling touch that set him trembling. even the thought of the over-weighted patrol-wagon probably sticking in the mud some safe distance in the rear, failed to cheer him, and the excitement that had so far made him callous to the cold died out and left him weaker and nervous. but his horse was chilled with the long standing, and now leaped eagerly forward, only too willing to warm the half-frozen blood in its veins. "you're a good beast," said gallegher, plaintively. "you've got more nerve than me. don't you go back on me now. mr. dwyer says we've got to beat the town." gallegher had no idea what time it was as he rode through the night, but he knew he would be able to find out from a big clock over a manufactory at a point nearly three-quarters of the distance from keppler's to the goal. he was still in the open country and driving recklessly, for he knew the best part of his ride must be made outside the city limits. he raced between desolate-looking cornfields with bare stalks and patches of muddy earth rising above the thin covering of snow; truck farms and brick-yards fell behind him on either side. it was very lonely work, and once or twice the dogs ran yelping to the gates and barked after him. part of his way lay parallel with the railroad tracks, and he drove for some time beside long lines of freight and coal cars as they stood resting for the night. the fantastic queen anne suburban stations were dark and deserted, but in one or two of the block-towers he could see the operators writing at their desks, and the sight in some way comforted him. once he thought of stopping to get out the blanket in which he had wrapped himself on the first trip, but he feared to spare the time, and drove on with his teeth chattering and his shoulders shaking with the cold. he welcomed the first solitary row of darkened houses with a faint cheer of recognition. the scattered lamp-posts lightened his spirits, and even the badly paved streets rang under the beats of his horse's feet like music. great mills and manufactories, with only a night-watchman's light in the lowest of their many stories, began to take the place of the gloomy farm-houses and gaunt trees that had startled him with their grotesque shapes. he had been driving nearly an hour, he calculated, and in that time the rain had changed to a wet snow, that fell heavily and clung to whatever it touched. he passed block after block of trim work-men's houses, as still and silent as the sleepers within them, and at last he turned the horse's head into broad street, the city's great thoroughfare, that stretches from its one end to the other and cuts it evenly in two. he was driving noiselessly over the snow and slush in the street, with his thoughts bent only on the clock-face he wished so much to see, when a hoarse voice challenged him from the sidewalk. "hey, you, stop there, hold up!" said the voice. gallegher turned his head, and though he saw that the voice came from under a policeman's helmet, his only answer was to hit his horse sharply over the head with his whip and to urge it into a gallop. this, on his part, was followed by a sharp, shrill whistle from the policeman. another whistle answered it from a street-corner one block ahead of him. "whoa," said gallegher, pulling on the reins. "there's one too many of them," he added, in apologetic explanation. the horse stopped, and stood, breathing heavily, with great clouds of steam rising from its flanks. "why in hell didn't you stop when i told you to?" demanded the voice, now close at the cab's side. "i didn't hear you," returned gallegher, sweetly. "but i heard you whistle, and i heard your partner whistle, and i thought maybe it was me you wanted to speak to, so i just stopped." "you heard me well enough. why aren't your lights lit?" demanded the voice. "should i have 'em lit?" asked gallegher, bending over and regarding them with sudden interest. "you know you should, and if you don't, you've no right to be driving that cab. i don't believe you're the regular driver, anyway. where'd you get it?" "it ain't my cab, of course," said gallegher, with an easy laugh. "it's luke mcgovern's. he left it outside cronin's while he went in to get a drink, and he took too much, and me father told me to drive it round to the stable for him. i'm cronin's son. mcgovern ain't in no condition to drive. you can see yourself how he's been misusing the horse. he puts it up at bachman's livery stable, and i was just going around there now." gallegher's knowledge of the local celebrities of the district confused the zealous officer of the peace. he surveyed the boy with a steady stare that would have distressed a less skilful liar, but gallegher only shrugged his shoulders slightly, as if from the cold, and waited with apparent indifference to what the officer would say next. in reality his heart was beating heavily against his side, and he felt that if he was kept on a strain much longer he would give way and break down. a second snow-covered form emerged suddenly from the shadow of the houses. "what is it, reeder?" it asked. "oh, nothing much," replied the first officer. "this kid hadn't any lamps lit, so i called to him to stop and he didn't do it, so i whistled to you. it's all right, though. he's just taking it round to bachman's. go ahead," he added, sulkily. "get up!" chirped gallegher. "good night," he added, over his shoulder. gallegher gave a hysterical little gasp of relief as he trotted away from the two policemen, and poured bitter maledictions on their heads for two meddling fools as he went. "they might as well kill a man as scare him to death," he said, with an attempt to get back to his customary flippancy. but the effort was somewhat pitiful, and he felt guiltily conscious that a salt, warm tear was creeping slowly down his face, and that a lump that would not keep down was rising in his throat. "tain't no fair thing for the whole police force to keep worrying at a little boy like me," he said, in shame-faced apology. "i'm not doing nothing wrong, and i'm half froze to death, and yet they keep a-nagging at me." it was so cold that when the boy stamped his feet against the footboard to keep them warm, sharp pains shot up through his body, and when he beat his arms about his shoulders, as he had seen real cabmen do, the blood in his finger-tips tingled so acutely that he cried aloud with the pain. he had often been up that late before, but he had never felt so sleepy. it was as if some one was pressing a sponge heavy with chloroform near his face, and he could not fight off the drowsiness that lay hold of him. he saw, dimly hanging above his head, a round disk of light that seemed like a great moon, and which he finally guessed to be the clock-face for which he had been on the lookout. he had passed it before he realized this; but the fact stirred him into wakefulness again, and when his cab's wheels slipped around the city hall corner, he remembered to look up at the other big clock-face that keeps awake over the railroad station and measures out the night. he gave a gasp of consternation when he saw that it was half-past two, and that there was but ten minutes left to him. this, and the many electric lights and the sight of the familiar pile of buildings, startled him into a semi-consciousness of where he was and how great was the necessity for haste. he rose in his seat and called on the horse, and urged it into a reckless gallop over the slippery asphalt. he considered nothing else but speed, and looking neither to the left nor right dashed off down broad street into chestnut, where his course lay straight away to the office, now only seven blocks distant. gallegher never knew how it began, but he was suddenly assaulted by shouts on either side, his horse was thrown back on its haunches, and he found two men in cabmen's livery hanging at its head, and patting its sides, and calling it by name. and the other cabmen who have their stand at the corner were swarming about the carriage, all of them talking and swearing at once, and gesticulating wildly with their whips. they said they knew the cab was mcgovern's, and they wanted to know where he was, and why he wasn't on it; they wanted to know where gallegher had stolen it, and why he had been such a fool as to drive it into the arms of its owner's friends; they said that it was about time that a cab-driver could get off his box to take a drink without having his cab run away with, and some of them called loudly for a policeman to take the young thief in charge. gallagher felt as if he had been suddenly dragged into consciousness out of a bad dream, and stood for a second like a half-awakened somnambulist. they had stopped the cab under an electric light, and its glare shone coldly down upon the trampled snow and the faces of the men around him. gallegher bent forward, and lashed savagely at the horse with his whip. "let me go," he shouted, as he tugged impotently at the reins. "let me go, i tell you. i haven't stole no cab, and you've got no right to stop me. i only want to take it to the _press_ office," he begged. "they'll send it back to you all right. they'll pay you for the trip. i'm not running away with it. the driver's got the collar--he's 'rested--and i'm only a-going to the _press_ office. do you hear me?" he cried, his voice rising and breaking in a shriek of passion and disappointment. "i tell you to let go those reins. let me go, or i'll kill you. do you hear me? i'll kill you." and leaning forward, the boy struck savagely with his long whip at the faces of the men about the horse's head. some one in the crowd reached up and caught him by the ankles, and with a quick jerk pulled him off the box, and threw him on to the street. but he was up on his knees in a moment, and caught at the man's hand. "don't let them stop me, mister," he cried, "please let me go. i didn't steal the cab, sir. s'help me, i didn't. i'm telling you the truth. take me to the _press_ office, and they'll prove it to you. they'll pay you anything you ask 'em. it's only such a little ways now, and i've come so far, sir. please don't let them stop me," he sobbed, clasping the man about the knees. "for heaven's sake, mister, let me go!" * * * * * the managing editor of the _press_ took up the india-rubber speaking-tube at his side, and answered, "not yet," to an inquiry the night editor had already put to him five times within the last twenty minutes. then he snapped the metal top of the tube impatiently, and went up-stairs. as he passed the door of the local room, he noticed that the reporters had not gone home, but were sitting about on the tables and chairs, waiting. they looked up inquiringly as he passed, and the city editor asked, "any news yet?" and the managing editor shook his head. the compositors were standing idle in the composing-room, and their foreman was talking with the night editor. "well," said that gentleman, tentatively. "well," returned the managing editor, "i don't think we can wait; do you?" "it's a half-hour after time now," said the night editor, "and we'll miss the suburban trains if we hold the paper back any longer. we can't afford to wait for a purely hypothetical story. the chances are all against the fight's having taken place or this hade's having been arrested." "but if we're beaten on it--" suggested the chief. "but i don't think that is possible. if there were any story to print, dwyer would have had it here before now." the managing editor looked steadily down at the floor. "very well," he said, slowly, "we won't wait any longer. go ahead," he added, turning to the foreman with a sigh of reluctance. the foreman whirled himself about, and began to give his orders; but the two editors still looked at each other doubtfully. as they stood so, there came a sudden shout and the sound of people running to and fro in the reportorial rooms below. there was the tramp of many footsteps on the stairs, and above the confusion they heard the voice of the city editor telling some one to "run to madden's and get some brandy, quick." no one in the composing-room said anything; but those compositors who had started to go home began slipping off their overcoats, and every one stood with his eyes fixed on the door. it was kicked open from the outside, and in the doorway stood a cab-driver and the city editor, supporting between them a pitiful little figure of a boy, wet and miserable, and with the snow melting on his clothes and running in little pools to the floor. "why, it's gallegher," said the night editor, in a tone of the keenest disappointment. gallegher shook himself free from his supporters, and took an unsteady step forward, his fingers fumbling stiffly with the buttons of his waistcoat. "mr. dwyer, sir," he began faintly, with his eyes fixed fearfully on the managing editor, "he got arrested--and i couldn't get here no sooner, 'cause they kept a-stopping me, and they took me cab from under me--but--" he pulled the notebook from his breast and held it out with its covers damp and limp from the rain--"but we got hade, and here's mr. dwyer's copy." and then he asked, with a queer note in his voice, partly of dread and partly of hope, "am i in time, sir?" the managing editor took the book, and tossed it to the foreman, who ripped out its leaves and dealt them out to his men as rapidly as a gambler deals out cards. then the managing editor stooped and picked gallegher up in his arms, and, sitting down, began to unlace his wet and muddy shoes. gallegher made a faint effort to resist this degradation of the managerial dignity; but his protest was a very feeble one, and his head fell back heavily oh the managing editor's shoulder. [illustration: "why, it's gallegher," said the night editor.] to gallegher the incandescent lights began to whirl about in circles, and to burn in different colors; the faces of the reporters kneeling before him and chafing his hands and feet grew dim and unfamiliar, and the roar and rumble of the great presses in the basement sounded far away, like the murmur of the sea. and then the place and the circumstances of it came back to him again sharply and with sudden vividness. gallegher looked up, with a faint smile, into the managing editor's face. "you won't turn me off for running away, will you?" he whispered. the managing editor did not answer immediately. his head was bent, and he was thinking, for some reason or other, of a little boy of his own, at home in bed. then he said quietly, "not this time, gallegher." gallegher's head sank back comfortably on the older man's shoulder, and he smiled comprehensively at the faces of the young men crowded around him. "you hadn't ought to," he said, with a touch of his old impudence, '"cause--i beat the town." blood will tell david greene was an employee of the burdett automatic punch company. the manufacturing plant of the company was at bridgeport, but in the new york offices there were working samples of all the punches, from the little nickel-plated hand punch with which conductors squeezed holes in railroad tickets, to the big punch that could bite into an iron plate as easily as into a piece of pie. david's duty was to explain these different punches, and accordingly when burdett senior or one of the sons turned a customer over to david he spoke of him as a salesman. but david called himself a "demonstrator." for a short time he even succeeded in persuading the other salesmen to speak of themselves as demonstrators, but the shipping clerks and bookkeepers laughed them out of it. they could not laugh david out of it. this was so, partly because he had no sense of humor, and partly because he had a great-great-grandfather. among the salesmen on lower broadway, to possess a great-great-grandfather is unusual, even a great-grandfather is a rarity, and either is considered superfluous. but to david the possession of a great-great-grandfather was a precious and open delight. he had possessed him only for a short time. undoubtedly he always had existed, but it was not until david's sister anne married a doctor in bordentown, new jersey, and became socially ambitious, that david emerged as a son of washington. it was sister anne, anxious to "get in" as a "daughter" and wear a distaff pin in her shirt-waist, who discovered the revolutionary ancestor. she unearthed him, or rather ran him to earth, in the graveyard of the presbyterian church at bordentown. he was no less a person than general hiram greene, and he had fought with washington at trenton and at princeton. of this there was no doubt. that, later, on moving to new york, his descendants became peace-loving salesmen did not affect his record. to enter a society founded on heredity, the important thing is first to catch your ancestor, and having made sure of him, david entered the society of the sons of washington with flying colors. he was not unlike the man who had been speaking prose for forty years without knowing it. he was not unlike the other man who woke to find himself famous. he had gone to bed a timid, near-sighted, underpaid salesman without a relative in the world, except a married sister in bordentown, and he awoke to find he was a direct descendant of "neck or nothing" greene, a revolutionary hero, a friend of washington, a man whose portrait hung in the state house at trenton. david's life had lacked color. the day he carried his certificate of membership to the big jewelry store uptown and purchased two rosettes, one for each of his two coats, was the proudest of his life. the other men in the broadway office took a different view. as wyckoff, one of burdett's flying squadron of travelling salesmen, said, "all grandfathers look alike to me, whether they're great, or great-great-great. each one is as dead as the other. i'd rather have a live cousin who could loan me a five, or slip me a drink. what did your great-great dad ever do for _you_?" "well, for one thing," said david stiffly, "he fought in the war of the revolution. he saved us from the shackles of monarchical england; he made it possible for me and you to enjoy the liberties of a free republic." "don't try to tell _me_ your grandfather did all that," protested wyckoff, "because i know better. there were a lot of others helped. i read about it in a book." "i am not grudging glory to others," returned david; "i am only saying i am proud that i am a descendant of a revolutionist." wyckoff dived into his inner pocket and produced a leather photograph frame that folded like a concertina. "i don't want to be a descendant," he said; "i'd rather be an ancestor. look at those." proudly he exhibited photographs of mrs. wyckoff with the baby and of three other little wyckoffs. david looked with envy at the children. "when i'm married," he stammered, and at the words he blushed, "i hope to be an ancestor." "if you're thinking of getting married," said wyckoff, "you'd better hope for a raise in salary." the other clerks were as unsympathetic as wyckoff. at first when david showed them his parchment certificate, and his silver gilt insignia with on one side a portrait of washington, and on the other a continental soldier, they admitted it was dead swell. they even envied him, not the grandfather, but the fact that owing to that distinguished relative david was constantly receiving beautifully engraved invitations to attend the monthly meetings of the society; to subscribe to a fund to erect monuments on battle-fields to mark neglected graves; to join in joyous excursions to the tomb of washington or of john paul jones; to inspect west point, annapolis, and bunker hill; to be among those present at the annual "banquet" at delmonico's. in order that when he opened these letters he might have an audience, he had given the society his office address. in these communications he was always addressed as "dear compatriot," and never did the words fail to give him a thrill. they seemed to lift him out of burdett's salesrooms and broadway, and place him next to things uncommercial, untainted, high, and noble. he did not quite know what an aristocrat was, but he believed being a compatriot made him an aristocrat. when customers were rude, when mr. john or mr. robert was overbearing, this idea enabled david to rise above their ill-temper, and he would smile and say to himself: "if they knew the meaning of the blue rosette in my button-hole, how differently they would treat me! how easily with a word could i crush them!" but few of the customers recognized the significance of the button. they thought it meant that david belonged to the y. m. c. a. or was a teetotaler. david, with his gentle manners and pale, ascetic face, was liable to give that impression. when wyckoff mentioned marriage, the reason david blushed was because, although no one in the office suspected it, he wished to marry the person in whom the office took the greatest pride. this was miss emily anthony, one of burdett and sons' youngest, most efficient, and prettiest stenographers, and although david did not cut as dashing a figure as did some of the firm's travelling men, miss anthony had found something in him so greatly to admire that she had, out of office hours, accepted his devotion, his theatre tickets, and an engagement ring. indeed, so far had matters progressed, that it had been almost decided when in a few months they would go upon their vacations they also would go upon their honeymoon. and then a cloud had come between them, and from a quarter from which david had expected only sunshine. the trouble befell when david discovered he had a great-great-grandfather. with that fact itself miss anthony was almost as pleased as was david himself, but while he was content to bask in another's glory, miss anthony saw in his inheritance only an incentive to achieve glory for himself. from a hard-working salesman she had asked but little, but from a descendant of a national hero she expected other things. she was a determined young person, and for david she was an ambitious young person. she found she was dissatisfied. she found she was disappointed. the great-great-grandfather had opened up a new horizon--had, in a way, raised the standard. she was as fond of david as always, but his tales of past wars and battles, his accounts of present banquets at which he sat shoulder to shoulder with men of whom even burdett and sons spoke with awe, touched her imagination. "you shouldn't be content to just wear a button," she urged. "if you're a son of washington, you ought to act like one." "i know i'm not worthy of you," david sighed. "i don't mean that, and you know i don't," emily replied indignantly. "it has nothing to do with me! i want you to be worthy of yourself, of your grandpa hiram!" "but _how_?" complained david. "what chance has a twenty-five dollar a week clerk----" it was a year before the spanish-american war, while the patriots of cuba were fighting the mother country for their independence. "if i were a son of the revolution," said emily, "i'd go to cuba and help free it." "don't talk nonsense," cried david. "if i did that i'd lose my job, and we'd never be able to marry. besides, what's cuba done for me? all i know about cuba is, i once smoked a cuban cigar and it made me ill." "did lafayette talk like that?" demanded emily. "did he ask what have the american rebels ever done for me?" "if i were in lafayette's class," sighed david, "i wouldn't be selling automatic punches." "there's your trouble," declared emily. "you lack self-confidence. you're too humble, you've got fighting blood and you ought to keep saying to yourself, 'blood will tell,' and the first thing you know, it _will_ tell! you might begin by going into politics in your ward. or, you could join the militia. that takes only one night a week, and then, if we _did_ go to war with spain, you'd get a commission, and come back a captain!" emily's eyes were beautiful with delight. but the sight gave david no pleasure. in genuine distress, he shook his head. "emily," he said, "you're going to be awfully disappointed in me." emily's eyes closed as though they shied at some mental picture. but when she opened them they were bright, and her smile was kind and eager. "no, i'm not," she protested; "only i want a husband with a career, and one who'll tell me to keep quiet when i try to run it for him." "i've often wished you would," said david. "would what? run your career for you?" "no, keep quiet. only it didn't seem polite to tell you so." "maybe i'd like you better," said emily, "if you weren't so darned polite." a week later, early in the spring of , the unexpected happened, and david was promoted into the flying squadron. he now was a travelling salesman, with a rise in salary and a commission on orders. it was a step forward, but as going on the road meant absence from emily, david was not elated. nor did it satisfy emily. it was not money she wanted. her ambition for david could not be silenced with a raise in wages. she did not say this, but david knew that in him she still found something lacking, and when they said good-by they both were ill at ease and completely unhappy. formerly, each day when emily in passing david in the office said good-morning, she used to add the number of the days that still separated them from the vacation which also was to be their honeymoon. but, for the last month she had stopped counting the days--at least she did not count them aloud. david did not ask her why this was so. he did not dare. and, sooner than learn the truth that she had decided not to marry him, or that she was even considering not marrying him, he asked no questions, but in ignorance of her present feelings set forth on his travels. absence from emily hurt just as much as he had feared it would. he missed her, needed her, longed for her. in numerous letters he told her so. but, owing to the frequency with which he moved, her letters never caught up with him. it was almost a relief. he did not care to think of what they might tell him. the route assigned david took him through the south and kept him close to the atlantic seaboard. in obtaining orders he was not unsuccessful, and at the end of the first month received from the firm a telegram of congratulation. this was of importance chiefly because it might please emily. but he knew that in her eyes the great-great-grandson of hiram greene could not rest content with a telegram from burdett and sons. a year before she would have considered it a high honor, a cause for celebration. now, he could see her press her pretty lips together and shake her pretty head. it was not enough. but how could he accomplish more. he began to hate his great-great-grandfather. he began to wish hiram greene had lived and died a bachelor. and then dame fortune took david in hand and toyed with him and spanked him, and pelted and petted him, until finally she made him her favorite son. dame fortune went about this work in an abrupt and arbitrary manner. on the night of the st of march, , two trains were scheduled to leave the union station at jacksonville at exactly the same minute, and they left exactly on time. as never before in the history of any southern railroad has this miracle occurred, it shows that when dame fortune gets on the job she is omnipotent. she placed david on the train to miami as the train he wanted drew out for tampa, and an hour later, when the conductor looked at david's ticket, he pulled the bell-cord and dumped david over the side into the heart of a pine forest. if he walked back along the track for one mile, the conductor reassured him, he would find a flag station where at midnight he could flag a train going north. in an hour it would deliver him safely in jacksonville. there was a moon, but for the greater part of the time it was hidden by fitful, hurrying clouds, and, as david stumbled forward, at one moment he would see the rails like streaks of silver, and the next would be encompassed in a complete and bewildering darkness. he made his way from tie to tie only by feeling with his foot. after an hour he came to a shed. whether it was or was not the flag station the conductor had in mind, he did not know, and he never did know. he was too tired, too hot, and too disgusted to proceed, and dropping his suit case he sat down under the open roof of the shed prepared to wait either for the train or daylight. so far as he could see, on every side of him stretched a swamp, silent, dismal, interminable. from its black water rose dead trees, naked of bark and hung with streamers of funereal moss. there was not a sound or sign of human habitation. the silence was the silence of the ocean at night. david remembered the berth reserved for him on the train to tampa and of the loathing with which he had considered placing himself between its sheets. but now how gladly would he welcome it! for, in the sleeping-car, ill-smelling, close and stuffy, he at least would have been surrounded by fellow-sufferers of his own species. here his companions were owls, water-snakes, and sleeping buzzards. "i am alone," he told himself, "on a railroad embankment, entirely surrounded by alligators." and then he found he was not alone. in the darkness, illuminated by a match, not a hundred yards from him there flashed suddenly the face of a man. then the match went out and the face with it. david noted that it had appeared at some height above the level of the swamp, at an elevation higher even than that of the embankment. it was as though the man had been sitting on the limb of a tree. david crossed the tracks and found that on the side of the embankment opposite the shed there was solid ground and what once had been a wharf. he advanced over this cautiously, and as he did so the clouds disappeared, and in the full light of the moon he saw a bayou broadening into a river, and made fast to the decayed and rotting wharf an ocean-going tug. it was from her deck that the man, in lighting his pipe, had shown his face. at the thought of a warm engine-room and the company of his fellow-creatures, david's heart leaped with pleasure. he advanced quickly. and then something in the appearance of the tug, something mysterious, secretive, threatening, caused him to halt. no lights showed from her engine-room, cabin, or pilot-house. her decks were empty. but, as was evidenced by the black smoke that rose from her funnel, she was awake and awake to some purpose. david stood uncertainly, questioning whether to make his presence known or return to the loneliness of the shed. the question was decided for him. he had not considered that standing in the moonlight he was a conspicuous figure. the planks of the wharf creaked and a man came toward him. as one who means to attack, or who fears attack, he approached warily. he wore high boots, riding breeches, and a sombrero. he was a little man, but his movements were alert and active. to david he seemed unnecessarily excited. he thrust himself close against david. "who the devil are you?" demanded the man from the tug. "how'd you get here?" "i walked," said david. "walked?" the man snorted incredulously. "i took the wrong train," explained david pleasantly. "they put me off about a mile below here. i walked back to this flag station. i'm going to wait here for the next train north." the little man laughed mockingly. "oh, no you're not," he said. "if you walked here, you can just walk away again!" with a sweep of his arm, he made a vigorous and peremptory gesture. "you walk!" he commanded. "i'll do just as i please about that," said david. as though to bring assistance, the little man started hastily toward the tug. "i'll find some one who'll make you walk!" he called. "you _wait_, that's all, you _wait_!" david decided not to wait. it was possible the wharf was private property and he had been trespassing. in any case, at the flag station the rights of all men were equal, and if he were in for a fight he judged it best to choose his own battleground. he recrossed the tracks and sat down on his suit case in a dark corner of the shed. himself hidden in the shadows he could see in the moonlight the approach of any other person. "they're river pirates," said david to himself, "or smugglers. they're certainly up to some mischief, or why should they object to the presence of a perfectly harmless stranger?" partly with cold, partly with nervousness, david shivered. "i wish that train would come," he sighed. and instantly, as though in answer to his wish, from only a short distance down the track he heard the rumble and creak of approaching cars. in a flash david planned his course of action. the thought of spending the night in a swamp infested by alligators and smugglers had become intolerable. he must escape, and he must escape by the train now approaching. to that end the train must be stopped. his plan was simple. the train was moving very, very slowly, and though he had no lantern to wave, in order to bring it to a halt he need only stand on the track exposed to the glare of the headlight and wave his arms. david sprang between the rails and gesticulated wildly. but in amazement his arms fell to his sides. for the train, now only a hundred yards distant and creeping toward him at a snail's pace, carried no headlight, and though in the moonlight david was plainly visible, it blew no whistle, tolled no bell. even the passenger coaches in the rear of the sightless engine were wrapped in darkness. it was a ghost of a train, a flying dutchman of a train, a nightmare of a train. it was as unreal as the black swamp, as the moss on the dead trees, as the ghostly tug-boat tied to the rotting wharf. "is the place haunted!" exclaimed david. he was answered by the grinding of brakes and by the train coming to a sharp halt. and instantly from every side men fell from it to the ground, and the silence of the night was broken by a confusion of calls and eager greeting and questions and sharp words of command. so fascinated was david in the stealthy arrival of the train and in her mysterious passengers that, until they confronted him, he did not note the equally stealthy approach of three men. of these one was the little man from the tug. with him was a fat, red-faced irish-american. he wore no coat and his shirt-sleeves were drawn away from his hands by garters of pink elastic, his derby hat was balanced behind his ears, upon his right hand flashed an enormous diamond. he looked as though but at that moment he had stopped sliding glasses across a bowery bar. the third man carried the outward marks of a sailor. david believed he was the tallest man he had ever beheld, but equally remarkable with his height was his beard and hair, which were of a fierce brick-dust red. even in the mild moonlight it flamed like a torch. "what's your business?" demanded the man with the flamboyant hair. "i came here," began david, "to wait for a train-----" the tall man bellowed with indignant rage. "yes," he shouted; "this is the sort of place any one would pick out to wait for a train!" in front of david's nose he shook a fist as large as a catcher's glove. "don't you lie to _me_!" he bullied. "do you know who i am? do you know _who_ you're up against? i'm----" the barkeeper person interrupted. "never mind who you are," he said. "we know that. find out who _he_ is." david turned appealingly to the barkeeper. "do you suppose i'd come here on purpose?" he protested. "i'm a travelling man----" "you won't travel any to-night," mocked the red-haired one. "you've seen what you came to see, and all you want now is to get to a western union wire. well, you don't do it. you don't leave here to-night!" as though he thought he had been neglected, the little man in riding-boots pushed forward importantly. "tie him to a tree!" he suggested. "better take him on board," said the barkeeper, "and send him back by the pilot. when we're once at sea, he can't hurt us any." [illustration: in front of david's nose he shook a fist as large as a catcher's glove.] "what makes you think i want to hurt you?" demanded david. "who do you think i am?" "we know who you are," shouted the fiery-headed one. "you're a blanketty-blank spy! you're a government spy or a spanish spy, and whichever you are you don't get away to-night!" david had not the faintest idea what the man meant, but he knew his self-respect was being ill-treated, and his self-respect rebelled. "you have made a very serious mistake," he said, "and whether you like it or not, i _am_ leaving here to-night, and _you_ can go to the devil!" turning his back david started with great dignity to walk away. it was a short walk. something hit him below the ear and he found himself curling up comfortably on the ties. he had a strong desire to sleep, but was conscious that a bed on a railroad track, on account of trains wanting to pass, was unsafe. this doubt did not long disturb him. his head rolled against the steel rail, his limbs relaxed. from a great distance, and in a strange sing-song he heard the voice of the barkeeper saying, "nine--ten--and _out_!" when david came to his senses his head was resting on a coil of rope. in his ears was the steady throb of an engine, and in his eyes the glare of a lantern. the lantern was held by a pleasant-faced youth in a golf cap who was smiling sympathetically. david rose on his elbow and gazed wildly about him. he was in the bow of the ocean-going tug, and he saw that from where he lay in the bow to her stern her decks were packed with men. she was steaming swiftly down a broad river. on either side the gray light that comes before the dawn showed low banks studded with stunted palmettos. close ahead david heard the roar of the surf. "sorry to disturb you," said the youth in the golf cap, "but we drop the pilot in a few minutes and you're going with him." david moved his aching head gingerly, and was conscious of a bump as large as a tennis ball behind his right ear. "what happened to me?" he demanded. "you were sort of kidnapped, i guess," laughed the young man. "it was a raw deal, but they couldn't take any chances. the pilot will land you at okra point. you can hire a rig there to take you to the railroad." "but why?" demanded david indignantly. "why was i kidnapped? what had i done? who were those men who----" from the pilot-house there was a sharp jangle of bells to the engine-room, and the speed of the tug slackened. "come on," commanded the young man briskly. "the pilot's going ashore. here's your grip, here's your hat. the ladder's on the port side. look where you're stepping. we can't show any lights, and it's dark as----" but, even as he spoke, like a flash of powder, as swiftly as one throws an electric switch, as blindingly as a train leaps from the tunnel into the glaring sun, the darkness vanished and the tug was swept by the fierce, blatant radiance of a search-light. it was met by shrieks from two hundred throats, by screams, oaths, prayers, by the sharp jangling of bells, by the blind rush of many men scurrying like rats for a hole to hide in, by the ringing orders of one man. above the tumult this one voice rose like the warning strokes of a fire-gong, and looking up to the pilot-house from whence the voice came, david saw the barkeeper still in his shirt-sleeves and with his derby hat pushed back behind his ears, with one hand clutching the telegraph to the engine-room, with the other holding the spoke of the wheel. david felt the tug, like a hunter taking a fence, rise in a great leap. her bow sank and rose, tossing the water from her in black, oily waves, the smoke poured from her funnel, from below her engines sobbed and quivered, and like a hound freed from a leash she raced for the open sea. but swiftly as she fled, as a thief is held in the circle of a policeman's bull's-eye, the shaft of light followed and exposed her and held her in its grip. the youth in the golf cap was clutching david by the arm. with his free hand he pointed down the shaft of light. so great was the tumult that to be heard he brought his lips close to david's ear. "that's the revenue cutter!" he shouted. "she's been laying for us for three weeks, and now," he shrieked exultingly, "the old man's going to give her a race for it." from excitement, from cold, from alarm, david's nerves were getting beyond his control. "but how," he demanded, "how do i get ashore?" "you don't!" "when he drops the pilot, don't i----" "how can he drop the pilot?" yelled the youth. "the pilot's got to stick by the boat. so have you." david clutched the young man and swung him so that they stood face to face. "stick by what boat?" yelled david. "who are these men? who are you? what boat is this?" in the glare of the search-light david saw the eyes of the youth staring at him as though he feared he were in the clutch of a madman. wrenching himself free, the youth pointed at the pilot-house. above it on a blue board in letters of gold-leaf a foot high was the name of the tug. as david read it his breath left him, a finger of ice passed slowly down his spine. the name he read was _the three friends_. "_the three friends!_" shrieked david. "she's a filibuster! she's a pirate! where're we going?" "to cuba!" david emitted a howl of anguish, rage, and protest. "what for?" he shrieked. the young man regarded him coldly. "to pick bananas," he said. "i won't go to cuba," shouted david. "i've got to work! i'm paid to sell machinery. i demand to be put ashore. i'll lose my job if i'm not put ashore. i'll sue you! i'll have the law----" david found himself suddenly upon his knees. his first thought was that the ship had struck a rock, and then that she was bumping herself over a succession of coral reefs. she dipped, dived, reared, and plunged. like a hooked fish, she flung herself in the air, quivering from bow to stern. no longer was david of a mind to sue the filibusters if they did not put him ashore. if only they had put him ashore, in gratitude he would have crawled on his knees. what followed was of no interest to david, nor to many of the filibusters, nor to any of the cuban patriots. their groans of self-pity, their prayers and curses in eloquent spanish, rose high above the crash of broken crockery and the pounding of the waves. even when the search-light gave way to a brilliant sunlight the circumstance was unobserved by david. nor was he concerned in the tidings brought forward by the youth in the golf cap, who raced the slippery decks and vaulted the prostrate forms as sure-footedly as a hurdler on a cinder track. to david, in whom he seemed to think he had found a congenial spirit, he shouted joyfully, "she's fired two blanks at us!" he cried; "now she's firing cannon-balls!" "thank god," whispered david; "perhaps she'll sink us!" but _the three friends_ showed her heels to the revenue cutter, and so far as david knew hours passed into days and days into weeks. it was like those nightmares in which in a minute one is whirled through centuries of fear and torment. sometimes, regardless of nausea, of his aching head, of the hard deck, of the waves that splashed and smothered him, david fell into broken slumber. sometimes he woke to a dull consciousness of his position. at such moments he added to his misery by speculating upon the other misfortunes that might have befallen him on shore. emily, he decided, had given him up for lost and married--probably a navy officer in command of a battle-ship. burdett and sons had cast him off forever. possibly his disappearance had caused them to suspect him; even now they might be regarding him as a defaulter, as a fugitive from justice. his accounts, no doubt, were being carefully overhauled. in actual time, two days and two nights had passed; to david it seemed many ages. on the third day he crawled to the stern, where there seemed less motion, and finding a boat's cushion threw it in the lee scupper and fell upon it. from time to time the youth in the golf cap had brought him food and drink, and he now appeared from the cook's galley bearing a bowl of smoking soup. david considered it a doubtful attention. but he said, "you're very kind. how did a fellow like you come to mix up with these pirates?" the youth laughed good-naturedly. "they're not pirates, they're patriots," he said, "and i'm not mixed up with them. my name is henry carr and i'm a guest of jimmy doyle, the captain." "the barkeeper with the derby hat?" said david. "he's not a barkeeper, he's a teetotaler," carr corrected, "and he's the greatest filibuster alive. he knows these waters as you know broadway, and he's the salt of the earth. i did him a favor once; sort of mouse-helping-the-lion idea. just through dumb luck i found out about this expedition. the government agents in new york found out i'd found out and sent for me to tell. but i didn't, and i didn't write the story either. doyle heard about that. so, he asked me to come as his guest, and he's promised that after he's landed the expedition and the arms i can write as much about it as i darn please." "then you're a reporter?" said david. "i'm what we call a cub reporter," laughed carr. "you see, i've always dreamed of being a war correspondent. the men in the office say i dream too much. they're always guying me about it. but, haven't you noticed, it's the ones who dream who find their dreams come true. now this isn't real war, but it's a near war, and when the real thing breaks loose, i can tell the managing editor i served as a war correspondent in the cuban-spanish campaign. and he may give me a real job!" "and you _like_ this?" groaned david. "i wouldn't, if i were as sick as you are," said carr, "but i've a stomach like a harlem goat." he stooped and lowered his voice. "now, here are two fake filibusters," he whispered. "the men you read about in the newspapers. if a man's a _real_ filibuster, nobody knows it!" coming toward them was the tall man who had knocked david out, and the little one who had wanted to tie him to a tree. "all they ask," whispered carr, "is money and advertisement. if they knew i was a reporter, they'd eat out of my hand. the tall man calls himself lighthouse harry. he once kept a lighthouse on the florida coast, and that's as near to the sea as he ever got. the other one is a daredevil calling himself colonel beamish. he says he's an english officer, and a soldier of fortune, and that he's been in eighteen battles. jimmy says he's never been near enough to a battle to see the red-cross flags on the base hospital. but they've fooled these cubans. the junta thinks they're great fighters, and it's sent them down here to work the machine guns. but i'm afraid the only fighting they will do will be in the sporting columns, and not in the ring." a half dozen sea-sick cubans were carrying a heavy, oblong box. they dropped it not two yards from where david lay, and with a screw-driver lighthouse harry proceeded to open the lid. carr explained to david that _the three friends_ was approaching that part of the coast of cuba on which she had arranged to land her expedition, and that in case she was surprised by one of the spanish patrol boats she was preparing to defend herself. "they've got an automatic gun in that crate," said carr, "and they're going to assemble it. you'd better move; they'll be tramping all over you." david shook his head feebly. "i can't move!" he protested. "i wouldn't move if it would free cuba." for several hours with very languid interest david watched lighthouse harry and colonel beamish screw a heavy tripod to the deck and balance above it a quick-firing one-pounder. they worked very slowly, and to david, watching them from the lee scupper, they appeared extremely unintelligent. "i don't believe either of those thugs put an automatic gun together in his life," he whispered to carr. "i never did, either, but i've put hundreds of automatic punches together, and i bet that gun won't work." "what's wrong with it?" said carr. before david could summon sufficient energy to answer, the attention of all on board was diverted, and by a single word. whether the word is whispered apologetically by the smoking-room steward to those deep in bridge, or shrieked from the tops of a sinking ship it never quite fails of its effect. a sweating stoker from the engine-room saw it first. "land!" he hailed. the sea-sick cubans raised themselves and swung their hats; their voices rose in a fierce chorus. "cuba libre!" they yelled. the sun piercing the morning mists had uncovered a coast-line broken with bays and inlets. above it towered green hills, the peak of each topped by a squat block-house; in the valleys and water courses like columns of marble rose the royal palms. "you _must_ look!" carr entreated david. "it's just as it is in the pictures!" "then i don't have to look," groaned david. _the three friends_ was making for a point of land that curved like a sickle. on the inside of the sickle was nipe bay. on the opposite shore of that broad harbor at the place of rendezvous a little band of cubans waited to receive the filibusters. the goal was in sight. the dreadful voyage was done. joy and excitement thrilled the ship's company. cuban patriots appeared in uniforms with cuban flags pinned in the brims of their straw sombreros. from the hold came boxes of small-arm ammunition, of mausers, rifles, machetes, and saddles. to protect the landing a box of shells was placed in readiness beside the one-pounder. "in two hours, if we have smooth water," shouted lighthouse harry, "we ought to get all of this on shore. and then, all i ask," he cried mightily, "is for some one to kindly show me a spaniard!" his heart's desire was instantly granted. he was shown not only one spaniard, but several spaniards. they were on the deck of one of the fastest gun-boats of the spanish navy. not a mile from _the three friends_ she sprang from the cover of a narrow inlet. she did not signal questions or extend courtesies. for her the name of the ocean-going tug was sufficient introduction. throwing ahead of her a solid shell, she raced in pursuit, and as _the three friends_ leaped to full speed there came from the gun-boat the sharp dry crackle of mausers. with an explosion of terrifying oaths lighthouse harry thrust a shell into the breech of the quick-firing gun. without waiting to aim it, he tugged at the trigger. nothing happened! he threw open the breech and gazed impotently at the base of the shell. it was untouched. the ship was ringing with cries of anger, of hate, with rat-like squeaks of fear. above the heads of the filibusters a shell screamed and within a hundred feet splashed into a wave. from his mat in the lee scupper david groaned miserably. he was far removed from any of the greater emotions. "it's no use!" he protested. "they can't do! it's not connected!" "_what's_ not connected?" yelled carr. he fell upon david. he half-lifted, half-dragged him to his feet. "if you know what's wrong with that gun, you fix it! fix it," he shouted, "or i'll----" david was not concerned with the vengeance carr threatened. for, on the instant a miracle had taken place. with the swift insidiousness of morphine, peace ran through his veins, soothed his racked body, his jangled nerves. _the three friends_ had made the harbor, and was gliding through water flat as a pond. but david did not know why the change had come. he knew only that his soul and body were at rest, that the sun was shining, that he had passed through the valley of the shadow, and once more was a sane, sound young man. with a savage thrust of the shoulder he sent lighthouse harry sprawling from the gun. with swift, practised fingers he fell upon its mechanism. he wrenched it apart. he lifted it, reset, readjusted it. ignorant themselves, those about him saw that he understood, saw that his work was good. they raised a joyous, defiant cheer. but a shower of bullets drove them to cover, bullets that ripped the deck, splintered the superstructure, smashed the glass in the air ports, like angry wasps sang in a continuous whining chorus. intent only on the gun, david worked feverishly. he swung to the breech, locked it, and dragged it open, pulled on the trigger and found it gave before his forefinger. he shouted with delight. "i've got it working," he yelled. he turned to his audience, but his audience had fled. from beneath one of the life-boats protruded the riding-boots of colonel beamish, the tall form of lighthouse harry was doubled behind a water butt. a shell splashed to port, a shell splashed to starboard. for an instant david stood staring wide-eyed at the greyhound of a boat that ate up the distance between them, at the jets of smoke and stabs of flame that sprang from her bow, at the figures crouched behind her gunwale, firing in volleys. to david it came suddenly, convincingly, that in a dream he had lived it all before, and something like raw poison stirred in david, something leaped to his throat and choked him, something rose in his brain and made him see scarlet. he felt rather than saw young carr kneeling at the box of ammunition, and holding a shell toward him. he heard the click as the breech shut, felt the rubber tire of the brace give against the weight of his shoulder, down a long shining tube saw the pursuing gun-boat, saw her again and many times disappear behind a flash of flame. a bullet gashed his forehead, a bullet passed deftly through his forearm, but he did not heed them. confused with the thrashing of the engines, with the roar of the gun he heard a strange voice shrieking unceasingly: "cuba libre!" it yelled. "to hell with spain!" and he found that the voice was his own. the story lost nothing in the way carr wrote it. "and the best of it is," he exclaimed joyfully, "it's true!" for a spanish gun-boat _had_ been crippled and forced to run herself aground by a tug-boat manned by cuban patriots, and by a single gun served by one man, and that man an american. it was the first sea-fight of the war. over night a cuban navy had been born, and into the limelight a cub reporter had projected a new "hero," a ready-made, warranted-not-to-run, popular idol. they were seated in the pilot-house, "jimmy" doyle, carr, and david, the patriots and their arms had been safely dumped upon the coast of cuba, and _the_ _three friends_ was gliding swiftly and, having caught the florida straits napping, smoothly toward key west. carr had just finished reading aloud his account of the engagement. "you will tell the story just as i have written it," commanded the proud author. "your being south as a travelling salesman was only a blind. you came to volunteer for this expedition. before you could explain your wish you were mistaken for a secret-service man, and hustled on board. that was just where you wanted to be, and when the moment arrived you took command of the ship and single-handed won the naval battle of nipe bay." jimmy doyle nodded his head approvingly. "you certainly did, dave," protested the great man, "i seen you when you done it!" at key west carr filed his story and while the hospital surgeons kept david there over one steamer, to dress his wounds, his fame and features spread across the map of the united states. burdett and sons basked in reflected glory. reporters besieged their office. at the merchants down-town club the business men of lower broadway tendered congratulations. "of course, it's a great surprise to us," burdett and sons would protest and wink heavily. "of course, when the boy asked to be sent south we'd no idea he was planning to fight for cuba! or we wouldn't have let him go, would we?" then again they would wink heavily. "i suppose you know," they would say, "that he's a direct descendant of general hiram greene, who won the battle of trenton. what i say is, 'blood will tell!'" and then in a body every one in the club would move against the bar and exclaim: "here's to cuba libre!" when the _olivette_ from key west reached tampa bay every cuban in the tampa cigar factories was at the dock. there were thousands of them and all of the junta, in high hats, to read david an address of welcome. [illustration: she dug the shapeless hat into david's shoulder.] and, when they saw him at the top of the gang-plank with his head in a bandage and his arm in a sling, like a mob of maniacs they howled and surged toward him. but before they could reach their hero the courteous junta forced them back, and cleared a pathway for a young girl. she was travel-worn and pale, her shirt-waist was disgracefully wrinkled, her best hat was a wreck. no one on broadway would have recognized her as burdett and sons' most immaculate and beautiful stenographer. she dug the shapeless hat into david's shoulder, and clung to him. "david!" she sobbed, "promise me you'll never, never do it again!" the bar sinister preface when this story first appeared, the writer received letters of two kinds, one asking a question and the other making a statement. the question was, whether there was any foundation of truth in the story; the statement challenged him to say that there was. the letters seemed to show that a large proportion of readers prefer their dose of fiction with a sweetening of fact. this is written to furnish that condiment, and to answer the question and the statement. in the dog world, the original of the bull-terrier in the story is known as edgewood cold steel and to his intimates as "kid." his father was lord minto, a thoroughbred bull-terrier, well known in canada, but the story of kid's life is that his mother was a black-and-tan named vic. she was a lady of doubtful pedigree. among her offspring by lord minto, so i have been often informed by many canadian dog-fanciers, breeders, and exhibitors, was the only white puppy, kid, in a litter of black-and-tans. he made his first appearance in the show world in in toronto, where, under the judging of mr. charles h. mason, he was easily first. during that year, when he came to our kennels, and in the two years following, he carried off many blue ribbons and cups at nearly every first-class show in the country. the other dog, "jimmy jocks," who in the book was his friend and mentor, was in real life his friend and companion, woodcote jumbo, or "jaggers," an aristocratic son of a long line of english champions. he has gone to that place where some day all good dogs must go. in this autobiography i have tried to describe kid as he really is, and this year, when he again strives for blue ribbons, i trust, should the gentle reader see him at any of the bench-shows, he will give him a friendly pat and make his acquaintance. he will find his advances met with a polite and gentle courtesy. the author. part i the master was walking most unsteady, his legs tripping each other. after the fifth or sixth round, my legs often go the same way. but even when the master's legs bend and twist a bit, you mustn't think he can't reach you. indeed, that is the time he kicks most frequent. so i kept behind him in the shadow, or ran in the middle of the street. he stopped at many public houses with swinging doors, those doors that are cut so high from the sidewalk that you can look in under them, and see if the master is inside. at night, when i peep beneath them, the man at the counter will see me first and say, "here's the kid, jerry, come to take you home. get a move on you"; and the master will stumble out and follow me. it's lucky for us i'm so white, for, no matter how dark the night, he can always see me ahead, just out of reach of his boot. at night the master certainly does see most amazing. sometimes he sees two or four of me, and walks in a circle, so that i have to take him by the leg of his trousers and lead him into the right road. one night, when he was very nasty-tempered and i was coaxing him along, two men passed us, and one of them says, "look at that brute!" and the other asks, "which?" and they both laugh. the master he cursed them good and proper. but this night, whenever we stopped at a public house, the master's pals left it and went on with us to the next. they spoke quite civil to me, and when the master tried a flying kick, they gives him a shove. "do you want us to lose our money?" says the pals. i had had nothing to eat for a day and a night, and just before we set out the master gives me a wash under the hydrant. whenever i am locked up until all the slop-pans in our alley are empty, and made to take a bath, and the master's pals speak civil and feel my ribs, i know something is going to happen. and that night, when every time they see a policeman under a lamp-post, they dodged across the street, and when at the last one of them picked me up and hid me under his jacket, i began to tremble; for i knew what it meant. it meant that i was to fight again for the master. i don't fight because i like fighting. i fight because if i didn't the other dog would find my throat, and the master would lose his stakes, and i would be very sorry for him, and ashamed. dogs can pass me and i can pass dogs, and i'd never pick a fight with none of them. when i see two dogs standing on their hind legs in the streets, clawing each other's ears, and snapping for each other's wind-pipes, or howling and swearing and rolling in the mud, i feel sorry they should act so, and pretend not to notice. if he'd let me, i'd like to pass the time of day with every dog i meet. but there's something about me that no nice dog can abide. when i trot up to nice dogs, nodding and grinning, to make friends, they always tell me to be off. "go to the devil!" they bark at me. "get out!" and when i walk away they shout "mongrel!" and "gutter-dog!" and sometimes, after my back is turned, they rush me. i could kill most of them with three shakes, breaking the backbone of the little ones and squeezing the throat of the big ones. but what's the good? they _are_ nice dogs; that's why i try to make up to them: and, though it's not for them to say it, i _am_ a street-dog, and if i try to push into the company of my betters, i suppose it's their right to teach me my place. of course they don't know i'm the best fighting bull-terrier of my weight in montreal. that's why it wouldn't be fair for me to take notice of what they shout. they don't know that if i once locked my jaws on them i'd carry away whatever i touched. the night i fought kelley's white rat, i wouldn't loosen up until the master made a noose in my leash and strangled me; and, as for that ottawa dog, if the handlers hadn't thrown red pepper down my nose i _never_ would have let go of him. i don't think the handlers treated me quite right that time, but maybe they didn't know the ottawa dog was dead. i did. i learned my fighting from my mother when i was very young. we slept in a lumber-yard on the river-front, and by day hunted for food along the wharves. when we got it, the other tramp-dogs would try to take it off us, and then it was wonderful to see mother fly at them and drive them away. all i know of fighting i learned from mother, watching her picking the ash-heaps for me when i was too little to fight for myself. no one ever was so good to me as mother. when it snowed and the ice was in the st. lawrence, she used to hunt alone, and bring me back new bones, and she'd sit and laugh to see me trying to swallow 'em whole. i was just a puppy then; my teeth was falling out. when i was able to fight we kept the whole river-range to ourselves. i had the genuine long "punishing" jaw, so mother said, and there wasn't a man or a dog that dared worry us. those were happy days, those were; and we lived well, share and share alike, and when we wanted a bit of fun, we chased the fat old wharf-rats! my, how they would squeal! then the trouble came. it was no trouble to me. i was too young to care then. but mother took it so to heart that she grew ailing, and wouldn't go abroad with me by day. it was the same old scandal that they're always bringing up against me. i was so young then that i didn't know. i couldn't see any difference between mother--and other mothers. but one day a pack of curs we drove off snarled back some new names at her, and mother dropped her head and ran, just as though they had whipped us. after that she wouldn't go out with me except in the dark, and one day she went away and never came back, and, though i hunted for her in every court and alley and back street of montreal, i never found her. one night, a month after mother ran away, i asked guardian, the old blind mastiff, whose master is the night watchman on our slip, what it all meant. and he told me. "every dog in montreal knows," he says, "except you; and every master knows. so i think it's time you knew." then he tells me that my father, who had treated mother so bad, was a great and noble gentleman from london. "your father had twenty-two registered ancestors, had your father," old guardian says, "and in him was the best bull-terrier blood of england, the most ancientest, the most royal; the winning 'blue-ribbon' blood, that breeds champions. he had sleepy pink eyes and thin pink lips, and he was as white all over as his own white teeth, and under his white skin you could see his muscles, hard and smooth, like the links of a steel chain. when your father stood still, and tipped his nose in the air, it was just as though he was saying, 'oh, yes, you common dogs and men, you may well stare. it must be a rare treat for you colonials to see real english royalty.' he certainly was pleased with hisself, was your father. he looked just as proud and haughty as one of them stone dogs in victoria park--them as is cut out of white marble. and you're like him," says the old mastiff--"by that, of course, meaning you're white, same as him. that's the only likeness. but, you see, the trouble is, kid--well, you see, kid, the trouble is--your mother----" "that will do," i said, for then i understood without his telling me, and i got up and walked away, holding my head and tail high in the air. but i was, oh, so miserable, and i wanted to see mother that very minute, and tell her that i didn't care. mother is what i am, a street-dog; there's no royal blood in mother's veins, nor is she like that father of mine, nor--and that's the worst--she's not even like me. for while i, when i'm washed for a fight, am as white as clean snow, she--and this is our trouble--she, my mother, is a black-and-tan. when mother hid herself from me, i was twelve months old and able to take care of myself, and as, after mother left me, the wharves were never the same, i moved uptown and met the master. before he came, lots of other men-folks had tried to make up to me, and to whistle me home. but they either tried patting me or coaxing me with a piece of meat; so i didn't take to 'em. but one day the master pulled me out of a street-fight by the hind legs, and kicked me good. "you want to fight, do you?" says he. "i'll give you all the _fighting_ you want!" he says, and he kicks me again. so i knew he was my master, and i followed him home. since that day i've pulled off many fights for him, and they've brought dogs from all over the province to have a go at me; but up to that night none, under thirty pounds, had ever downed me. but that night, so soon as they carried me into the ring, i saw the dog was overweight, and that i was no match for him. it was asking too much of a puppy. the master should have known i couldn't do it. not that i mean to blame the master, for when sober, which he sometimes was--though not, as you might say, his habit--he was most kind to me, and let me out to find food, if i could get it, and only kicked me when i didn't pick him up at night and lead him home. but kicks will stiffen the muscles, and starving a dog so as to get him ugly-tempered for a fight may make him nasty, but it's weakening to his insides, and it causes the legs to wobble. the ring was in a hall back of a public house. there was a red-hot whitewashed stove in one corner, and the ring in the other. i lay in the master's lap, wrapped in my blanket, and, spite of the stove, shivering awful; but i always shiver before a fight: i can't help gettin' excited. while the men-folks were a-flashing their money and taking their last drink at the bar, a little irish groom in gaiters came up to me and give me the back of his hand to smell, and scratched me behind the ears. "you poor little pup," says he; "you haven't no show," he says. "that brute in the tap-room he'll eat your heart out." "that's what _you_ think," says the master, snarling. "i'll lay you a quid the kid chews him up." the groom he shook his head, but kept looking at me so sorry-like that i begun to get a bit sad myself. he seemed like he couldn't bear to leave off a-patting of me, and he says, speaking low just like he would to a man-folk, "well, good luck to you, little pup," which i thought so civil of him that i reached up and licked his hand. i don't do that to many men. and the master he knew i didn't, and took on dreadful. "what 'ave you got on the back of your hand?" says he, jumping up. "soap!" says the groom, quick as a rat. "that's more than you've got on yours. do you want to smell of it?" and he sticks his fist under the master's nose. but the pals pushed in between 'em. "he tried to poison the kid!" shouts the master. "oh, one fight at a time," says the referee. "get into the ring, jerry. we're waiting." so we went into the ring. i never could just remember what did happen in that ring. he give me no time to spring. he fell on me like a horse. i couldn't keep my feet against him, and though, as i saw, he could get his hold when he liked, he wanted to chew me over a bit first. i was wondering if they'd be able to pry him off me, when, in the third round, he took his hold; and i begun to drown, just as i did when i fell into the river off the red c slip. he closed deeper and deeper on my throat, and everything went black and red and bursting; and then, when i were sure i were dead, the handlers pulled him off, and the master give me a kick that brought me to. but i couldn't move none, or even wink, both eyes being shut with lumps. "he's a cur!" yells the master, "a sneaking, cowardly cur! he lost the fight for me," says he, "because he's a ---- ---- ---- cowardly cur." and he kicks me again in the lower ribs, so that i go sliding across the sawdust. "there's gratitude fer yer," yells the master. "i've fed that dog, and nussed that dog and housed him like a prince; and now he puts his tail between his legs and sells me out, he does. he's a coward! i've done with him, i am. i'd sell him for a pipeful of tobacco." he picked me up by the tail, and swung me for the men-folks to see. "does any gentleman here want to buy a dog," he says, "to make into sausage-meat?" he says. "that's all he's good for." then i heard the little irish groom say, "i'll give you ten bob for the dog." and another voice says, "ah, don't you do it; the dog's same as dead--mebbe he is dead." "ten shillings!" says the master, and his voice sobers a bit; "make it two pounds and he's yours." but the pals rushed in again. "don't you be a fool, jerry," they say. "you'll be sorry for this when you're sober. the kid's worth a fiver." one of my eyes was not so swelled up as the other, and as i hung by my tail, i opened it, and saw one of the pals take the groom by the shoulder. "you ought to give 'im five pounds for that dog, mate," he says; "that's no ordinary dog. that dog's got good blood in him, that dog has. why, his father--that very dog's father----" i thought he never would go on. he waited like he wanted to be sure the groom was listening. [illustration: "he's a coward, i've done with him."] "that very dog's father," says the pal, "is regent royal, son of champion regent monarch, champion bull-terrier of england for four years." i was sore, and torn, and chewed most awful, but what the pal said sounded so fine that i wanted to wag my tail, only couldn't, owing to my hanging from it. but the master calls out: "yes, his father was regent royal; who's saying he wasn't? but the pup's a cowardly cur, that's what his pup is. and why? i'll tell you why: because his mother was a black-and-tan street-dog, that's why!" i don't see how i got the strength, but, someway, i threw myself out of the master's grip and fell at his feet, and turned over and fastened all my teeth in his ankle, just across the bone. when i woke, after the pals had kicked me off him, i was in the smoking-car of a railroad-train, lying in the lap of the little groom, and he was rubbing my open wounds with a greasy yellow stuff, exquisite to the smell and most agreeable to lick off. part ii "well, what's your name--nolan? well, nolan, these references are satisfactory," said the young gentleman my new master called "mr. wyndham, sir." "i'll take you on as second man. you can begin to-day." my new master shuffled his feet and put his finger to his forehead. "thank you, sir," says he. then he choked like he had swallowed a fish-bone. "i have a little dawg, sir," says he. "you can't keep him," says "mr. wyndham, sir," very short. "'e's only a puppy, sir," says my new master; "'e wouldn't go outside the stables, sir." "it's not that," says "mr. wyndham, sir." "i have a large kennel of very fine dogs; they're the best of their breed in america. i don't allow strange dogs on the premises." the master shakes his head, and motions me with his cap, and i crept out from behind the door. "i'm sorry, sir," says the master. "then i can't take the place. i can't get along without the dawg, sir." "mr. wyndham, sir," looked at me that fierce that i guessed he was going to whip me, so i turned over on my back and begged with my legs and tail. "why, you beat him!" says "mr. wyndham, sir," very stern. "no fear!" the master says, getting very red. "the party i bought him off taught him that. he never learnt that from me!" he picked me up in his arms, and to show "mr. wyndham, sir," how well i loved the master, i bit his chin and hands. "mr. wyndham, sir," turned over the letters the master had given him. "well, these references certainly are very strong," he says. "i guess i'll let the dog stay. only see you keep him away from the kennels--or you'll both go." "thank you, sir," says the master, grinning like a cat when she's safe behind the area railing. "he's not a bad bull-terrier," says "mr. wyndham, sir," feeling my head. "not that i know much about the smooth-coated breeds. my dogs are st. bernards." he stopped patting me and held up my nose. "what's the matter with his ears?" he says. "they're chewed to pieces. is this a fighting dog?" he asks, quick and rough-like. i could have laughed. if he hadn't been holding my nose, i certainly would have had a good grin at him. me the best under thirty pounds in the province of quebec, and him asking if i was a fighting dog! i ran to the master and hung down my head modest-like, waiting for him to tell my list of battles; but the master he coughs in his cap most painful. "fightin' dawg, sir!" he cries. "lor' bless you, sir, the kid don't know the word. 'e's just a puppy, sir, same as you see; a pet dog, so to speak. 'e's a regular old lady's lap-dog, the kid is." "well, you keep him away from my st. bernards," says "mr. wyndham, sir," "or they might make a mouthful of him." "yes, sir; that they might," says the master. but when we gets outside he slaps his knee and laughs inside hisself, and winks at me most sociable. the master's new home was in the country, in a province they called long island. there was a high stone wall about his home with big iron gates to it, same as godfrey's brewery; and there was a house with five red roofs; and the stables, where i lived, was cleaner than the aërated bakery-shop. and then there was the kennels; but they was like nothing else in this world that ever i see. for the first days i couldn't sleep of nights for fear some one would catch me lying in such a cleaned-up place, and would chase me out of it; and when i did fall to sleep i'd dream i was back in the old master's attic, shivering under the rusty stove, which never had no coals in it, with the master flat on his back on the cold floor, with his clothes on. and i'd wake up scared and whimpering, and find myself on the new master's cot with his hand on the quilt beside me; and i'd see the glow of the big stove, and hear the high-quality horses below-stairs stamping in their straw-lined boxes, and i'd snoop the sweet smell of hay and harness-soap and go to sleep again. the stables was my jail, so the master said, but i don't ask no better home than that jail. "now, kid," says he, sitting on the top of a bucket upside down, "you've got to understand this. when i whistle it means you're not to go out of this 'ere yard. these stables is your jail. if you leave 'em i'll have to leave 'em too, and over the seas, in the county mayo, an old mother will 'ave to leave her bit of a cottage. for two pounds i must be sending her every month, or she'll have naught to eat, nor no thatch over 'er head. i can't lose my place, kid, so see you don't lose it for me. you must keep away from the kennels," says he; "they're not for the likes of you. the kennels are for the quality. i wouldn't take a litter of them woolly dogs for one wag of your tail, kid, but for all that they are your betters, same as the gentry up in the big house are my betters. i know my place and keep away from the gentry, and you keep away from the champions." so i never goes out of the stables. all day i just lay in the sun on the stone flags, licking my jaws, and watching the grooms wash down the carriages, and the only care i had was to see they didn't get gay and turn the hose on me. there wasn't even a single rat to plague me. such stables i never did see. "nolan," says the head groom, "some day that dog of yours will give you the slip. you can't keep a street-dog tied up all his life. it's against his natur'." the head groom is a nice old gentleman, but he doesn't know everything. just as though i'd been a street-dog because i liked it! as if i'd rather poke for my vittles in ash-heaps than have 'em handed me in a wash-basin, and would sooner bite and fight than be polite and sociable. if i'd had mother there i couldn't have asked for nothing more. but i'd think of her snooping in the gutters, or freezing of nights under the bridges, or, what's worst of all, running through the hot streets with her tongue down, so wild and crazy for a drink that the people would shout "mad dog" at her and stone her. water's so good that i don't blame the men-folks for locking it up inside their houses; but when the hot days come, i think they might remember that those are the dog-days, and leave a little water outside in a trough, like they do for the horses. then we wouldn't go mad, and the policemen wouldn't shoot us. i had so much of everything i wanted that it made me think a lot of the days when i hadn't nothing, and if i could have given what i had to mother, as she used to share with me, i'd have been the happiest dog in the land. not that i wasn't happy then, and most grateful to the master, too, and if i'd only minded him, the trouble wouldn't have come again. but one day the coachman says that the little lady they called miss dorothy had come back from school, and that same morning she runs over to the stables to pat her ponies, and she sees me. "oh, what a nice little, white little dog!" said she. "whose little dog are you?" says she. "that's my dog, miss," says the master. "'is name is kid." and i ran up to her most polite, and licks her fingers, for i never see so pretty and kind a lady. "you must come with me and call on my new puppies," says she, picking me up in her arms and starting off with me. "oh, but please, miss," cries nolan, "mr. wyndham give orders that the kid's not to go to the kennels." "that'll be all right," says the little lady; "they're my kennels too. and the puppies will like to play with him." you wouldn't believe me if i was to tell you of the style of them quality-dogs. if i hadn't seen it myself i wouldn't have believed it neither. the viceroy of canada don't live no better. there was forty of them, but each one had his own house and a yard--most exclusive--and a cot and a drinking-basin all to hisself. they had servants standing round waiting to feed 'em when they was hungry, and valets to wash 'em; and they had their hair combed and brushed like the grooms must when they go out on the box. even the puppies had overcoats with their names on 'em in blue letters, and the name of each of those they called champions was painted up fine over his front door just like it was a public house or a veterinary's. they were the biggest st. bernards i ever did see. i could have walked under them if they'd have let me. but they were very proud and haughty dogs, and looked only once at me, and then sniffed in the air. the little lady's own dog was an old gentleman bull-dog. he'd come along with us, and when he notices how taken aback i was with all i see, 'e turned quite kind and affable and showed me about. "jimmy jocks," miss dorothy called him, but, owing to his weight, he walked most dignified and slow, waddling like a duck, as you might say, and looked much too proud and handsome for such a silly name. "that's the runway, and that's the trophy-house," says he to me, "and that over there is the hospital, where you have to go if you get distemper, and the vet gives you beastly medicine." "and which of these is your 'ouse, sir?" asks i, wishing to be respectful. but he looked that hurt and haughty. "i don't live in the kennels," says he, most contemptuous. "i am a house-dog. i sleep in miss dorothy's room. and at lunch i'm let in with the family, if the visitors don't mind. they 'most always do, but they're too polite to say so. besides," says he, smiling most condescending, "visitors are always afraid of me. it's because i'm so ugly," says he. "i suppose," says he, screwing up his wrinkles and speaking very slow and impressive, "i suppose i'm the ugliest bull-dog in america"; and as he seemed to be so pleased to think hisself so, i said, "yes, sir; you certainly are the ugliest ever i see," at which he nodded his head most approving. "but i couldn't hurt 'em, as you say," he goes on, though i hadn't said nothing like that, being too polite. "i'm too old," he says; "i haven't any teeth. the last time one of those grizzly bears," said he, glaring at the big st. bernards, "took a hold of me, he nearly was my death," says he. i thought his eyes would pop out of his head, he seemed so wrought up about it. "he rolled me around in the dirt, he did," says jimmy jocks, "an' i couldn't get up. it was low," says jimmy jocks, making a face like he had a bad taste in his mouth. "low, that's what i call it--bad form, you understand, young man, not done in my set--and--and low." he growled 'way down in his stomach, and puffed hisself out, panting and blowing like he had been on a run. "i'm not a street fighter," he says, scowling at a st. bernard marked "champion." "and when my rheumatism is not troubling me," he says, "i endeavor to be civil to all dogs, so long as they are gentlemen." "yes, sir," said i, for even to me he had been most affable. at this we had come to a little house off by itself, and jimmy jocks invites me in. "this is their trophy-room," he says, "where they keep their prizes. mine," he says, rather grand-like, "are on the sideboard." not knowing what a sideboard might be, i said, "indeed, sir, that must be very gratifying." but he only wrinkled up his chops as much as to say, "it is my right." the trophy-room was as wonderful as any public house i ever see. on the walls was pictures of nothing but beautiful st. bernard dogs, and rows and rows of blue and red and yellow ribbons; and when i asked jimmy jocks why they was so many more of blue than of the others, he laughs and says, "because these kennels always win." and there was many shining cups on the shelves, which jimmy jocks told me were prizes won by the champions. "now, sir, might i ask you, sir," says i, "wot is a champion?" at that he panted and breathed so hard i thought he would bust hisself. "my dear young friend!" says he, "wherever have you been educated? a champion is a--a champion," he says. "he must win nine blue ribbons in the 'open' class. you follow me--that is--against all comers. then he has the title before his name, and they put his photograph in the sporting papers. you know, of course, that i am a champion," says he. "i am champion woodstock wizard iii, and the two other woodstock wizards, my father and uncle, were both champions." "but i thought your name was jimmy jocks," i said. he laughs right out at that. "that's my kennel name, not my registered name," he says. "why, certainly you know that every dog has two names. now, for instance, what's your registered name and number?" says he. "i've got only one name," i says. "just kid." woodstock wizard puffs at that and wrinkles up his forehead and pops out his eyes. "who are your people?" says he. "where is your home?" "at the stable, sir," i said. "my master is the second groom." at that woodstock wizard iii looks at me for quite a bit without winking, and stares all around the room over my head. "oh, well," says he at last, "you're a very civil young dog," says he, "and i blame no one for what he can't help," which i thought most fair and liberal. "and i have known many bull-terriers that were champions," says he, "though as a rule they mostly run with fire-engines and to fighting. for me, i wouldn't care to run through the streets after a hose-cart, nor to fight," says he; "but each to his taste." i could not help thinking that if woodstock wizard iii tried to follow a fire-engine he would die of apoplexy, and seeing he'd lost his teeth, it was lucky he had no taste for fighting; but, after his being so condescending, i didn't say nothing. "anyway," says he, "every smooth-coated dog is better than any hairy old camel like those st. bernards, and if ever you're hungry down at the stables, young man, come up to the house and i'll give you a bone. i can't eat them myself, but i bury them around the garden from force of habit and in case a friend should drop in. ah, i see my mistress coming," he says, "and i bid you good day. i regret," he says, "that our different social position prevents our meeting frequent, for you're a worthy young dog with a proper respect for your betters, and in this country there's precious few of them have that." then he waddles off, leaving me alone and very sad, for he was the first dog in many days that had spoke to me. but since he showed, seeing that i was a stable-dog, he didn't want my company, i waited for him to get well away. it was not a cheerful place to wait, the trophy-house. the pictures of the champions seemed to scowl at me, and ask what right such as i had even to admire them, and the blue and gold ribbons and the silver cups made me very miserable. i had never won no blue ribbons or silver cups, only stakes for the old master to spend in the publics; and i hadn't won them for being a beautiful high-quality dog, but just for fighting--which, of course, as woodstock wizard iii says, is low. so i started for the stables, with my head down and my tail between my legs, feeling sorry i had ever left the master. but i had more reason to be sorry before i got back to him. the trophy-house was quite a bit from the kennels, and as i left it i see miss dorothy and woodstock wizard iii walking back toward them, and, also, that a big st. bernard, his name was champion red elfberg, had broke his chain and was running their way. when he reaches old jimmy jocks he lets out a roar like a grain-steamer in a fog, and he makes three leaps for him. old jimmy jocks was about a fourth his size; but he plants his feet and curves his back, and his hair goes up around his neck like a collar. but he never had no show at no time, for the grizzly bear, as jimmy jocks had called him, lights on old jimmy's back and tries to break it, and old jimmy jocks snaps his gums and claws the grass, panting and groaning awful. but he can't do nothing, and the grizzly bear just rolls him under him, biting and tearing cruel. the odds was all that woodstock wizard iii was going to be killed; i had fought enough to see that: but not knowing the rules of the game among champions, i didn't like to interfere between two gentlemen who might be settling a private affair, and, as it were, take it as presuming of me. so i stood by, though i was shaking terrible, and holding myself in like i was on a leash. but at that woodstock wizard iii, who was underneath, sees me through the dust, and calls very faint, "help, you!" he says. "take him in the hind leg," he says. "he's murdering me," he says. and then the little miss dorothy, who was crying, and calling to the kennel-men, catches at the red elfberg's hind legs to pull him off, and the brute, keeping his front pats well in jimmy's stomach, turns his big head and snaps at her. so that was all i asked for, thank you. i went up under him. it was really nothing. he stood so high that i had only to take off about three feet from him and come in from the side, and my long "punishing jaw," as mother was always talking about, locked on his woolly throat, and my back teeth met. i couldn't shake him, but i shook myself, and every time i shook myself there was thirty pounds of weight tore at his wind-pipes. i couldn't see nothing for his long hair, but i heard jimmy jocks puffing and blowing on one side, and munching the brute's leg with his old gums. jimmy was an old sport that day, was jimmy, or woodstock wizard iii, as i should say. when the red elfberg was out and down i had to run, or those kennel-men would have had my life. they chased me right into the stables; and from under the hay i watched the head groom take down a carriage-whip and order them to the right about. luckily master and the young grooms were out, or that day there'd have been fighting for everybody. well, it nearly did for me and the master. "mr. wyndham, sir," comes raging to the stables. i'd half killed his best prize-winner, he says, and had oughter be shot, and he gives the master his notice. but miss dorothy she follows him, and says it was his red elfberg what began the fight, and that i'd saved jimmy's life, and that old jimmy jocks was worth more to her than all the st. bernards in the swiss mountains--wherever they may be. and that i was her champion, anyway. then, she cried over me most beautiful, and over jimmy jocks, too, who was that tied up in bandages he couldn't even waddle. so when he heard that side of it, "mr. wyndham, sir," told us that if nolan put me on a chain we could stay. so it came out all right for everybody but me. i was glad the master kept his place, but i'd never worn a chain before, and it disheartened me. but that was the least of it. for the quality-dogs couldn't forgive my whipping their champion, and they came to the fence between the kennels and the stables, and laughed through the bars, barking most cruel words at me. i couldn't understand how they found it out, but they knew. after the fight jimmy jocks was most condescending to me, and he said the grooms had boasted to the kennel-men that i was a son of regent royal, and that when the kennel-men asked who was my mother they had had to tell them that too. perhaps that was the way of it, but, however, the scandal got out, and every one of the quality-dogs knew that i was a street-dog and the son of a black-and-tan. "these misalliances will occur," said jimmy jocks, in his old-fashioned way; "but no well-bred dog," says he, looking most scornful at the st. bernards, who were howling behind the palings, "would refer to your misfortune before you, certainly not cast it in your face. i myself remember your father's father, when he made his début at the crystal palace. he took four blue ribbons and three specials." but no sooner than jimmy would leave me the st. bernards would take to howling again, insulting mother and insulting me. and when i tore at my chain, they, seeing they were safe, would howl the more. it was never the same after that; the laughs and the jeers cut into my heart, and the chain bore heavy on my spirit. i was so sad that sometimes i wished i was back in the gutter again, where no one was better than me, and some nights i wished i was dead. if it hadn't been for the master being so kind, and that it would have looked like i was blaming mother, i would have twisted my leash and hanged myself. about a month after my fight, the word was passed through the kennels that the new york show was coming, and such goings on as followed i never did see. if each of them had been matched to fight for a thousand pounds and the gate, they couldn't have trained more conscientious. but perhaps that's just my envy. the kennel-men rubbed 'em and scrubbed 'em, and trims their hair and curls and combs it, and some dogs they fatted and some they starved. no one talked of nothing but the show, and the chances "our kennels" had against the other kennels, and if this one of our champions would win over that one, and whether them as hoped to be champions had better show in the "open" or the "limit" class, and whether this dog would beat his own dad, or whether his little puppy sister couldn't beat the two of 'em. even the grooms had their money up, and day or night you heard nothing but praises of "our" dogs, until i, being so far out of it, couldn't have felt meaner if i had been running the streets with a can to my tail. i knew shows were not for such as me, and so all day i lay stretched at the end of my chain, pretending i was asleep, and only too glad that they had something so important to think of that they could leave me alone. but one day, before the show opened, miss dorothy came to the stables with "mr. wyndham, sir," and seeing me chained up and so miserable, she takes me in her arms. "you poor little tyke!" says she. "it's cruel to tie him up so; he's eating his heart out, nolan," she says. "i don't know nothing about bull-terriers," says she, "but i think kid's got good points," says she, "and you ought to show him. jimmy jocks has three legs on the rensselaer cup now, and i'm going to show him this time, so that he can get the fourth; and, if you wish, i'll enter your dog too. how would you like that, kid?" says she. "how would you like to see the most beautiful dogs in the world? maybe you'd meet a pal or two," says she. "it would cheer you up, wouldn't it, kid?" says she. but i was so upset i could only wag my tail most violent. "he says it would!" says she, though, being that excited, i hadn't said nothing. so "mr. wyndham, sir," laughs, and takes out a piece of blue paper and sits down at the head groom's table. "what's the name of the father of your dog, nolan?" says he. and nolan says: "the man i got him off told me he was a son of champion regent royal, sir. but it don't seem likely, does it?" says nolan. "it does not!" says "mr. wyndham, sir," short-like. "aren't you sure, nolan?" says miss dorothy. "no, miss," says the master. "sire unknown," says "mr. wyndham, sir," and writes it down. "date of birth?" asks "mr. wyndham, sir." "i--i--unknown, sir," says nolan. and "mr. wyndham, sir," writes it down. "breeder?" says "mr. wyndham, sir." "unknown," says nolan, getting very red around the jaws, and i drops my head and tail. and "mr. wyndham, sir," writes that down. "mother's name?" says "mr. wyndham, sir." "she was a--unknown," says the master. and i licks his hand. "dam unknown," says "mr. wyndham, sir," and writes it down. then he takes the paper and reads out loud: "'sire unknown, dam unknown, breeder unknown, date of birth unknown.' you'd better call him the 'great unknown,'" says he. "who's paying his entrance fee?" "i am," says miss dorothy. two weeks after we all got on a train for new york, jimmy jocks and me following nolan in the smoking-car, and twenty-two of the st. bernards in boxes and crates and on chains and leashes. such a barking and howling i never did hear; and when they sees me going, too, they laughs fit to kill. "wot is this--a circus?" says the railroad man. but i had no heart in it. i hated to go. i knew i was no "show" dog, even though miss dorothy and the master did their best to keep me from shaming them. for before we set out miss dorothy brings a man from town who scrubbed and rubbed me, and sandpapered my tail, which hurt most awful, and shaved my ears with the master's razor, so you could 'most see clear through 'em, and sprinkles me over with pipe-clay, till i shines like a tommy's cross-belts. "upon my word!" says jimmy jocks when he first sees me. "wot a swell you are! you're the image of your grand-dad when he made his début at the crystal palace. he took four firsts and three specials." but i knew he was only trying to throw heart into me. they might scrub, and they might rub, and they might pipe-clay, but they couldn't pipe-clay the insides of me, and they was black-and-tan. then we came to a garden, which it was not, but the biggest hall in the world. inside there was lines of benches a few miles long, and on them sat every dog in america. if all the dog snatchers in montreal had worked night and day for a year, they couldn't have caught so many dogs. and they was all shouting and barking and howling so vicious that my heart stopped beating. for at first i thought they was all enraged at my presuming to intrude. but after i got in my place they kept at it just the same, barking at every dog as he come in: daring him to fight, and ordering him out, and asking him what breed of dog he thought he was, anyway. jimmy jocks was chained just behind me, and he said he never see so fine a show. "that's a hot class you're in, my lad," he says, looking over into my street, where there were thirty bull terriers. they was all as white as cream, and each so beautiful that if i could have broke my chain i would have run all the way home and hid myself under the horse trough. all night long they talked and sang, and passed greetings with old pals, and the homesick puppies howled dismal. them that couldn't sleep wouldn't let no others sleep, and all the electric lights burned in the roof, and in my eyes. i could hear jimmy jocks snoring peaceful, but i could only doze by jerks, and when i dozed i dreamed horrible. all the dogs in the hall seemed coming at me for daring to intrude, with their jaws red and open, and their eyes blazing like the lights in the roof. "you're a street dog! get out, you street dog!" they yells. and as they drives me out, the pipe clay drops off me, and they laugh and shriek; and when i looks down i see that i have turned into a black-and-tan. they was most awful dreams, and next morning, when miss dorothy comes and gives me water in a pan, i begs and begs her to take me home; but she can't understand. "how well kid is!" she says. and when i jumps into the master's arms and pulls to break my chain, he says, "if he knew all as he had against him, miss, he wouldn't be so gay." and from a book they reads out the names of the beautiful high-bred terriers which i have got to meet. and i can't make 'em understand that i only want to run away and hide myself where no one will see me. then suddenly men comes hurrying down our street and begins to brush the beautiful bull-terriers; and the master rubs me with a towel so excited that his hands trembles awful, and miss dorothy tweaks my ears between her gloves, so that the blood runs to 'em, and they turn pink and stand up straight and sharp. "now, then, nolan," says she, her voice shaking just like his fingers, "keep his head up--and never let the judge lose sight of him." when i hears that my legs breaks under me, for i knows all about judges. twice the old master goes up before the judge for fighting me with other dogs, and the judge promises him if he ever does it again he'll chain him up in jail. i knew he'd find me out. a judge can't be fooled by no pipe-clay. he can see right through you, and he reads your insides. the judging-ring, which is where the judge holds out, was so like a fighting-pit that when i come in it, and find six other dogs there, i springs into position, so that when they lets us go i can defend myself. but the master smooths down my hair and whispers, "hold 'ard, kid, hold 'ard. this ain't a fight," says he. "look your prettiest," he whispers. "please, kid, look your prettiest"; and he pulls my leash so tight that i can't touch my pats to the sawdust, and my nose goes up in the air. there was millions of people a-watching us from the railings, and three of our kennel-men, too, making fun of the master and me, and miss dorothy with her chin just reaching to the rail, and her eyes so big that i thought she was a-going to cry. it was awful to think that when the judge stood up and exposed me, all those people, and miss dorothy, would be there to see me driven from the show. the judge he was a fierce-looking man with specs on his nose, and a red beard. when i first come in he didn't see me, owing to my being too quick for him and dodging behind the master. but when the master drags me round and i pulls at the sawdust to keep back, the judge looks at us careless-like, and then stops and glares through his specs, and i knew it was all up with me. "are there any more?" asks the judge to the gentleman at the gate, but never taking his specs from me. the man at the gate looks in his book. "seven in the novice class," says he. "they're all here. you can go ahead," and he shuts the gate. the judge he doesn't hesitate a moment. he just waves his hand toward the corner of the ring. "take him away," he says to the master, "over there, and keep him away"; and he turns and looks most solemn at the six beautiful bull-terriers. i don't know how i crawled to that corner. i wanted to scratch under the sawdust and dig myself a grave. the kennel-men they slapped the rail with their hands and laughed at the master like they would fall over. they pointed at me in the corner, and their sides just shaked. but little miss dorothy she presses her lips tight against the rail, and i see tears rolling from her eyes. the master he hangs his head like he had been whipped. i felt most sorry for him than all. he was so red, and he was letting on not to see the kennel-men, and blinking his eyes. if the judge had ordered me right out it wouldn't have disgraced us so, but it was keeping me there while he was judging the high-bred dogs that hurt so hard. with all those people staring, too. and his doing it so quick, without no doubt nor questions. you can't fool the judges. they see inside you. but he couldn't make up his mind about them high-bred dogs. he scowls at 'em, and he glares at 'em, first with his head on the one side and then on the other. and he feels of 'em, and orders 'em to run about. and nolan leans against the rails, with his head hung down, and pats me. and miss dorothy comes over beside him, but don't say nothing, only wipes her eye with her finger. a man on the other side of the rail he says to the master, "the judge don't like your dog?" "no," says the master. "have you ever shown him before?" says the man. "no," says the master, "and i'll never show him again. he's my dog," says the master, "and he suits me! and i don't care what no judges think." and when he says them kind words, i licks his hand most grateful. the judge had two of the six dogs on a little platform in the middle of the ring, and he had chased the four other dogs into the corners, where they was licking their chops, and letting on they didn't care, same as nolan was. the two dogs on the platform was so beautiful that the judge hisself couldn't tell which was the best of 'em, even when he stoops down and holds their heads together. but at last he gives a sigh, and brushes the sawdust off his knees, and goes to the table in the ring, where there was a man keeping score, and heaps and heaps of blue and gold and red and yellow ribbons. and the judge picks up a bunch of 'em and walks to the two gentlemen who was holding the beautiful dogs, and he says to each, "what's his number?" and he hands each gentleman a ribbon. and then he turned sharp and comes straight at the master. "what's his number?" says the judge. and master was so scared that he couldn't make no answer. but miss dorothy claps her hands and cries out like she was laughing, "three twenty-six," and the judge writes it down and shoves master the blue ribbon. i bit the master, and i jumps and bit miss dorothy, and i waggled so hard that the master couldn't hold me. when i get to the gate miss dorothy snatches me up and kisses me between the ears, right before millions of people, and they both hold me so tight that i didn't know which of them was carrying of me. but one thing i knew, for i listened hard, as it was the judge hisself as said it. "did you see that puppy i gave first to?" says the judge to the gentleman at the gate. "i did. he was a bit out of his class," says the gate gentleman. "he certainly was!" says the judge, and they both laughed. but i didn't care. they couldn't hurt me then, not with nolan holding the blue ribbon and miss dorothy hugging my ears, and the kennel-men sneaking away, each looking like he'd been caught with his nose under the lid of the slop-can. we sat down together, and we all three just talked as fast as we could. they was so pleased that i couldn't help feeling proud myself, and i barked and leaped about so gay that all the bull-terriers in our street stretched on their chains and howled at me. "just look at him!" says one of those i had beat. "what's he giving hisself airs about?" "because he's got one blue ribbon!" says another of 'em. "why, when i was a puppy i used to eat 'em, and if that judge could ever learn to know a toy from a mastiff, i'd have had this one." but jimmy jocks he leaned over from his bench and says, "well done, kid. didn't i tell you so?" what he 'ad told me was that i might get a "commended," but i didn't remind him. "didn't i tell you," says jimmy jocks, "that i saw your grandfather make his début at the crystal--" "yes, sir, you did, sir," says i, for i have no love for the men of my family. a gentleman with a showing-leash around his neck comes up just then and looks at me very critical. "nice dog you've got, miss wyndham," says he; "would you care to sell him?" "he's not my dog," says miss dorothy, holding me tight. "i wish he were." "he's not for sale, sir," says the master, and i was _that_ glad. "oh, he's yours, is he?" says the gentleman, looking hard at nolan. "well, i'll give you a hundred dollars for him," says he, careless-like. "thank you, sir; he's not for sale," says nolan, but his eyes get very big. the gentleman he walked away; but i watches him, and he talks to a man in a golf-cap, and by and by the man comes along our street, looking at all the dogs, and stops in front of me. "this your dog?" says he to nolan. "pity he's so leggy," says he. "if he had a good tail, and a longer stop, and his ears were set higher, he'd be a good dog. as he is, i'll give you fifty dollars for him." but before the master could speak, miss dorothy laughs and says: "you're mr. polk's kennel-man, i believe. well, you tell mr. polk from me that the dog's not for sale now any more than he was five minutes ago, and that when he is, he'll have to bid against me for him." the man looks foolish at that, but he turns to nolan quick-like. "i'll give you three hundred for him," he says. "oh, indeed!" whispers miss dorothy, like she was talking to herself. "that's it, is it?" and she turns and looks at me just as though she had never seen me before. nolan he was a-gaping, too, with his mouth open. but he holds me tight. "he's not for sale," he growls, like he was frightened; and the man looks black and walks away. "why, nolan!" cries miss dorothy, "mr. polk knows more about bull-terriers than any amateur in america. what can he mean? why, kid is no more than a puppy! three hundred dollars for a puppy!" "and he ain't no thoroughbred, neither!" cries the master. "he's 'unknown,' ain't he? kid can't help it, of course, but his mother, miss--" i dropped my head. i couldn't bear he should tell miss dorothy. i couldn't bear she should know i had stolen my blue ribbon. but the master never told, for at that a gentleman runs up, calling, "three twenty-six, three twenty-six!" and miss dorothy says, "here he is; what is it?" "the winners' class," says the gentleman. "hurry, please; the judge is waiting for him." nolan tries to get me off the chain on to a showing-leash, but he shakes so, he only chokes me. "what is it, miss?" he says. "what is it?" "the winners' class," says miss dorothy. "the judge wants him with the winners of the other classes--to decide which is the best. it's only a form," says she. "he has the champions against him now." "yes," says the gentleman, as he hurries us to the ring. "i'm afraid it's only a form for your dog, but the judge wants all the winners, puppy class even." we had got to the gate, and the gentleman there was writing down my number. "who won the open?" asks miss dorothy. "oh, who would?" laughs the gentleman. "the old champion, of course. he's won for three years now. there he is. isn't he wonderful?" says he; and he points to a dog that's standing proud and haughty on the platform in the middle of the ring. i never see so beautiful a dog--so fine and clean and noble, so white like he had rolled hisself in flour, holding his nose up and his eyes shut, same as though no one was worth looking at. aside of him we other dogs, even though we had a blue ribbon apiece, seemed like lumps of mud. he was a royal gentleman, a king, he was. his master didn't have to hold his head with no leash. he held it hisself, standing as still as an iron dog on a lawn, like he knew all the people was looking at him. and so they was, and no one around the ring pointed at no other dog but him. "oh, what a picture!" cried miss dorothy. "he's like a marble figure by a great artist--one who loved dogs. who is he?" says she, looking in her book. "i don't keep up with terriers." "oh, you know him," says the gentleman. "he is the champion of champions, regent royal." the master's face went red. "and this is regent royal's son," cries he, and he pulls me quick into the ring, and plants me on the platform next my father. i trembled so that i near fell. my legs twisted like a leash. but my father he never looked at me. he only smiled the same sleepy smile, and he still kept his eyes half shut, like as no one, no, not even his own son, was worth his lookin' at. the judge he didn't let me stay beside my father, but, one by one, he placed the other dogs next to him and measured and felt and pulled at them. and each one he put down, but he never put my father down. and then he comes over and picks up me and sets me back on the platform, shoulder to shoulder with the champion regent royal, and goes down on his knees, and looks into our eyes. the gentleman with my father he laughs, and says to the judge, "thinking of keeping us here all day, john?" but the judge he doesn't hear him, and goes behind us and runs his hand down my side, and holds back my ears, and takes my jaws between his fingers. the crowd around the ring is very deep now, and nobody says nothing. the gentleman at the score-table, he is leaning forward, with his elbows on his knees and his eyes very wide, and the gentleman at the gate is whispering quick to miss dorothy, who has turned white. i stood as stiff as stone. i didn't even breathe. but out of the corner of my eye i could see my father licking his pink chops, and yawning just a little, like he was bored. the judge he had stopped looking fierce and was looking solemn. something inside him seemed a-troubling him awful. the more he stares at us now, the more solemn he gets, and when he touches us he does it gentle, like he was patting us. for a long time he kneels in the sawdust, looking at my father and at me, and no one around the ring says nothing to nobody. then the judge takes a breath and touches me sudden. "it's his," he says. but he lays his hand just as quick on my father. "i'm sorry," says he. the gentleman holding my father cries: "do you mean to tell me--" and the judge he answers, "i mean the other is the better dog." he takes my father's head between his hands and looks down at him most sorrowful. "the king is dead," says he. "long live the king! good-by, regent," he says. the crowd around the railings clapped their hands, and some laughed scornful, and every one talks fast, and i start for the gate, so dizzy that i can't see my way. but my father pushes in front of me, walking very daintily, and smiling sleepy, same as he had just been waked, with his head high and his eyes shut, looking at nobody. [illustration: for a long time he kneels in the sawdust.] so that is how i "came by my inheritance," as miss dorothy calls it; and just for that, though i couldn't feel where i was any different, the crowd follows me to my bench, and pats me, and coos at me, like i was a baby in a baby-carriage. and the handlers have to hold 'em back so that the gentlemen from the papers can make pictures of me, and nolan walks me up and down so proud, and the men shake their heads and says, "he certainly is the true type, he is!" and the pretty ladies ask miss dorothy, who sits beside me letting me lick her gloves to show the crowd what friends we is, "aren't you afraid he'll bite you?" and jimmy jocks calls to me, "didn't i tell you so? i always knew you were one of us. blood will out, kid; blood will out. i saw your grandfather," says he, "make his début at the crystal palace. but he was never the dog you are!" after that, if i could have asked for it, there was nothing i couldn't get. you might have thought i was a snow-dog, and they was afeard i'd melt. if i wet my pats, nolan gave me a hot bath and chained me to the stove; if i couldn't eat my food, being stuffed full by the cook--for i am a house-dog now, and let in to lunch, whether there is visitors or not,--nolan would run to bring the vet. it was all tommy rot, as jimmy says, but meant most kind. i couldn't scratch myself comfortable, without nolan giving me nasty drinks, and rubbing me outside till it burnt awful; and i wasn't let to eat bones for fear of spoiling my "beautiful" mouth, what mother used to call my "punishing jaw"; and my food was cooked special on a gas-stove; and miss dorothy gives me an overcoat, cut very stylish like the champions', to wear when we goes out carriage-driving. after the next show, where i takes three blue ribbons, four silver cups, two medals, and brings home forty-five dollars for nolan, they gives me a "registered" name, same as jimmy's. miss dorothy wanted to call me "regent heir apparent"; but i was _that_ glad when nolan says, "no; kid don't owe nothing to his father, only to you and hisself. so, if you please, miss, we'll call him wyndham kid." and so they did, and you can see it on my overcoat in blue letters, and painted top of my kennel. it was all too hard to understand. for days i just sat and wondered if i was really me, and how it all come about, and why everybody was so kind. but oh, it was so good they was, for if they hadn't been i'd never have got the thing i most wished after. but, because they was kind, and not liking to deny me nothing, they gave it me, and it was more to me than anything in the world. it came about one day when we was out driving. we was in the cart they calls the dog-cart because it's the one miss dorothy keeps to take jimmy and me for an airing. nolan was up behind, and me, in my new overcoat, was sitting beside miss dorothy. i was admiring the view, and thinking how good it was to have a horse pull you about so that you needn't get yourself splashed and have to be washed, when i hears a dog calling loud for help, and i pricks up my ears and looks over the horse's head. and i sees something that makes me tremble down to my toes. in the road before us three big dogs was chasing a little old lady-dog. she had a string to her tail, where some boys had tied a can, and she was dirty with mud and ashes, and torn most awful. she was too far done up to get away, and too old to help herself, but she was making a fight for her life, snapping her old gums savage, and dying game. all this i see in a wink, and then the three dogs pinned her down, and i can't stand it no longer, and clears the wheel and lands in the road on my head. it was my stylish overcoat done that, and i cursed it proper, but i gets my pats again quick, and makes a rush for the fighting. behind me i hear miss dorothy cry: "they'll kill that old dog. wait, take my whip. beat them off her! the kid can take care of himself"; and i hear nolan fall into the road, and the horse come to a stop. the old lady-dog was down, and the three was eating her vicious; but as i come up, scattering the pebbles, she hears, and thinking it's one more of them, she lifts her head, and my heart breaks open like some one had sunk his teeth in it. for, under the ashes and the dirt and the blood, i can see who it is, and i know that my mother has come back to me. i gives a yell that throws them three dogs off their legs. "mother!" i cries. "i'm the kid," i cries. "i'm coming to you. mother, i'm coming!" and i shoots over her at the throat of the big dog, and the other two they sinks their teeth into that stylish overcoat and tears it off me, and that sets me free, and i lets them have it. i never had so fine a fight as that! what with mother being there to see, and not having been let to mix up in no fights since i become a prize-winner, it just naturally did me good, and it wasn't three shakes before i had 'em yelping. quick as a wink, mother she jumps in to help me, and i just laughed to see her. it was so like old times. and nolan he made me laugh, too. he was like a hen on a bank, shaking the butt of his whip, but not daring to cut in for fear of hitting me. "stop it, kid," he says, "stop it. do you want to be all torn up?" says he. "think of the boston show," says he. "think of chicago. think of danbury. don't you never want to be a champion?" how was i to think of all them places when i had three dogs to cut up at the same time? but in a minute two of 'em begs for mercy, and mother and me lets 'em run away. the big one he ain't able to run away. then mother and me we dances and jumps, and barks and laughs, and bites each other and rolls each other in the road. there never was two dogs so happy as we. and nolan he whistles and calls and begs me to come to him; but i just laugh and play larks with mother. "now, you come with me," says i, "to my new home, and never try to run away again." and i shows her our house with the five red roofs, set on the top of the hill. but mother trembles awful, and says: "they'd never let me in such a place. does the viceroy live there, kid?" says she. and i laugh at her. "no; i do," i says. "and if they won't let you live there, too, you and me will go back to the streets together, for we must never be parted no more." so we trots up the hill side by side, with nolan trying to catch me, and miss dorothy laughing at him from the cart. "the kid's made friends with the poor old dog," says she. "maybe he knew her long ago when he ran the streets himself. put her in here beside me, and see if he doesn't follow." so when i hears that i tells mother to go with nolan and sit in the cart; but she says no--that she'd soil the pretty lady's frock; but i tells her to do as i say, and so nolan lifts her, trembling still, into the cart, and i runs alongside, barking joyful. when we drives into the stables i takes mother to my kennel, and tells her to go inside it and make herself at home. "oh, but he won't let me!" says she. "who won't let you?" says i, keeping my eye on nolan, and growling a bit nasty, just to show i was meaning to have my way. "why, wyndham kid," says she, looking up at the name on my kennel. "but i'm wyndham kid!" says i. "you!" cries mother. "you! is my little kid the great wyndham kid the dogs all talk about?" and at that, she being very old, and sick, and nervous, as mothers are, just drops down in the straw and weeps bitter. well, there ain't much more than that to tell. miss dorothy she settled it. "if the kid wants the poor old thing in the stables," says she, "let her stay." "you see," says she, "she's a black-and-tan, and his mother was a black-and-tan, and maybe that's what makes kid feel so friendly toward her," says she. "indeed, for me," says nolan, "she can have the best there is. i'd never drive out no dog that asks for a crust nor a shelter," he says. "but what will mr. wyndham do?" "he'll do what i say," says miss dorothy, "and if i say she's to stay, she will stay, and i say--she's to stay!" and so mother and nolan and me found a home. mother was scared at first--not being used to kind people; but she was so gentle and loving that the grooms got fonder of her than of me, and tried to make me jealous by patting of her and giving her the pick of the vittles. but that was the wrong way to hurt my feelings. that's all, i think. mother is so happy here that i tell her we ought to call it the happy hunting grounds, because no one hunts you, and there is nothing to hunt; it just all comes to you. and so we live in peace, mother sleeping all day in the sun, or behind the stove in the head groom's office, being fed twice a day regular by nolan, and all the day by the other grooms most irregular. and as for me, i go hurrying around the country to the bench-shows, winning money and cups for nolan, and taking the blue ribbons away from father. none none american fairy tales by l. frank baum author of father goose; his book, the wonderful wizard of oz, etc. contents the box of robbers the glass dog the queen of quok the girl who owned a bear the enchanted types the laughing hippopotamus the magic bon bons the capture of father time the wonderful pump the dummy that lived the king of the polar bears the mandarin and the butterfly the box of robbers no one intended to leave martha alone that afternoon, but it happened that everyone was called away, for one reason or another. mrs. mcfarland was attending the weekly card party held by the women's anti-gambling league. sister nell's young man had called quite unexpectedly to take her for a long drive. papa was at the office, as usual. it was mary ann's day out. as for emeline, she certainly should have stayed in the house and looked after the little girl; but emeline had a restless nature. "would you mind, miss, if i just crossed the alley to speak a word to mrs. carleton's girl?" she asked martha. "'course not," replied the child. "you'd better lock the back door, though, and take the key, for i shall be upstairs." "oh, i'll do that, of course, miss," said the delighted maid, and ran away to spend the afternoon with her friend, leaving martha quite alone in the big house, and locked in, into the bargain. the little girl read a few pages in her new book, sewed a few stitches in her embroidery and started to "play visiting" with her four favorite dolls. then she remembered that in the attic was a doll's playhouse that hadn't been used for months, so she decided she would dust it and put it in order. filled with this idea, the girl climbed the winding stairs to the big room under the roof. it was well lighted by three dormer windows and was warm and pleasant. around the walls were rows of boxes and trunks, piles of old carpeting, pieces of damaged furniture, bundles of discarded clothing and other odds and ends of more or less value. every well-regulated house has an attic of this sort, so i need not describe it. the doll's house had been moved, but after a search martha found it away over in a corner near the big chimney. she drew it out and noticed that behind it was a black wooden chest which uncle walter had sent over from italy years and years ago--before martha was born, in fact. mamma had told her about it one day; how there was no key to it, because uncle walter wished it to remain unopened until he returned home; and how this wandering uncle, who was a mighty hunter, had gone into africa to hunt elephants and had never been heard from afterwards. the little girl looked at the chest curiously, now that it had by accident attracted her attention. it was quite big--bigger even than mamma's traveling trunk--and was studded all over with tarnished brassheaded nails. it was heavy, too, for when martha tried to lift one end of it she found she could not stir it a bit. but there was a place in the side of the cover for a key. she stooped to examine the lock, and saw that it would take a rather big key to open it. then, as you may suspect, the little girl longed to open uncle walter's big box and see what was in it. for we are all curious, and little girls are just as curious as the rest of us. "i don't b'lieve uncle walter'll ever come back," she thought. "papa said once that some elephant must have killed him. if i only had a key--" she stopped and clapped her little hands together gayly as she remembered a big basket of keys on the shelf in the linen closet. they were of all sorts and sizes; perhaps one of them would unlock the mysterious chest! she flew down the stairs, found the basket and returned with it to the attic. then she sat down before the brass-studded box and began trying one key after another in the curious old lock. some were too large, but most were too small. one would go into the lock but would not turn; another stuck so fast that she feared for a time that she would never get it out again. but at last, when the basket was almost empty, an oddly-shaped, ancient brass key slipped easily into the lock. with a cry of joy martha turned the key with both hands; then she heard a sharp "click," and the next moment the heavy lid flew up of its own accord! the little girl leaned over the edge of the chest an instant, and the sight that met her eyes caused her to start back in amazement. slowly and carefully a man unpacked himself from the chest, stepped out upon the floor, stretched his limbs and then took off his hat and bowed politely to the astonished child. he was tall and thin and his face seemed badly tanned or sunburnt. then another man emerged from the chest, yawning and rubbing his eyes like a sleepy schoolboy. he was of middle size and his skin seemed as badly tanned as that of the first. while martha stared open-mouthed at the remarkable sight a third man crawled from the chest. he had the same complexion as his fellows, but was short and fat. all three were dressed in a curious manner. they wore short jackets of red velvet braided with gold, and knee breeches of sky-blue satin with silver buttons. over their stockings were laced wide ribbons of red and yellow and blue, while their hats had broad brims with high, peaked crowns, from which fluttered yards of bright-colored ribbons. they had big gold rings in their ears and rows of knives and pistols in their belts. their eyes were black and glittering and they wore long, fierce mustaches, curling at the ends like a pig's tail. "my! but you were heavy," exclaimed the fat one, when he had pulled down his velvet jacket and brushed the dust from his sky-blue breeches. "and you squeezed me all out of shape." "it was unavoidable, luigi," responded the thin man, lightly; "the lid of the chest pressed me down upon you. yet i tender you my regrets." "as for me," said the middle-sized man, carelessly rolling a cigarette and lighting it, "you must acknowledge i have been your nearest friend for years; so do not be disagreeable." "you mustn't smoke in the attic," said martha, recovering herself at sight of the cigarette. "you might set the house on fire." the middle-sized man, who had not noticed her before, at this speech turned to the girl and bowed. "since a lady requests it," said he, "i shall abandon my cigarette," and he threw it on the floor and extinguished it with his foot. "who are you?" asked martha, who until now had been too astonished to be frightened. "permit us to introduce ourselves," said the thin man, flourishing his hat gracefully. "this is lugui," the fat man nodded; "and this is beni," the middle-sized man bowed; "and i am victor. we are three bandits--italian bandits." "bandits!" cried martha, with a look of horror. "exactly. perhaps in all the world there are not three other bandits so terrible and fierce as ourselves," said victor, proudly. "'tis so," said the fat man, nodding gravely. "but it's wicked!" exclaimed martha. "yes, indeed," replied victor. "we are extremely and tremendously wicked. perhaps in all the world you could not find three men more wicked than those who now stand before you." "'tis so," said the fat man, approvingly. "but you shouldn't be so wicked," said the girl; "it's--it's--naughty!" victor cast down his eyes and blushed. "naughty!" gasped beni, with a horrified look. "'tis a hard word," said luigi, sadly, and buried his face in his hands. "i little thought," murmured victor, in a voice broken by emotion, "ever to be so reviled--and by a lady! yet, perhaps you spoke thoughtlessly. you must consider, miss, that our wickedness has an excuse. for how are we to be bandits, let me ask, unless we are wicked?" martha was puzzled and shook her head, thoughtfully. then she remembered something. "you can't remain bandits any longer," said she, "because you are now in america." "america!" cried the three, together. "certainly. you are on prairie avenue, in chicago. uncle walter sent you here from italy in this chest." the bandits seemed greatly bewildered by this announcement. lugui sat down on an old chair with a broken rocker and wiped his forehead with a yellow silk handkerchief. beni and victor fell back upon the chest and looked at her with pale faces and staring eyes. when he had somewhat recovered himself victor spoke. "your uncle walter has greatly wronged us," he said, reproachfully. "he has taken us from our beloved italy, where bandits are highly respected, and brought us to a strange country where we shall not know whom to rob or how much to ask for a ransom." "'tis so!" said the fat man, slapping his leg sharply. "and we had won such fine reputations in italy!" said beni, regretfully. "perhaps uncle walter wanted to reform you," suggested martha. "are there, then, no bandits in chicago?" asked victor. "well," replied the girl, blushing in her turn, "we do not call them bandits." "then what shall we do for a living?" inquired beni, despairingly. "a great deal can be done in a big american city," said the child. "my father is a lawyer" (the bandits shuddered), "and my mother's cousin is a police inspector." "ah," said victor, "that is a good employment. the police need to be inspected, especially in italy." "everywhere!" added beni. "then you could do other things," continued martha, encouragingly. "you could be motor men on trolley cars, or clerks in a department store. some people even become aldermen to earn a living." the bandits shook their heads sadly. "we are not fitted for such work," said victor. "our business is to rob." martha tried to think. "it is rather hard to get positions in the gas office," she said, "but you might become politicians." "no!" cried beni, with sudden fierceness; "we must not abandon our high calling. bandits we have always been, and bandits we must remain!" "'tis so!" agreed the fat man. "even in chicago there must be people to rob," remarked victor, with cheerfulness. martha was distressed. "i think they have all been robbed," she objected. "then we can rob the robbers, for we have experience and talent beyond the ordinary," said beni. "oh, dear; oh, dear!" moaned the girl; "why did uncle walter ever send you here in this chest?" the bandits became interested. "that is what we should like to know," declared victor, eagerly. "but no one will ever know, for uncle walter was lost while hunting elephants in africa," she continued, with conviction. "then we must accept our fate and rob to the best of our ability," said victor. "so long as we are faithful to our beloved profession we need not be ashamed." "'tis so!" cried the fat man. "brothers! we will begin now. let us rob the house we are in." "good!" shouted the others and sprang to their feet. beni turned threateningly upon the child. "remain here!" he commanded. "if you stir one step your blood will be on your own head!" then he added, in a gentler voice: "don't be afraid; that's the way all bandits talk to their captives. but of course we wouldn't hurt a young lady under any circumstances." "of course not," said victor. the fat man drew a big knife from his belt and flourished it about his head. "s'blood!" he ejaculated, fiercely. "s'bananas!" cried beni, in a terrible voice. "confusion to our foes!" hissed victor. and then the three bent themselves nearly double and crept stealthily down the stairway with cocked pistols in their hands and glittering knives between their teeth, leaving martha trembling with fear and too horrified to even cry for help. how long she remained alone in the attic she never knew, but finally she heard the catlike tread of the returning bandits and saw them coming up the stairs in single file. all bore heavy loads of plunder in their arms, and lugui was balancing a mince pie on the top of a pile of her mother's best evening dresses. victor came next with an armful of bric-a-brac, a brass candelabra and the parlor clock. beni had the family bible, the basket of silverware from the sideboard, a copper kettle and papa's fur overcoat. "oh, joy!" said victor, putting down his load; "it is pleasant to rob once more." "oh, ecstacy!" said beni; but he let the kettle drop on his toe and immediately began dancing around in anguish, while he muttered queer words in the italian language. "we have much wealth," continued victor, holding the mince pie while lugui added his spoils to the heap; "and all from one house! this america must be a rich place." with a dagger he then cut himself a piece of the pie and handed the remainder to his comrades. whereupon all three sat upon the floor and consumed the pie while martha looked on sadly. "we should have a cave," remarked beni; "for we must store our plunder in a safe place. can you tell us of a secret cave?" he asked martha. "there's a mammoth cave," she answered, "but it's in kentucky. you would be obliged to ride on the cars a long time to get there." the three bandits looked thoughtful and munched their pie silently, but the next moment they were startled by the ringing of the electric doorbell, which was heard plainly even in the remote attic. "what's that?" demanded victor, in a hoarse voice, as the three scrambled to their feet with drawn daggers. martha ran to the window and saw it was only the postman, who had dropped a letter in the box and gone away again. but the incident gave her an idea of how to get rid of her troublesome bandits, so she began wringing her hands as if in great distress and cried out: "it's the police!" the robbers looked at one another with genuine alarm, and lugui asked, tremblingly: "are there many of them?" "a hundred and twelve!" exclaimed martha, after pretending to count them. "then we are lost!" declared beni; "for we could never fight so many and live." "are they armed?" inquired victor, who was shivering as if cold. "oh, yes," said she. "they have guns and swords and pistols and axes and--and--" "and what?" demanded lugui. "and cannons!" the three wicked ones groaned aloud and beni said, in a hollow voice: "i hope they will kill us quickly and not put us to the torture. i have been told these americans are painted indians, who are bloodthirsty and terrible." "'tis so!" gasped the fat man, with a shudder. suddenly martha turned from the window. "you are my friends, are you not?" she asked. "we are devoted!" answered victor. "we adore you!" cried beni. "we would die for you!" added lugui, thinking he was about to die anyway. "then i will save you," said the girl. "how?" asked the three, with one voice. "get back into the chest," she said. "i will then close the lid, so they will be unable to find you." they looked around the room in a dazed and irresolute way, but she exclaimed: "you must be quick! they will soon be here to arrest you." then lugui sprang into the chest and lay fat upon the bottom. beni tumbled in next and packed himself in the back side. victor followed after pausing to kiss her hand to the girl in a graceful manner. then martha ran up to press down the lid, but could not make it catch. "you must squeeze down," she said to them. lugui groaned. "i am doing my best, miss," said victor, who was nearest the top; "but although we fitted in very nicely before, the chest now seems rather small for us." "'tis so!" came the muffled voice of the fat man from the bottom. "i know what takes up the room," said beni. "what?" inquired victor, anxiously. "the pie," returned beni. "'tis so!" came from the bottom, in faint accents. then martha sat upon the lid and pressed it down with all her weight. to her great delight the lock caught, and, springing down, she exerted all her strength and turned the key. * * * * * this story should teach us not to interfere in matters that do not concern us. for had martha refrained from opening uncle walter's mysterious chest she would not have been obliged to carry downstairs all the plunder the robbers had brought into the attic. the glass dog an accomplished wizard once lived on the top floor of a tenement house and passed his time in thoughtful study and studious thought. what he didn't know about wizardry was hardly worth knowing, for he possessed all the books and recipes of all the wizards who had lived before him; and, moreover, he had invented several wizardments himself. this admirable person would have been completely happy but for the numerous interruptions to his studies caused by folk who came to consult him about their troubles (in which he was not interested), and by the loud knocks of the iceman, the milkman, the baker's boy, the laundryman and the peanut woman. he never dealt with any of these people; but they rapped at his door every day to see him about this or that or to try to sell him their wares. just when he was most deeply interested in his books or engaged in watching the bubbling of a cauldron there would come a knock at his door. and after sending the intruder away he always found he had lost his train of thought or ruined his compound. at length these interruptions aroused his anger, and he decided he must have a dog to keep people away from his door. he didn't know where to find a dog, but in the next room lived a poor glass-blower with whom he had a slight acquaintance; so he went into the man's apartment and asked: "where can i find a dog?" "what sort of a dog?" inquired the glass-blower. "a good dog. one that will bark at people and drive them away. one that will be no trouble to keep and won't expect to be fed. one that has no fleas and is neat in his habits. one that will obey me when i speak to him. in short, a good dog," said the wizard. "such a dog is hard to find," returned the glass-blower, who was busy making a blue glass flower pot with a pink glass rosebush in it, having green glass leaves and yellow glass roses. the wizard watched him thoughtfully. "why cannot you blow me a dog out of glass?" he asked, presently. "i can," declared the glass-blower; "but it would not bark at people, you know." "oh, i'll fix that easily enough," replied the other. "if i could not make a glass dog bark i would be a mighty poor wizard." "very well; if you can use a glass dog i'll be pleased to blow one for you. only, you must pay for my work." "certainly," agreed the wizard. "but i have none of that horrid stuff you call money. you must take some of my wares in exchange." the glass-blower considered the matter for a moment. "could you give me something to cure my rheumatism?" he asked. "oh, yes; easily." "then it's a bargain. i'll start the dog at once. what color of glass shall i use?" "pink is a pretty color," said the wizard, "and it's unusual for a dog, isn't it?" "very," answered the glass-blower; "but it shall be pink." so the wizard went back to his studies and the glass-blower began to make the dog. next morning he entered the wizard's room with the glass dog under his arm and set it carefully upon the table. it was a beautiful pink in color, with a fine coat of spun glass, and about its neck was twisted a blue glass ribbon. its eyes were specks of black glass and sparkled intelligently, as do many of the glass eyes worn by men. the wizard expressed himself pleased with the glass-blower's skill and at once handed him a small vial. "this will cure your rheumatism," he said. "but the vial is empty!" protested the glass-blower. "oh, no; there is one drop of liquid in it," was the wizard's reply. "will one drop cure my rheumatism?" inquired the glass-blower, in wonder. "most certainly. that is a marvelous remedy. the one drop contained in the vial will cure instantly any kind of disease ever known to humanity. therefore it is especially good for rheumatism. but guard it well, for it is the only drop of its kind in the world, and i've forgotten the recipe." "thank you," said the glass-blower, and went back to his room. then the wizard cast a wizzy spell and mumbled several very learned words in the wizardese language over the glass dog. whereupon the little animal first wagged its tail from side to side, then winked his left eye knowingly, and at last began barking in a most frightful manner--that is, when you stop to consider the noise came from a pink glass dog. there is something almost astonishing in the magic arts of wizards; unless, of course, you know how to do the things yourself, when you are not expected to be surprised at them. the wizard was as delighted as a school teacher at the success of his spell, although he was not astonished. immediately he placed the dog outside his door, where it would bark at anyone who dared knock and so disturb the studies of its master. the glass-blower, on returning to his room, decided not to use the one drop of wizard cure-all just then. "my rheumatism is better to-day," he reflected, "and i will be wise to save the medicine for a time when i am very ill, when it will be of more service to me." so he placed the vial in his cupboard and went to work blowing more roses out of glass. presently he happened to think the medicine might not keep, so he started to ask the wizard about it. but when he reached the door the glass dog barked so fiercely that he dared not knock, and returned in great haste to his own room. indeed, the poor man was quite upset at so unfriendly a reception from the dog he had himself so carefully and skillfully made. the next morning, as he read his newspaper, he noticed an article stating that the beautiful miss mydas, the richest young lady in town, was very ill, and the doctors had given up hope of her recovery. the glass-blower, although miserably poor, hard-working and homely of feature, was a man of ideas. he suddenly recollected his precious medicine, and determined to use it to better advantage than relieving his own ills. he dressed himself in his best clothes, brushed his hair and combed his whiskers, washed his hands and tied his necktie, blackened his hoes and sponged his vest, and then put the vial of magic cure-all in his pocket. next he locked his door, went downstairs and walked through the streets to the grand mansion where the wealthy miss mydas resided. the butler opened the door and said: "no soap, no chromos, no vegetables, no hair oil, no books, no baking powder. my young lady is dying and we're well supplied for the funeral." the glass-blower was grieved at being taken for a peddler. "my friend," he began, proudly; but the butler interrupted him, saying: "no tombstones, either; there's a family graveyard and the monument's built." "the graveyard won't be needed if you will permit me to speak," said the glass-blower. "no doctors, sir; they've given up my young lady, and she's given up the doctors," continued the butler, calmly. "i'm no doctor," returned the glass-blower. "nor are the others. but what is your errand?" "i called to cure your young lady by means of a magical compound." "step in, please, and take a seat in the hall. i'll speak to the housekeeper," said the butler, more politely. so he spoke to the housekeeper and the housekeeper mentioned the matter to the steward and the steward consulted the chef and the chef kissed the lady's maid and sent her to see the stranger. thus are the very wealthy hedged around with ceremony, even when dying. when the lady's maid heard from the glass-blower that he had a medicine which would cure her mistress, she said: "i'm glad you came." "but," said he, "if i restore your mistress to health she must marry me." "i'll make inquiries and see if she's willing," answered the maid, and went at once to consult miss mydas. the young lady did not hesitate an instant. "i'd marry any old thing rather than die!" she cried. "bring him here at once!" so the glass-blower came, poured the magic drop into a little water, gave it to the patient, and the next minute miss mydas was as well as she had ever been in her life. "dear me!" she exclaimed; "i've an engagement at the fritters' reception to-night. bring my pearl-colored silk, marie, and i will begin my toilet at once. and don't forget to cancel the order for the funeral flowers and your mourning gown." "but, miss mydas," remonstrated the glass-blower, who stood by, "you promised to marry me if i cured you." "i know," said the young lady, "but we must have time to make proper announcement in the society papers and have the wedding cards engraved. call to-morrow and we'll talk it over." the glass-blower had not impressed her favorably as a husband, and she was glad to find an excuse for getting rid of him for a time. and she did not want to miss the fritters' reception. yet the man went home filled with joy; for he thought his stratagem had succeeded and he was about to marry a rich wife who would keep him in luxury forever afterward. the first thing he did on reaching his room was to smash his glass-blowing tools and throw them out of the window. he then sat down to figure out ways of spending his wife's money. the following day he called upon miss mydas, who was reading a novel and eating chocolate creams as happily as if she had never been ill in her life. "where did you get the magic compound that cured me?" she asked. "from a learned wizard," said he; and then, thinking it would interest her, he told how he had made the glass dog for the wizard, and how it barked and kept everybody from bothering him. "how delightful!" she said. "i've always wanted a glass dog that could bark." "but there is only one in the world," he answered, "and it belongs to the wizard." "you must buy it for me," said the lady. "the wizard cares nothing for money," replied the glass-blower. "then you must steal it for me," she retorted. "i can never live happily another day unless i have a glass dog that can bark." the glass-blower was much distressed at this, but said he would see what he could do. for a man should always try to please his wife, and miss mydas has promised to marry him within a week. on his way home he purchased a heavy sack, and when he passed the wizard's door and the pink glass dog ran out to bark at him he threw the sack over the dog, tied the opening with a piece of twine, and carried him away to his own room. the next day he sent the sack by a messenger boy to miss mydas, with his compliments, and later in the afternoon he called upon her in person, feeling quite sure he would be received with gratitude for stealing the dog she so greatly desired. but when he came to the door and the butler opened it, what was his amazement to see the glass dog rush out and begin barking at him furiously. "call off your dog," he shouted, in terror. "i can't, sir," answered the butler. "my young lady has ordered the glass dog to bark whenever you call here. you'd better look out, sir," he added, "for if it bites you, you may have glassophobia!" this so frightened the poor glass-blower that he went away hurriedly. but he stopped at a drug store and put his last dime in the telephone box so he could talk to miss mydas without being bitten by the dog. "give me pelf !" he called. "hello! what is it?" said a voice. "i want to speak with miss mydas," said the glass-blower. presently a sweet voice said: "this is miss mydas. what is it?" "why have you treated me so cruelly and set the glass dog on me?" asked the poor fellow. "well, to tell the truth," said the lady, "i don't like your looks. your cheeks are pale and baggy, your hair is coarse and long, your eyes are small and red, your hands are big and rough, and you are bow-legged." "but i can't help my looks!" pleaded the glass-blower; "and you really promised to marry me." "if you were better looking i'd keep my promise," she returned. "but under the circumstances you are no fit mate for me, and unless you keep away from my mansion i shall set my glass dog on you!" then she dropped the 'phone and would have nothing more to say. the miserable glass-blower went home with a heart bursting with disappointment and began tying a rope to the bedpost by which to hang himself. some one knocked at the door, and, upon opening it, he saw the wizard. "i've lost my dog," he announced. "have you, indeed?" replied the glass-blower tying a knot in the rope. "yes; some one has stolen him." "that's too bad," declared the glass-blower, indifferently. "you must make me another," said the wizard. "but i cannot; i've thrown away my tools." "then what shall i do?" asked the wizard. "i do not know, unless you offer a reward for the dog." "but i have no money," said the wizard. "offer some of your compounds, then," suggested the glass-blower, who was making a noose in the rope for his head to go through. "the only thing i can spare," replied the wizard, thoughtfully, "is a beauty powder." "what!" cried the glass-blower, throwing down the rope, "have you really such a thing?" "yes, indeed. whoever takes the powder will become the most beautiful person in the world." "if you will offer that as a reward," said the glass-blower, eagerly, "i'll try to find the dog for you, for above everything else i long to be beautiful." "but i warn you the beauty will only be skin deep," said the wizard. "that's all right," replied the happy glass-blower; "when i lose my skin i shan't care to remain beautiful." "then tell me where to find my dog and you shall have the powder," promised the wizard. so the glass-blower went out and pretended to search, and by-and-by he returned and said: "i've discovered the dog. you will find him in the mansion of miss mydas." the wizard went at once to see if this were true, and, sure enough, the glass dog ran out and began barking at him. then the wizard spread out his hands and chanted a magic spell which sent the dog fast asleep, when he picked him up and carried him to his own room on the top floor of the tenement house. afterward he carried the beauty powder to the glass-blower as a reward, and the fellow immediately swallowed it and became the most beautiful man in the world. the next time he called upon miss mydas there was no dog to bark at him, and when the young lady saw him she fell in love with his beauty at once. "if only you were a count or a prince," she sighed, "i'd willingly marry you." "but i am a prince," he answered; "the prince of dogblowers." "ah!" said she; "then if you are willing to accept an allowance of four dollars a week i'll order the wedding cards engraved." the man hesitated, but when he thought of the rope hanging from his bedpost he consented to the terms. so they were married, and the bride was very jealous of her husband's beauty and led him a dog's life. so he managed to get into debt and made her miserable in turn. * * * * * as for the glass dog, the wizard set him barking again by means of his wizardness and put him outside his door. i suppose he is there yet, and am rather sorry, for i should like to consult the wizard about the moral to this story. the queen of quok a king once died, as kings are apt to do, being as liable to shortness of breath as other mortals. it was high time this king abandoned his earth life, for he had lived in a sadly extravagant manner, and his subjects could spare him without the slightest inconvenience. his father had left him a full treasury, both money and jewels being in abundance. but the foolish king just deceased had squandered every penny in riotous living. he had then taxed his subjects until most of them became paupers, and this money vanished in more riotous living. next he sold all the grand old furniture in the palace; all the silver and gold plate and bric-a-brac; all the rich carpets and furnishings and even his own kingly wardrobe, reserving only a soiled and moth-eaten ermine robe to fold over his threadbare raiment. and he spent the money in further riotous living. don't ask me to explain what riotous living is. i only know, from hearsay, that it is an excellent way to get rid of money. and so this spendthrift king found it. he now picked all the magnificent jewels from this kingly crown and from the round ball on the top of his scepter, and sold them and spent the money. riotous living, of course. but at last he was at the end of his resources. he couldn't sell the crown itself, because no one but the king had the right to wear it. neither could he sell the royal palace, because only the king had the right to live there. so, finally, he found himself reduced to a bare palace, containing only a big mahogany bedstead that he slept in, a small stool on which he sat to pull off his shoes and the moth-eaten ermine robe. in this straight he was reduced to the necessity of borrowing an occasional dime from his chief counselor, with which to buy a ham sandwich. and the chief counselor hadn't many dimes. one who counseled his king so foolishly was likely to ruin his own prospects as well. so the king, having nothing more to live for, died suddenly and left a ten-year-old son to inherit the dismantled kingdom, the moth-eaten robe and the jewel-stripped crown. no one envied the child, who had scarcely been thought of until he became king himself. then he was recognized as a personage of some importance, and the politicians and hangers-on, headed by the chief counselor of the kingdom, held a meeting to determine what could be done for him. these folk had helped the old king to live riotously while his money lasted, and now they were poor and too proud to work. so they tried to think of a plan that would bring more money into the little king's treasury, where it would be handy for them to help themselves. after the meeting was over the chief counselor came to the young king, who was playing peg-top in the courtyard, and said: "your majesty, we have thought of a way to restore your kingdom to its former power and magnificence." "all right," replied his majesty, carelessly. "how will you do it?" "by marrying you to a lady of great wealth," replied the counselor. "marrying me!" cried the king. "why, i am only ten years old!" "i know; it is to be regretted. but your majesty will grow older, and the affairs of the kingdom demand that you marry a wife." "can't i marry a mother, instead?" asked the poor little king, who had lost his mother when a baby. "certainly not," declared the counselor. "to marry a mother would be illegal; to marry a wife is right and proper." "can't you marry her yourself?" inquired his majesty, aiming his peg-top at the chief counselor's toe, and laughing to see how he jumped to escape it. "let me explain," said the other. "you haven't a penny in the world, but you have a kingdom. there are many rich women who would be glad to give their wealth in exchange for a queen's coronet--even if the king is but a child. so we have decided to advertise that the one who bids the highest shall become the queen of quok." "if i must marry at all," said the king, after a moment's thought, "i prefer to marry nyana, the armorer's daughter." "she is too poor," replied the counselor. "her teeth are pearls, her eyes are amethysts, and her hair is gold," declared the little king. "true, your majesty. but consider that your wife's wealth must be used. how would nyana look after you have pulled her teeth of pearls, plucked out her amethyst eyes and shaved her golden head?" the boy shuddered. "have your own way," he said, despairingly. "only let the lady be as dainty as possible and a good playfellow." "we shall do our best," returned the chief counselor, and went away to advertise throughout the neighboring kingdoms for a wife for the boy king of quok. there were so many applicants for the privilege of marrying the little king that it was decided to put him up at auction, in order that the largest possible sum of money should be brought into the kingdom. so, on the day appointed, the ladies gathered at the palace from all the surrounding kingdoms--from bilkon, mulgravia, junkum and even as far away as the republic of macvelt. the chief counselor came to the palace early in the morning and had the king's face washed and his hair combed; and then he padded the inside of the crown with old newspapers to make it small enough to fit his majesty's head. it was a sorry looking crown, having many big and little holes in it where the jewels had once been; and it had been neglected and knocked around until it was quite battered and tarnished. yet, as the counselor said, it was the king's crown, and it was quite proper he should wear it on the solemn occasion of his auction. like all boys, be they kings or paupers, his majesty had torn and soiled his one suit of clothes, so that they were hardly presentable; and there was no money to buy new ones. therefore the counselor wound the old ermine robe around the king and sat him upon the stool in the middle of the otherwise empty audience chamber. and around him stood all the courtiers and politicians and hangers-on of the kingdom, consisting of such people as were too proud or lazy to work for a living. there was a great number of them, you may be sure, and they made an imposing appearance. then the doors of the audience chamber were thrown open, and the wealthy ladies who aspired to being queen of quok came trooping in. the king looked them over with much anxiety, and decided they were each and all old enough to be his grandmother, and ugly enough to scare away the crows from the royal cornfields. after which he lost interest in them. but the rich ladies never looked at the poor little king squatting upon his stool. they gathered at once about the chief counselor, who acted as auctioneer. "how much am i offered for the coronet of the queen of quok?" asked the counselor, in a loud voice. "where is the coronet?" inquired a fussy old lady who had just buried her ninth husband and was worth several millions. "there isn't any coronet at present," explained the chief counselor, "but whoever bids highest will have the right to wear one, and she can then buy it." "oh," said the fussy old lady, "i see." then she added: "i'll bid fourteen dollars." "fourteen thousand dollars!" cried a sour-looking woman who was thin and tall and had wrinkles all over her skin--"like a frosted apple," the king thought. the bidding now became fast and furious, and the poverty-stricken courtiers brightened up as the sum began to mount into the millions. "he'll bring us a very pretty fortune, after all," whispered one to his comrade, "and then we shall have the pleasure of helping him spend it." the king began to be anxious. all the women who looked at all kind-hearted or pleasant had stopped bidding for lack of money, and the slender old dame with the wrinkles seemed determined to get the coronet at any price, and with it the boy husband. this ancient creature finally became so excited that her wig got crosswise of her head and her false teeth kept slipping out, which horrified the little king greatly; but she would not give up. at last the chief counselor ended the auction by crying out: "sold to mary ann brodjinsky de la porkus for three million, nine hundred thousand, six hundred and twenty-four dollars and sixteen cents!" and the sour-looking old woman paid the money in cash and on the spot, which proves this is a fairy story. the king was so disturbed at the thought that he must marry this hideous creature that he began to wail and weep; whereupon the woman boxed his ears soundly. but the counselor reproved her for punishing her future husband in public, saying: "you are not married yet. wait until to-morrow, after the wedding takes place. then you can abuse him as much as you wish. but at present we prefer to have people think this is a love match." the poor king slept but little that night, so filled was he with terror of his future wife. nor could he get the idea out of his head that he preferred to marry the armorer's daughter, who was about his own age. he tossed and tumbled around upon his hard bed until the moonlight came in at the window and lay like a great white sheet upon the bare floor. finally, in turning over for the hundredth time, his hand struck against a secret spring in the headboard of the big mahogany bedstead, and at once, with a sharp click, a panel flew open. the noise caused the king to look up, and, seeing the open panel, he stood upon tiptoe, and, reaching within, drew out a folded paper. it had several leaves fastened together like a book, and upon the first page was written: "when the king is in trouble this leaf he must double and set it on fire to obtain his desire." this was not very good poetry, but when the king had spelled it out in the moonlight he was filled with joy. "there's no doubt about my being in trouble," he exclaimed; "so i'll burn it at once, and see what happens." he tore off the leaf and put the rest of the book in its secret hiding place. then, folding the paper double, he placed it on the top of his stool, lighted a match and set fire to it. it made a horrid smudge for so small a paper, and the king sat on the edge of the bed and watched it eagerly. when the smoke cleared away he was surprised to see, sitting upon the stool, a round little man, who, with folded arms and crossed legs, sat calmly facing the king and smoking a black briarwood pipe. "well, here i am," said he. "so i see," replied the little king. "but how did you get here?" "didn't you burn the paper?" demanded the round man, by way of answer. "yes, i did," acknowledged the king. "then you are in trouble, and i've come to help you out of it. i'm the slave of the royal bedstead." "oh!" said the king. "i didn't know there was one." "neither did your father, or he would not have been so foolish as to sell everything he had for money. by the way, it's lucky for you he did not sell this bedstead. now, then, what do you want?" "i'm not sure what i want," replied the king; "but i know what i don't want, and that is the old woman who is going to marry me." "that's easy enough," said the slave of the royal bedstead. "all you need do is to return her the money she paid the chief counselor and declare the match off. don't be afraid. you are the king, and your word is law." "to be sure," said the majesty. "but i am in great need of money. how am i going to live if the chief counselor returns to mary ann brodjinski her millions?" "phoo! that's easy enough," again answered the man, and, putting his hand in his pocket, he drew out and tossed to the king an old-fashioned leather purse. "keep that with you," said he, "and you will always be rich, for you can take out of the purse as many twenty-five-cent silver pieces as you wish, one at a time. no matter how often you take one out, another will instantly appear in its place within the purse." "thank you," said the king, gratefully. "you have rendered me a rare favor; for now i shall have money for all my needs and will not be obliged to marry anyone. thank you a thousand times!" "don't mention it," answered the other, puffing his pipe slowly and watching the smoke curl into the moonlight. "such things are easy to me. is that all you want?" "all i can think of just now," returned the king. "then, please close that secret panel in the bedstead," said the man; "the other leaves of the book may be of use to you some time." the boy stood upon the bed as before and, reaching up, closed the opening so that no one else could discover it. then he turned to face his visitor, but the slave of the royal bedstead had disappeared. "i expected that," said his majesty; "yet i am sorry he did not wait to say good-by." with a lightened heart and a sense of great relief the boy king placed the leathern purse underneath his pillow, and climbing into bed again slept soundly until morning. when the sun rose his majesty rose also, refreshed and comforted, and the first thing he did was to send for the chief counselor. that mighty personage arrived looking glum and unhappy, but the boy was too full of his own good fortune to notice it. said he: "i have decided not to marry anyone, for i have just come into a fortune of my own. therefore i command you return to that old woman the money she has paid you for the right to wear the coronet of the queen of quok. and make public declaration that the wedding will not take place." hearing this the counselor began to tremble, for he saw the young king had decided to reign in earnest; and he looked so guilty that his majesty inquired: "well! what is the matter now?" "sire," replied the wretch, in a shaking voice, "i cannot return the woman her money, for i have lost it!" "lost it!" cried the king, in mingled astonishment and anger. "even so, your majesty. on my way home from the auction last night i stopped at the drug store to get some potash lozenges for my throat, which was dry and hoarse with so much loud talking; and your majesty will admit it was through my efforts the woman was induced to pay so great a price. well, going into the drug store i carelessly left the package of money lying on the seat of my carriage, and when i came out again it was gone. nor was the thief anywhere to be seen." "did you call the police?" asked the king. "yes, i called; but they were all on the next block, and although they have promised to search for the robber i have little hope they will ever find him." the king sighed. "what shall we do now?" he asked. "i fear you must marry mary ann brodjinski," answered the chief counselor; "unless, indeed, you order the executioner to cut her head off." "that would be wrong," declared the king. "the woman must not be harmed. and it is just that we return her money, for i will not marry her under any circumstances." "is that private fortune you mentioned large enough to repay her?" asked the counselor. "why, yes," said the king, thoughtfully, "but it will take some time to do it, and that shall be your task. call the woman here." the counselor went in search of mary ann, who, when she heard she was not to become a queen, but would receive her money back, flew into a violent passion and boxed the chief counselor's ears so viciously that they stung for nearly an hour. but she followed him into the king's audience chamber, where she demanded her money in a loud voice, claiming as well the interest due upon it over night. "the counselor has lost your money," said the boy king, "but he shall pay you every penny out of my own private purse. i fear, however, you will be obliged to take it in small change." "that will not matter," she said, scowling upon the counselor as if she longed to reach his ears again; "i don't care how small the change is so long as i get every penny that belongs to me, and the interest. where is it?" "here," answered the king, handing the counselor the leathern purse. "it is all in silver quarters, and they must be taken from the purse one at a time; but there will be plenty to pay your demands, and to spare." so, there being no chairs, the counselor sat down upon the floor in one corner and began counting out silver twenty-five-cent pieces from the purse, one by one. and the old woman sat upon the floor opposite him and took each piece of money from his hand. it was a large sum: three million, nine hundred thousand, six hundred and twenty-four dollars and sixteen cents. and it takes four times as many twenty-five-cent pieces as it would dollars to make up the amount. the king left them sitting there and went to school, and often thereafter he came to the counselor and interrupted him long enough to get from the purse what money he needed to reign in a proper and dignified manner. this somewhat delayed the counting, but as it was a long job, anyway, that did not matter much. the king grew to manhood and married the pretty daughter of the armorer, and they now have two lovely children of their own. once in awhile they go into the big audience chamber of the palace and let the little ones watch the aged, hoary-headed counselor count out silver twenty-five-cent pieces to a withered old woman, who watched his every movement to see that he does not cheat her. it is a big sum, three million, nine hundred thousand, six hundred and twenty-four dollars and sixteen cents in twenty-five-cent pieces. but this is how the counselor was punished for being so careless with the woman's money. and this is how mary ann brodjinski de la porkus was also punished for wishing to marry a ten-year-old king in order that she might wear the coronet of the queen of quok. the girl who owned a bear mamma had gone down-town to shop. she had asked nora to look after jane gladys, and nora promised she would. but it was her afternoon for polishing the silver, so she stayed in the pantry and left jane gladys to amuse herself alone in the big sitting-room upstairs. the little girl did not mind being alone, for she was working on her first piece of embroidery--a sofa pillow for papa's birthday present. so she crept into the big bay window and curled herself up on the broad sill while she bent her brown head over her work. soon the door opened and closed again, quietly. jane gladys thought it was nora, so she didn't look up until she had taken a couple more stitches on a forget-me-not. then she raised her eyes and was astonished to find a strange man in the middle of the room, who regarded her earnestly. he was short and fat, and seemed to be breathing heavily from his climb up the stairs. he held a work silk hat in one hand and underneath his other elbow was tucked a good-sized book. he was dressed in a black suit that looked old and rather shabby, and his head was bald upon the top. "excuse me," he said, while the child gazed at him in solemn surprise. "are you jane gladys brown?" "yes, sir," she answered. "very good; very good, indeed!" he remarked, with a queer sort of smile. "i've had quite a hunt to find you, but i've succeeded at last." "how did you get in?" inquired jane gladys, with a growing distrust of her visitor. "that is a secret," he said, mysteriously. this was enough to put the girl on her guard. she looked at the man and the man looked at her, and both looks were grave and somewhat anxious. "what do you want?" she asked, straightening herself up with a dignified air. "ah!--now we are coming to business," said the man, briskly. "i'm going to be quite frank with you. to begin with, your father has abused me in a most ungentlemanly manner." jane gladys got off the window sill and pointed her small finger at the door. "leave this room 'meejitly!" she cried, her voice trembling with indignation. "my papa is the best man in the world. he never 'bused anybody!" "allow me to explain, please," said the visitor, without paying any attention to her request to go away. "your father may be very kind to you, for you are his little girl, you know. but when he's down-town in his office he's inclined to be rather severe, especially on book agents. now, i called on him the other day and asked him to buy the 'complete works of peter smith,' and what do you suppose he did?" she said nothing. "why," continued the man, with growing excitement, "he ordered me from his office, and had me put out of the building by the janitor! what do you think of such treatment as that from the 'best papa in the world,' eh?" "i think he was quite right," said jane gladys. "oh, you do? well," said the man, "i resolved to be revenged for the insult. so, as your father is big and strong and a dangerous man, i have decided to be revenged upon his little girl." jane gladys shivered. "what are you going to do?" she asked. "i'm going to present you with this book," he answered, taking it from under his arm. then he sat down on the edge of a chair, placed his hat on the rug and drew a fountain pen from his vest pocket. "i'll write your name in it," said he. "how do you spell gladys?" "g-l-a-d-y-s," she replied. "thank you. now this," he continued, rising and handing her the book with a bow, "is my revenge for your father's treatment of me. perhaps he'll be sorry he didn't buy the 'complete works of peter smith.' good-by, my dear." he walked to the door, gave her another bow, and left the room, and jane gladys could see that he was laughing to himself as if very much amused. when the door had closed behind the queer little man the child sat down in the window again and glanced at the book. it had a red and yellow cover and the word "thingamajigs" was across the front in big letters. then she opened it, curiously, and saw her name written in black letters upon the first white leaf. "he was a funny little man," she said to herself, thoughtfully. she turned the next leaf, and saw a big picture of a clown, dressed in green and red and yellow, and having a very white face with three-cornered spots of red on each cheek and over the eyes. while she looked at this the book trembled in her hands, the leaf crackled and creaked and suddenly the clown jumped out of it and stood upon the floor beside her, becoming instantly as big as any ordinary clown. after stretching his arms and legs and yawning in a rather impolite manner, he gave a silly chuckle and said: "this is better! you don't know how cramped one gets, standing so long upon a page of flat paper." perhaps you can imagine how startled jane gladys was, and how she stared at the clown who had just leaped out of the book. "you didn't expect anything of this sort, did you?" he asked, leering at her in clown fashion. then he turned around to take a look at the room and jane gladys laughed in spite of her astonishment. "what amuses you?" demanded the clown. "why, the back of you is all white!" cried the girl. "you're only a clown in front of you." "quite likely," he returned, in an annoyed tone. "the artist made a front view of me. he wasn't expected to make the back of me, for that was against the page of the book." "but it makes you look so funny!" said jane gladys, laughing until her eyes were moist with tears. the clown looked sulky and sat down upon a chair so she couldn't see his back. "i'm not the only thing in the book," he remarked, crossly. this reminded her to turn another page, and she had scarcely noted that it contained the picture of a monkey when the animal sprang from the book with a great crumpling of paper and landed upon the window seat beside her. "he-he-he-he-he!" chattered the creature, springing to the girl's shoulder and then to the center table. "this is great fun! now i can be a real monkey instead of a picture of one." "real monkeys can't talk," said jane gladys, reprovingly. "how do you know? have you ever been one yourself?" inquired the animal; and then he laughed loudly, and the clown laughed, too, as if he enjoyed the remark. the girl was quite bewildered by this time. she thoughtlessly turned another leaf, and before she had time to look twice a gray donkey leaped from the book and stumbled from the window seat to the floor with a great clatter. "you're clumsy enough, i'm sure!" said the child, indignantly, for the beast had nearly upset her. "clumsy! and why not?" demanded the donkey, with angry voice. "if the fool artist had drawn you out of perspective, as he did me, i guess you'd be clumsy yourself." "what's wrong with you?" asked jane gladys. "my front and rear legs on the left side are nearly six inches too short, that's what's the matter! if that artist didn't know how to draw properly why did he try to make a donkey at all?" "i don't know," replied the child, seeing an answer was expected. "i can hardly stand up," grumbled the donkey; "and the least little thing will topple me over." "don't mind that," said the monkey, making a spring at the chandelier and swinging from it by his tail until jane gladys feared he would knock all the globes off; "the same artist has made my ears as big as that clown's and everyone knows a monkey hasn't any ears to speak of--much less to draw." "he should be prosecuted," remarked the clown, gloomily. "i haven't any back." jane gladys looked from one to the other with a puzzled expression upon her sweet face, and turned another page of the book. swift as a flash there sprang over her shoulder a tawney, spotted leopard, which landed upon the back of a big leather armchair and turned upon the others with a fierce movement. the monkey climbed to the top of the chandelier and chattered with fright. the donkey tried to run and straightway tipped over on his left side. the clown grew paler than ever, but he sat still in his chair and gave a low whistle of surprise. the leopard crouched upon the back of the chair, lashed his tail from side to side and glared at all of them, by turns, including jane gladys. "which of us are you going to attack first?" asked the donkey, trying hard to get upon his feet again. "i can't attack any of you," snarled the leopard. "the artist made my mouth shut, so i haven't any teeth; and he forgot to make my claws. but i'm a frightful looking creature, nevertheless; am i not?" "oh, yes;" said the clown, indifferently. "i suppose you're frightful looking enough. but if you have no teeth nor claws we don't mind your looks at all." this so annoyed the leopard that he growled horribly, and the monkey laughed at him. just then the book slipped from the girl's lap, and as she made a movement to catch it one of the pages near the back opened wide. she caught a glimpse of a fierce grizzly bear looking at her from the page, and quickly threw the book from her. it fell with a crash in the middle of the room, but beside it stood the great grizzly, who had wrenched himself from the page before the book closed. "now," cried the leopard from his perch, "you'd better look out for yourselves! you can't laugh at him as you did at me. the bear has both claws and teeth." "indeed i have," said the bear, in a low, deep, growling voice. "and i know how to use them, too. if you read in that book you'll find i'm described as a horrible, cruel and remorseless grizzly, whose only business in life is to eat up little girls--shoes, dresses, ribbons and all! and then, the author says, i smack my lips and glory in my wickedness." "that's awful!" said the donkey, sitting upon his haunches and shaking his head sadly. "what do you suppose possessed the author to make you so hungry for girls? do you eat animals, also?" "the author does not mention my eating anything but little girls," replied the bear. "very good," remarked the clown, drawing a long breath of relief. "you may begin eating jane gladys as soon as you wish. she laughed because i had no back." "and she laughed because my legs are out of perspective," brayed the donkey. "but you also deserve to be eaten," screamed the leopard from the back of the leather chair; "for you laughed and poked fun at me because i had no claws nor teeth! don't you suppose mr. grizzly, you could manage to eat a clown, a donkey and a monkey after you finish the girl?" "perhaps so, and a leopard into the bargain," growled the bear. "it will depend on how hungry i am. but i must begin on the little girl first, because the author says i prefer girls to anything." jane gladys was much frightened on hearing this conversation, and she began to realize what the man meant when he said he gave her the book to be revenged. surely papa would be sorry he hadn't bought the "complete works of peter smith" when he came home and found his little girl eaten up by a grizzly bear--shoes, dress, ribbons and all! the bear stood up and balanced himself on his rear legs. "this is the way i look in the book," he said. "now watch me eat the little girl." he advanced slowly toward jane gladys, and the monkey, the leopard, the donkey and the clown all stood around in a circle and watched the bear with much interest. but before the grizzly reached her the child had a sudden thought, and cried out: "stop! you mustn't eat me. it would be wrong." "why?" asked the bear, in surprise. "because i own you. you're my private property," she answered. "i don't see how you make that out," said the bear, in a disappointed tone. "why, the book was given to me; my name's on the front leaf. and you belong, by rights, in the book. so you mustn't dare to eat your owner!" the grizzly hesitated. "can any of you read?" he asked. "i can," said the clown. "then see if she speaks the truth. is her name really in the book?" the clown picked it up and looked at the name. "it is," said he. "'jane gladys brown;' and written quite plainly in big letters." the bear sighed. "then, of course, i can't eat her," he decided. "that author is as disappointing as most authors are." "but he's not as bad as the artist," exclaimed the donkey, who was still trying to stand up straight. "the fault lies with yourselves," said jane gladys, severely. "why didn't you stay in the book, where you were put?" the animals looked at each other in a foolish way, and the clown blushed under his white paint. "really--" began the bear, and then he stopped short. the door bell rang loudly. "it's mamma!" cried jane gladys, springing to her feet. "she's come home at last. now, you stupid creatures--" but she was interrupted by them all making a rush for the book. there was a swish and a whirr and a rustling of leaves, and an instant later the book lay upon the floor looking just like any other book, while jane gladys' strange companions had all disappeared. * * * * * this story should teach us to think quickly and clearly upon all occasions; for had jane gladys not remembered that she owned the bear he probably would have eaten her before the bell rang. the enchanted types one time a knook became tired of his beautiful life and longed for something new to do. the knooks have more wonderful powers than any other immortal folk--except, perhaps, the fairies and ryls. so one would suppose that a knook who might gain anything he desired by a simple wish could not be otherwise than happy and contented. but such was not the case with popopo, the knook we are speaking of. he had lived thousands of years, and had enjoyed all the wonders he could think of. yet life had become as tedious to him now as it might be to one who was unable to gratify a single wish. finally, by chance, popopo thought of the earth people who dwell in cities, and so he resolved to visit them and see how they lived. this would surely be fine amusement, and serve to pass away many wearisome hours. therefore one morning, after a breakfast so dainty that you could scarcely imagine it, popopo set out for the earth and at once was in the midst of a big city. his own dwelling was so quiet and peaceful that the roaring noise of the town startled him. his nerves were so shocked that before he had looked around three minutes he decided to give up the adventure, and instantly returned home. this satisfied for a time his desire to visit the earth cities, but soon the monotony of his existence again made him restless and gave him another thought. at night the people slept and the cities would be quiet. he would visit them at night. so at the proper time popopo transported himself in a jiffy to a great city, where he began wandering about the streets. everyone was in bed. no wagons rattled along the pavements; no throngs of busy men shouted and halloaed. even the policemen slumbered slyly and there happened to be no prowling thieves abroad. his nerves being soothed by the stillness, popopo began to enjoy himself. he entered many of the houses and examined their rooms with much curiosity. locks and bolts made no difference to a knook, and he saw as well in darkness as in daylight. after a time he strolled into the business portion of the city. stores are unknown among the immortals, who have no need of money or of barter and exchange; so popopo was greatly interested by the novel sight of so many collections of goods and merchandise. during his wanderings he entered a millinery shop, and was surprised to see within a large glass case a great number of women's hats, each bearing in one position or another a stuffed bird. indeed, some of the most elaborate hats had two or three birds upon them. now knooks are the especial guardians of birds, and love them dearly. to see so many of his little friends shut up in a glass case annoyed and grieved popopo, who had no idea they had purposely been placed upon the hats by the milliner. so he slid back one of the doors of the case, gave the little chirruping whistle of the knooks that all birds know well, and called: "come, friends; the door is open--fly out!" popopo did not know the birds were stuffed; but, stuffed or not, every bird is bound to obey a knook's whistle and a knook's call. so they left the hats, flew out of the case and began fluttering about the room. "poor dears!" said the kind-hearted knook, "you long to be in the fields and forests again." then he opened the outer door for them and cried: "off with you! fly away, my beauties, and be happy again." the astonished birds at once obeyed, and when they had soared away into the night air the knook closed the door and continued his wandering through the streets. by dawn he saw many interesting sights, but day broke before he had finished the city, and he resolved to come the next evening a few hours earlier. as soon as it was dark the following day he came again to the city and on passing the millinery shop noticed a light within. entering he found two women, one of whom leaned her head upon the table and sobbed bitterly, while the other strove to comfort her. of course popopo was invisible to mortal eyes, so he stood by and listened to their conversation. "cheer up, sister," said one. "even though your pretty birds have all been stolen the hats themselves remain." "alas!" cried the other, who was the milliner, "no one will buy my hats partly trimmed, for the fashion is to wear birds upon them. and if i cannot sell my goods i shall be utterly ruined." then she renewed her sobbing and the knook stole away, feeling a little ashamed to realized that in his love for the birds he had unconsciously wronged one of the earth people and made her unhappy. this thought brought him back to the millinery shop later in the night, when the two women had gone home. he wanted, in some way, to replace the birds upon the hats, that the poor woman might be happy again. so he searched until he came upon a nearby cellar full of little gray mice, who lived quite undisturbed and gained a livelihood by gnawing through the walls into neighboring houses and stealing food from the pantries. "here are just the creatures," thought popopo, "to place upon the woman's hats. their fur is almost as soft as the plumage of the birds, and it strikes me the mice are remarkably pretty and graceful animals. moreover, they now pass their lives in stealing, and were they obliged to remain always upon women's hats their morals would be much improved." so he exercised a charm that drew all the mice from the cellar and placed them upon the hats in the glass case, where they occupied the places the birds had vacated and looked very becoming--at least, in the eyes of the unworldly knook. to prevent their running about and leaving the hats popopo rendered them motionless, and then he was so pleased with his work that he decided to remain in the shop and witness the delight of the milliner when she saw how daintily her hats were now trimmed. she came in the early morning, accompanied by her sister, and her face wore a sad and resigned expression. after sweeping and dusting the shop and drawing the blinds she opened the glass case and took out a hat. but when she saw a tiny gray mouse nestling among the ribbons and laces she gave a loud shriek, and, dropping the hat, sprang with one bound to the top of the table. the sister, knowing the shriek to be one of fear, leaped upon a chair and exclaimed: "what is it? oh! what is it?" "a mouse!" gasped the milliner, trembling with terror. popopo, seeing this commotion, now realized that mice are especially disagreeable to human beings, and that he had made a grave mistake in placing them upon the hats; so he gave a low whistle of command that was heard only by the mice. instantly they all jumped from the hats, dashed out the open door of the glass case and scampered away to their cellar. but this action so frightened the milliner and her sister that after giving several loud screams they fell upon their backs on the floor and fainted away. popopo was a kind-hearted knook, but on witnessing all this misery, caused by his own ignorance of the ways of humans, he straightway wished himself at home, and so left the poor women to recover as best they could. yet he could not escape a sad feeling of responsibility, and after thinking upon the matter he decided that since he had caused the milliner's unhappiness by freeing the birds, he could set the matter right by restoring them to the glass case. he loved the birds, and disliked to condemn them to slavery again; but that seemed the only way to end the trouble. so he set off to find the birds. they had flown a long distance, but it was nothing to popopo to reach them in a second, and he discovered them sitting upon the branches of a big chestnut tree and singing gayly. when they saw the knook the birds cried: "thank you, popopo. thank you for setting us free." "do not thank me," returned the knook, "for i have come to send you back to the millinery shop." "why?" demanded a blue jay, angrily, while the others stopped their songs. "because i find the woman considers you her property, and your loss has caused her much unhappiness," answered popopo. "but remember how unhappy we were in her glass case," said a robin redbreast, gravely. "and as for being her property, you are a knook, and the natural guardian of all birds; so you know that nature created us free. to be sure, wicked men shot and stuffed us, and sold us to the milliner; but the idea of our being her property is nonsense!" popopo was puzzled. "if i leave you free," he said, "wicked men will shoot you again, and you will be no better off than before." "pooh!" exclaimed the blue jay, "we cannot be shot now, for we are stuffed. indeed, two men fired several shots at us this morning, but the bullets only ruffled our feathers and buried themselves in our stuffing. we do not fear men now." "listen!" said popopo, sternly, for he felt the birds were getting the best of the argument; "the poor milliner's business will be ruined if i do not return you to her shop. it seems you are necessary to trim the hats properly. it is the fashion for women to wear birds upon their headgear. so the poor milliner's wares, although beautified by lace and ribbons, are worthless unless you are perched upon them." "fashions," said a black bird, solemnly, "are made by men. what law is there, among birds or knooks, that requires us to be the slaves of fashion?" "what have we to do with fashions, anyway?" screamed a linnet. "if it were the fashion to wear knooks perched upon women's hats would you be contented to stay there? answer me, popopo!" but popopo was in despair. he could not wrong the birds by sending them back to the milliner, nor did he wish the milliner to suffer by their loss. so he went home to think what could be done. after much meditation he decided to consult the king of the knooks, and going at once to his majesty he told him the whole story. the king frowned. "this should teach you the folly of interfering with earth people," he said. "but since you have caused all this trouble, it is your duty to remedy it. our birds cannot be enslaved, that is certain; therefore you must have the fashions changed, so it will no longer be stylish for women to wear birds upon their hats." "how shall i do that?" asked popopo. "easily enough. fashions often change among the earth people, who tire quickly of any one thing. when they read in their newspapers and magazines that the style is so-and-so, they never question the matter, but at once obey the mandate of fashion. so you must visit the newspapers and magazines and enchant the types." "enchant the types!" echoed popopo, in wonder. "just so. make them read that it is no longer the fashion to wear birds upon hats. that will afford relief to your poor milliner and at the same time set free thousands of our darling birds who have been so cruelly used." popopo thanked the wise king and followed his advice. the office of every newspaper and magazine in the city was visited by the knook, and then he went to other cities, until there was not a publication in the land that had not a "new fashion note" in its pages. sometimes popopo enchanted the types, so that whoever read the print would see only what the knook wished them to. sometimes he called upon the busy editors and befuddled their brains until they wrote exactly what he wanted them to. mortals seldom know how greatly they are influenced by fairies, knooks and ryls, who often put thoughts into their heads that only the wise little immortals could have conceived. the following morning when the poor milliner looked over her newspaper she was overjoyed to read that "no woman could now wear a bird upon her hat and be in style, for the newest fashion required only ribbons and laces." popopo after this found much enjoyment in visiting every millinery shop he could find and giving new life to the stuffed birds which were carelessly tossed aside as useless. and they flew to the fields and forests with songs of thanks to the good knook who had rescued them. sometimes a hunter fires his gun at a bird and then wonders why he did not hit it. but, having read this story, you will understand that the bird must have been a stuffed one from some millinery shop, which cannot, of course, be killed by a gun. the laughing hippopotamus on one of the upper branches of the congo river lived an ancient and aristocratic family of hippopotamuses, which boasted a pedigree dating back beyond the days of noah--beyond the existence of mankind--far into the dim ages when the world was new. they had always lived upon the banks of this same river, so that every curve and sweep of its waters, every pit and shallow of its bed, every rock and stump and wallow upon its bank was as familiar to them as their own mothers. and they are living there yet, i suppose. not long ago the queen of this tribe of hippopotamuses had a child which she named keo, because it was so fat and round. still, that you may not be misled, i will say that in the hippopotamus language "keo," properly translated, means "fat and lazy" instead of fat and round. however, no one called the queen's attention to this error, because her tusks were monstrous long and sharp, and she thought keo the sweetest baby in the world. he was, indeed, all right for a hippopotamus. he rolled and played in the soft mud of the river bank, and waddled inland to nibble the leaves of the wild cabbage that grew there, and was happy and contented from morning till night. and he was the jolliest hippopotamus that ancient family had ever known. his little red eyes were forever twinkling with fun, and he laughed his merry laugh on all occasions, whether there was anything to laugh at or not. therefore the black people who dwelt in that region called him "ippi"--the jolly one, although they dared not come anigh him on account of his fierce mother, and his equally fierce uncles and aunts and cousins, who lived in a vast colony upon the river bank. and while these black people, who lived in little villages scattered among the trees, dared not openly attack the royal family of hippopotamuses, they were amazingly fond of eating hippopotamus meat whenever they could get it. this was no secret to the hippopotamuses. and, again, when the blacks managed to catch these animals alive, they had a trick of riding them through the jungles as if they were horses, thus reducing them to a condition of slavery. therefore, having these things in mind, whenever the tribe of hippopotamuses smelled the oily odor of black people they were accustomed to charge upon them furiously, and if by chance they overtook one of the enemy they would rip him with their sharp tusks or stamp him into the earth with their huge feet. it was continual warfare between the hippopotamuses and the black people. gouie lived in one of the little villages of the blacks. he was the son of the chief's brother and grandson of the village sorcerer, the latter being an aged man known as the "the boneless wonder," because he could twist himself into as many coils as a serpent and had no bones to hinder his bending his flesh into any position. this made him walk in a wabbly fashion, but the black people had great respect for him. gouie's hut was made of branches of trees stuck together with mud, and his clothing consisted of a grass mat tied around his middle. but his relationship to the chief and the sorcerer gave him a certain dignity, and he was much addicted to solitary thought. perhaps it was natural that these thoughts frequently turned upon his enemies, the hippopotamuses, and that he should consider many ways of capturing them. finally he completed his plans, and set about digging a great pit in the ground, midway between two sharp curves of the river. when the pit was finished he covered it over with small branches of trees, and strewed earth upon them, smoothing the surface so artfully that no one would suspect there was a big hole underneath. then gouie laughed softly to himself and went home to supper. that evening the queen said to keo, who was growing to be a fine child for his age: "i wish you'd run across the bend and ask your uncle nikki to come here. i have found a strange plant, and want him to tell me if it is good to eat." the jolly one laughed heartily as he started upon his errand, for he felt as important as a boy does when he is sent for the first time to the corner grocery to buy a yeast cake. "guk-uk-uk-uk! guk-uk-uk-uk!" was the way he laughed; and if you think a hippopotamus does not laugh this way you have but to listen to one and you will find i am right. he crawled out of the mud where he was wallowing and tramped away through the bushes, and the last his mother heard as she lay half in and half out of the water was his musical "guk-uk-uk-uk!" dying away in the distance. keo was in such a happy mood that he scarcely noticed where he stepped, so he was much surprised when, in the middle of a laugh, the ground gave way beneath him, and he fell to the bottom of gouie's deep pit. he was not badly hurt, but had bumped his nose severely as he went down; so he stopped laughing and began to think how he should get out again. then he found the walls were higher than his head, and that he was a prisoner. so he laughed a little at his own misfortune, and the laughter soothed him to sleep, so that he snored all through the night until daylight came. when gouie peered over the edge of the pit next morning he exclaimed: "why, 'tis ippi--the jolly one!" keo recognized the scent of a black man and tried to raise his head high enough to bite him. seeing which gouie spoke in the hippopotamus language, which he had learned from his grandfather, the sorcerer. "have peace, little one; you are my captive." "yes; i will have a piece of your leg, if i can reach it," retorted keo; and then he laughed at his own joke: "guk-uk-uk-uk!" but gouie, being a thoughtful black man, went away without further talk, and did not return until the following morning. when he again leaned over the pit keo was so weak from hunger that he could hardly laugh at all. "do you give up?" asked gouie, "or do you still wish to fight?" "what will happen if i give up?" inquired keo. the black man scratched his woolly head in perplexity. "it is hard to say, ippi. you are too young to work, and if i kill you for food i shall lose your tusks, which are not yet grown. why, o jolly one, did you fall into my hole? i wanted to catch your mother or one of your uncles." "guk-uk-uk-uk!" laughed keo. "you must let me go, after all, black man; for i am of no use to you!" "that i will not do," declared gouie; "unless," he added, as an afterthought, "you will make a bargain with me." "let me hear about the bargain, black one, for i am hungry," said keo. "i will let your go if you swear by the tusks of your grandfather that you will return to me in a year and a day and become my prisoner again." the youthful hippopotamus paused to think, for he knew it was a solemn thing to swear by the tusks of his grandfather; but he was exceedingly hungry, and a year and a day seemed a long time off; so he said, with another careless laugh: "very well; if you will now let me go i swear by the tusks of my grandfather to return to you in a year and a day and become your prisoner." gouie was much pleased, for he knew that in a year and a day keo would be almost full grown. so he began digging away one end of the pit and filling it up with the earth until he had made an incline which would allow the hippopotamus to climb out. keo was so pleased when he found himself upon the surface of the earth again that he indulged in a merry fit of laughter, after which he said: "good-by, gouie; in a year and a day you will see me again." then he waddled away toward the river to see his mother and get his breakfast, and gouie returned to his village. during the months that followed, as the black man lay in his hut or hunted in the forest, he heard at times the faraway "guk-uk-uk-uk!" of the laughing hippopotamus. but he only smiled to himself and thought: "a year and a day will soon pass away!" now when keo returned to his mother safe and well every member of his tribe was filled with joy, for the jolly one was a general favorite. but when he told them that in a year and a day he must again become the slave of the black man, they began to wail and weep, and so many were their tears that the river rose several inches. of course keo only laughed at their sorrow; but a great meeting of the tribe was called and the matter discussed seriously. "having sworn by the tusks of his grandfather," said uncle nikki, "he must keep his promise. but it is our duty to try in some way to rescue him from death or a life of slavery." to this all agreed, but no one could think of any method of saving keo from his fate. so months passed away, during which all the royal hippopotamuses were sad and gloomy except the jolly one himself. finally but a week of freedom remained to keo, and his mother, the queen, became so nervous and worried that another meeting of the tribe was called. by this time the laughing hippopotamus had grown to enormous size, and measured nearly fifteen feet long and six feet high, while his sharp tusks were whiter and harder than those of an elephant. "unless something is done to save my child," said the mother, "i shall die of grief." then some of her relations began to make foolish suggestions; but presently uncle nep, a wise and very big hippopotamus, said: "we must go to glinkomok and implore his aid." then all were silent, for it was a bold thing to face the mighty glinkomok. but the mother's love was equal to any heroism. "i will myself go to him, if uncle nep will accompany me," she said, quickly. uncle nep thoughtfully patted the soft mud with his fore foot and wagged his short tail leisurely from side to side. "we have always been obedient to glinkomok, and shown him great respect," said he. "therefore i fear no danger in facing him. i will go with you." all the others snorted approval, being very glad they were not called upon to go themselves. so the queen and uncle nep, with keo swimming between them, set out upon their journey. they swam up the river all that day and all the next, until they came at sundown to a high, rocky wall, beneath which was the cave where the might glinkomok dwelt. this fearful creature was part beast, part man, part fowl and part fish. it had lived since the world began. through years of wisdom it had become part sorcerer, part wizard, part magician and part fairy. mankind knew it not, but the ancient beasts knew and feared it. the three hippopotamuses paused before the cave, with their front feet upon the bank and their bodies in the water, and called in chorus a greeting to glinkomok. instantly thereafter the mouth of the cave darkened and the creature glided silently toward them. the hippopotamuses were afraid to look upon it, and bowed their heads between their legs. "we come, o glinkomok, to implore your mercy and friendly assistance!" began uncle nep; and then he told the story of keo's capture, and how he had promised to return to the black man. "he must keep his promise," said the creature, in a voice that sounded like a sigh. the mother hippopotamus groaned aloud. "but i will prepare him to overcome the black man, and to regain his liberty," continued glinkomok. keo laughed. "lift your right paw," commanded glinkomok. keo obeyed, and the creature touched it with its long, hairy tongue. then it held four skinny hands over keo's bowed head and mumbled some words in a language unknown to man or beast or fowl or fish. after this it spoke again in hippopotamese: "your skin has now become so tough that no man can hurt you. your strength is greater than that of ten elephants. your foot is so swift that you can distance the wind. your wit is sharper than the bulthorn. let the man fear, but drive fear from your own breast forever; for of all your race you are the mightiest!" then the terrible glinkomok leaned over, and keo felt its fiery breath scorch him as it whispered some further instructions in his ear. the next moment it glided back into its cave, followed by the loud thanks of the three hippopotamuses, who slid into the water and immediately began their journey home. the mother's heart was full of joy; uncle nep shivered once or twice as he remembered a glimpse he had caught of glinkomok; but keo was as jolly as possible, and, not content to swim with his dignified elders, he dived under their bodies, raced all around them and laughed merrily every inch of the way home. then all the tribe held high jinks and praised the mighty glinkomok for befriending their queen's son. and when the day came for the jolly one to give himself up to the black man they all kissed him good-by without a single fear for his safety. keo went away in good spirits, and they could hear his laughing "guk-uk-uk-uk!" long after he was lost in sight in the jungle. gouie had counted the days and knew when to expect keo; but he was astonished at the monstrous size to which his captive had grown, and congratulated himself on the wise bargain he had made. and keo was so fat that gouie determined to eat him--that is, all of him he possibly could, and the remainder of the carcass he would trade off to his fellow villagers. so he took a knife and tried to stick it into the hippopotamus, but the skin was so tough the knife was blunted against it. then he tried other means; but keo remained unhurt. and now indeed the jolly one laughed his most gleeful laugh, till all the forest echoed the "guk-uk-uk-uk-uk!" and gouie decided not to kill him, since that was impossible, but to use him for a beast of burden. he mounted upon keo's back and commanded him to march. so keo trotted briskly through the village, his little eyes twinkling with merriment. the other blacks were delighted with gouie's captive, and begged permission to ride upon the jolly one's back. so gouie bargained with them for bracelets and shell necklaces and little gold ornaments, until he had acquired quite a heap of trinkets. then a dozen black men climbed upon keo's back to enjoy a ride, and the one nearest his nose cried out: "run, mud-dog--run!" and keo ran. swift as the wind he strode, away from the village, through the forest and straight up the river bank. the black men howled with fear; the jolly one roared with laughter; and on, on, on they rushed! then before them, on the opposite side of the river, appeared the black mouth of glinkomok's cave. keo dashed into the water, dived to the bottom and left the black people struggling to swim out. but glinkomok had heard the laughter of keo and knew what to do. when the jolly one rose to the surface and blew the water from his throat there was no black man to be seen. keo returned alone to the village, and gouie asked, with surprise: "where are my brothers:" "i do not know," answered keo. "i took them far away, and they remained where i left them." gouie would have asked more questions then, but another crowd of black men impatiently waited to ride on the back of the laughing hippopotamus. so they paid the price and climbed to their seats, after which the foremost said: "run, mud-wallower--run!" and keo ran as before and carried them to the mouth of glinkomok's cave, and returned alone. but now gouie became anxious to know the fate of his fellows, for he was the only black man left in his village. so he mounted the hippopotamus and cried: "run, river-hog--run!" keo laughed his jolly "guk-uk-uk-uk!" and ran with the speed of the wind. but this time he made straight for the river bank where his own tribe lived, and when he reached it he waded into the river, dived to the bottom and left gouie floating in the middle of the stream. the black man began swimming toward the right bank, but there he saw uncle nep and half the royal tribe waiting to stamp him into the soft mud. so he turned toward the left bank, and there stood the queen mother and uncle nikki, red-eyed and angry, waiting to tear him with their tusks. then gouie uttered loud screams of terror, and, spying the jolly one, who swam near him, he cried: "save me, keo! save me, and i will release you from slavery!" "that is not enough," laughed keo. "i will serve you all my life!" screamed gouie; "i will do everything you bid me!" "will you return to me in a year and a day and become my captive, if i allow you to escape?" asked keo. "i will! i will! i will!" cried gouie. "swear it by the bones of your grandfather!" commanded keo, remembering that black men have no tusks to swear by. and gouie swore it by the bones of his grandfather. then keo swam to the black one, who clambered upon his back again. in this fashion they came to the bank, where keo told his mother and all the tribe of the bargain he had made with gouie, who was to return in a year and a day and become his slave. therefore the black man was permitted to depart in peace, and once more the jolly one lived with his own people and was happy. when a year and a day had passed keo began watching for the return of gouie; but he did not come, then or ever afterwards. for the black man had made a bundle of his bracelets and shell necklaces and little gold ornaments and had traveled many miles into another country, where the ancient and royal tribe of hippopotamuses was unknown. and he set up for a great chief, because of his riches, and people bowed down before him. by day he was proud and swaggering. but at night he tumbled and tossed upon his bed and could not sleep. his conscience troubled him. for he had sworn by the bones of his grandfather; and his grandfather had no bones. the magic bon bons there lived in boston a wise and ancient chemist by the name of dr. daws, who dabbled somewhat in magic. there also lived in boston a young lady by the name of claribel sudds, who was possessed of much money, little wit and an intense desire to go upon the stage. so claribel went to dr. daws and said: "i can neither sing nor dance; i cannot recite verse nor play upon the piano; i am no acrobat nor leaper nor high kicker; yet i wish to go upon the stage. what shall i do?" "are you willing to pay for such accomplishments?" asked the wise chemist. "certainly," answered claribel, jingling her purse. "then come to me to-morrow at two o'clock," said he. all that night he practiced what is known as chemical sorcery; so that when claribel sudds came next day at two o'clock he showed her a small box filled with compounds that closely resembled french bonbons. "this is a progressive age," said the old man, "and i flatter myself your uncle daws keeps right along with the procession. now, one of your old-fashioned sorcerers would have made you some nasty, bitter pills to swallow; but i have consulted your taste and convenience. here are some magic bonbons. if you eat this one with the lavender color you can dance thereafter as lightly and gracefully as if you had been trained a lifetime. after you consume the pink confection you will sing like a nightingale. eating the white one will enable you to become the finest elocutionist in the land. the chocolate piece will charm you into playing the piano better than rubenstein, while after eating you lemon-yellow bonbon you can easily kick six feet above your head." "how delightful!" exclaimed claribel, who was truly enraptured. "you are certainly a most clever sorcerer as well as a considerate compounder," and she held out her hand for the box. "ahem!" said the wise one; "a check, please." "oh, yes; to be sure! how stupid of me to forget it," she returned. he considerately retained the box in his own hand while she signed a check for a large amount of money, after which he allowed her to hold the box herself. "are you sure you have made them strong enough?" she inquired, anxiously; "it usually takes a great deal to affect me." "my only fear," replied dr. daws, "is that i have made them too strong. for this is the first time i have ever been called upon to prepare these wonderful confections." "don't worry," said claribel; "the stronger they act the better i shall act myself." she went away, after saying this, but stopping in at a dry goods store to shop, she forgot the precious box in her new interest and left it lying on the ribbon counter. then little bessie bostwick came to the counter to buy a hair ribbon and laid her parcels beside the box. when she went away she gathered up the box with her other bundles and trotted off home with it. bessie never knew, until after she had hung her coat in the hall closet and counted up her parcels, that she had one too many. then she opened it and exclaimed: "why, it's a box of candy! someone must have mislaid it. but it is too small a matter to worry about; there are only a few pieces." so she dumped the contents of the box into a bonbon dish that stood upon the hall table and picking out the chocolate piece--she was fond of chocolates--ate it daintily while she examined her purchases. these were not many, for bessie was only twelve years old and was not yet trusted by her parents to expend much money at the stores. but while she tried on the hair ribbon she suddenly felt a great desire to play upon the piano, and the desire at last became so overpowering that she went into the parlor and opened the instrument. the little girl had, with infinite pains, contrived to learn two "pieces" which she usually executed with a jerky movement of her right hand and a left hand that forgot to keep up and so made dreadful discords. but under the influence of the chocolate bonbon she sat down and ran her fingers lightly over the keys producing such exquisite harmony that she was filled with amazement at her own performance. that was the prelude, however. the next moment she dashed into beethoven's seventh sonata and played it magnificently. her mother, hearing the unusual burst of melody, came downstairs to see what musical guest had arrived; but when she discovered it was her own little daughter who was playing so divinely she had an attack of palpitation of the heart (to which she was subject) and sat down upon a sofa until it should pass away. meanwhile bessie played one piece after another with untiring energy. she loved music, and now found that all she need do was to sit at the piano and listen and watch her hands twinkle over the keyboard. twilight deepened in the room and bessie's father came home and hung up his hat and overcoat and placed his umbrella in the rack. then he peeped into the parlor to see who was playing. "great caesar!" he exclaimed. but the mother came to him softly with her finger on her lips and whispered: "don't interrupt her, john. our child seems to be in a trance. did you ever hear such superb music?" "why, she's an infant prodigy!" gasped the astounded father. "beats blind tom all hollow! it's--it's wonderful!" as they stood listening the senator arrived, having been invited to dine with them that evening. and before he had taken off his coat the yale professor--a man of deep learning and scholarly attainments--joined the party. bessie played on; and the four elders stood in a huddled but silent and amazed group, listening to the music and waiting for the sound of the dinner gong. mr. bostwick, who was hungry, picked up the bonbon dish that lay on the table beside him and ate the pink confection. the professor was watching him, so mr. bostwick courteously held the dish toward him. the professor ate the lemon-yellow piece and the senator reached out his hand and took the lavender piece. he did not eat it, however, for, chancing to remember that it might spoil his dinner, he put it in his vest pocket. mrs. bostwick, still intently listening to her precocious daughter, without thinking what she did, took the remaining piece, which was the white one, and slowly devoured it. the dish was now empty, and claribel sudds' precious bonbons had passed from her possession forever! suddenly mr. bostwick, who was a big man, began to sing in a shrill, tremolo soprano voice. it was not the same song bessie was playing, and the discord was shocking that the professor smiled, the senator put his hands to his ears and mrs. bostwick cried in a horrified voice: "william!" her husband continued to sing as if endeavoring to emulate the famous christine nillson, and paid no attention whatever to his wife or his guests. fortunately the dinner gong now sounded, and mrs. bostwick dragged bessie from the piano and ushered her guests into the dining-room. mr. bostwick followed, singing "the last rose of summer" as if it had been an encore demanded by a thousand delighted hearers. the poor woman was in despair at witnessing her husband's undignified actions and wondered what she might do to control him. the professor seemed more grave than usual; the senator's face wore an offended expression, and bessie kept moving her fingers as if she still wanted to play the piano. mrs. bostwick managed to get them all seated, although her husband had broken into another aria; and then the maid brought in the soup. when she carried a plate to the professor, he cried, in an excited voice: "hold it higher! higher--i say!" and springing up he gave it a sudden kick that sent it nearly to the ceiling, from whence the dish descended to scatter soup over bessie and the maid and to smash in pieces upon the crown of the professor's bald head. at this atrocious act the senator rose from his seat with an exclamation of horror and glanced at his hostess. for some time mrs. bostwick had been staring straight ahead, with a dazed expression; but now, catching the senator's eye, she bowed gracefully and began reciting "the charge of the light brigade" in forceful tones. the senator shuddered. such disgraceful rioting he had never seen nor heard before in a decent private family. he felt that his reputation was at stake, and, being the only sane person, apparently, in the room, there was no one to whom he might appeal. the maid had run away to cry hysterically in the kitchen; mr. bostwick was singing "o promise me;" the professor was trying to kick the globes off the chandelier; mrs. bostwick had switched her recitation to "the boy stood on the burning deck," and bessie had stolen into the parlor and was pounding out the overture from the "flying dutchman." the senator was not at all sure he would not go crazy himself, presently; so he slipped away from the turmoil, and, catching up his had and coat in the hall, hurried from the house. that night he sat up late writing a political speech he was to deliver the next afternoon at faneuil hall, but his experiences at the bostwicks' had so unnerved him that he could scarcely collect his thoughts, and often he would pause and shake his head pityingly as he remembered the strange things he had seen in that usually respectable home. the next day he met mr. bostwick in the street, but passed him by with a stony glare of oblivion. he felt he really could not afford to know this gentleman in the future. mr. bostwick was naturally indignant at the direct snub; yet in his mind lingered a faint memory of some quite unusual occurrences at his dinner party the evening before, and he hardly knew whether he dared resent the senator's treatment or not. the political meeting was the feature of the day, for the senator's eloquence was well known in boston. so the big hall was crowded with people, and in one of the front rows sat the bostwick family, with the learned yale professor beside them. they all looked tired and pale, as if they had passed a rather dissipated evening, and the senator was rendered so nervous by seeing them that he refused to look in their direction a second time. while the mayor was introducing him the great man sat fidgeting in his chair; and, happening to put his thumb and finger into his vest pocket, he found the lavender-colored bonbon he had placed there the evening before. "this may clear my throat," thought the senator, and slipped the bonbon into his mouth. a few minutes afterwards he arose before the vast audience, which greeted him with enthusiastic plaudits. "my friends," began the senator, in a grave voice, "this is a most impressive and important occasion." then he paused, balanced himself upon his left foot, and kicked his right leg into the air in the way favored by ballet-dancers! there was a hum of amazement and horror from the spectators, but the senator appeared not to notice it. he whirled around upon the tips of his toes, kicked right and left in a graceful manner, and startled a bald-headed man in the front row by casting a languishing glance in his direction. suddenly claribel sudds, who happened to be present, uttered a scream and sprang to her feet. pointing an accusing finger at the dancing senator, she cried in a loud voice: "that's the man who stole my bonbons! seize him! arrest him! don't let him escape!" but the ushers rushed her out of the hall, thinking she had gone suddenly insane; and the senator's friends seized him firmly and carried him out the stage entrance to the street, where they put him into an open carriage and instructed the driver to take him home. the effect of the magic bonbon was still powerful enough to control the poor senator, who stood upon the rear seat of the carriage and danced energetically all the way home, to the delight of the crowd of small boys who followed the carriage and the grief of the sober-minded citizens, who shook their heads sadly and whispered that "another good man had gone wrong." it took the senator several months to recover from the shame and humiliation of this escapade; and, curiously enough, he never had the slightest idea what had induced him to act in so extraordinary a manner. perhaps it was fortunate the last bonbon had now been eaten, for they might easily have caused considerably more trouble than they did. of course claribel went again to the wise chemist and signed a check for another box of magic bonbons; but she must have taken better care of these, for she is now a famous vaudeville actress. * * * * * this story should teach us the folly of condemning others for actions that we do not understand, for we never know what may happen to ourselves. it may also serve as a hint to be careful about leaving parcels in public places, and, incidentally, to let other people's packages severely alone. the capture of father time jim was the son of a cowboy, and lived on the broad plains of arizona. his father had trained him to lasso a bronco or a young bull with perfect accuracy, and had jim possessed the strength to back up his skill he would have been as good a cowboy as any in all arizona. when he was twelve years old he made his first visit to the east, where uncle charles, his father's brother, lived. of course jim took his lasso with him, for he was proud of his skill in casting it, and wanted to show his cousins what a cowboy could do. at first the city boys and girls were much interested in watching jim lasso posts and fence pickets, but they soon tired of it, and even jim decided it was not the right sort of sport for cities. but one day the butcher asked jim to ride one of his horses into the country, to a pasture that had been engaged, and jim eagerly consented. he had been longing for a horseback ride, and to make it seem like old times he took his lasso with him. he rode through the streets demurely enough, but on reaching the open country roads his spirits broke forth into wild jubilation, and, urging the butcher's horse to full gallop, he dashed away in true cowboy fashion. then he wanted still more liberty, and letting down the bars that led into a big field he began riding over the meadow and throwing his lasso at imaginary cattle, while he yelled and whooped to his heart's content. suddenly, on making a long cast with his lasso, the loop caught upon something and rested about three feet from the ground, while the rope drew taut and nearly pulled jim from his horse. this was unexpected. more than that, it was wonderful; for the field seemed bare of even a stump. jim's eyes grew big with amazement, but he knew he had caught something when a voice cried out: "here, let go! let go, i say! can't you see what you've done?" no, jim couldn't see, nor did he intend to let go until he found out what was holding the loop of the lasso. so he resorted to an old trick his father had taught him and, putting the butcher's horse to a run, began riding in a circle around the spot where his lasso had caught. as he thus drew nearer and nearer his quarry he saw the rope coil up, yet it looked to be coiling over nothing but air. one end of the lasso was made fast to a ring in the saddle, and when the rope was almost wound up and the horse began to pull away and snort with fear, jim dismounted. holding the reins of the bridle in one hand, he followed the rope, and an instant later saw an old man caught fast in the coils of the lasso. his head was bald and uncovered, but long white whiskers grew down to his waist. about his body was thrown a loose robe of fine white linen. in one hand he bore a great scythe, and beneath the other arm he carried an hourglass. while jim gazed wonderingly upon him, this venerable old man spoke in an angry voice: "now, then--get that rope off as fast as you can! you've brought everything on earth to a standstill by your foolishness! well--what are you staring at? don't you know who i am?" "no," said jim, stupidly. "well, i'm time--father time! now, make haste and set me free--if you want the world to run properly." "how did i happen to catch you?" asked jim, without making a move to release his captive. "i don't know. i've never been caught before," growled father time. "but i suppose it was because you were foolishly throwing your lasso at nothing." "i didn't see you," said jim. "of course you didn't. i'm invisible to the eyes of human beings unless they get within three feet of me, and i take care to keep more than that distance away from them. that's why i was crossing this field, where i supposed no one would be. and i should have been perfectly safe had it not been for your beastly lasso. now, then," he added, crossly, "are you going to get that rope off?" "why should i?" asked jim. "because everything in the world stopped moving the moment you caught me. i don't suppose you want to make an end of all business and pleasure, and war and love, and misery and ambition and everything else, do you? not a watch has ticked since you tied me up here like a mummy!" jim laughed. it really was funny to see the old man wound round and round with coils of rope from his knees up to his chin. "it'll do you good to rest," said the boy. "from all i've heard you lead a rather busy life." "indeed i do," replied father time, with a sigh. "i'm due in kamchatka this very minute. and to think one small boy is upsetting all my regular habits!" "too bad!" said jim, with a grin. "but since the world has stopped anyhow, it won't matter if it takes a little longer recess. as soon as i let you go time will fly again. where are your wings?" "i haven't any," answered the old man. "that is a story cooked up by some one who never saw me. as a matter of fact, i move rather slowly." "i see, you take your time," remarked the boy. "what do you use that scythe for?" "to mow down the people," said the ancient one. "every time i swing my scythe some one dies." "then i ought to win a life-saving medal by keeping you tied up," said jim. "some folks will live this much longer." "but they won't know it," said father time, with a sad smile; "so it will do them no good. you may as well untie me at once." "no," said jim, with a determined air. "i may never capture you again; so i'll hold you for awhile and see how the world wags without you." then he swung the old man, bound as he was, upon the back of the butcher's horse, and, getting into the saddle himself, started back toward town, one hand holding his prisoner and the other guiding the reins. when he reached the road his eye fell on a strange tableau. a horse and buggy stood in the middle of the road, the horse in the act of trotting, with his head held high and two legs in the air, but perfectly motionless. in the buggy a man and a woman were seated; but had they been turned into stone they could not have been more still and stiff. "there's no time for them!" sighed the old man. "won't you let me go now?" "not yet," replied the boy. he rode on until he reached the city, where all the people stood in exactly the same positions they were in when jim lassoed father time. stopping in front of a big dry goods store, the boy hitched his horse and went in. the clerks were measuring out goods and showing patterns to the rows of customers in front of them, but everyone seemed suddenly to have become a statue. there was something very unpleasant in this scene, and a cold shiver began to run up and down jim's back; so he hurried out again. on the edge of the sidewalk sat a poor, crippled beggar, holding out his hat, and beside him stood a prosperous-looking gentleman who was about to drop a penny into the beggar's hat. jim knew this gentleman to be very rich but rather stingy, so he ventured to run his hand into the man's pocket and take out his purse, in which was a $ gold piece. this glittering coin he put in the gentleman's fingers instead of the penny and then restored the purse to the rich man's pocket. "that donation will surprise him when he comes to life," thought the boy. he mounted the horse again and rode up the street. as he passed the shop of his friend, the butcher, he noticed several pieces of meat hanging outside. "i'm afraid that meat'll spoil," he remarked. "it takes time to spoil meat," answered the old man. this struck jim as being queer, but true. "it seems time meddles with everything," said he. "yes; you've made a prisoner of the most important personage in the world," groaned the old man; "and you haven't enough sense to let him go again." jim did not reply, and soon they came to his uncle's house, where he again dismounted. the street was filled with teams and people, but all were motionless. his two little cousins were just coming out the gate on their way to school, with their books and slates underneath their arms; so jim had to jump over the fence to avoid knocking them down. in the front room sat his aunt, reading her bible. she was just turning a page when time stopped. in the dining-room was his uncle, finishing his luncheon. his mouth was open and his fork poised just before it, while his eyes were fixed upon the newspaper folded beside him. jim helped himself to his uncle's pie, and while he ate it he walked out to his prisoner. "there's one thing i don't understand," said he. "what's that?" asked father time. "why is it that i'm able to move around while everyone else is--is--froze up?" "that is because i'm your prisoner," answered the other. "you can do anything you wish with time now. but unless you are careful you'll do something you will be sorry for." jim threw the crust of his pie at a bird that was suspended in the air, where it had been flying when time stopped. "anyway," he laughed, "i'm living longer than anyone else. no one will ever be able to catch up with me again." "each life has its allotted span," said the old man. "when you have lived your proper time my scythe will mow you down." "i forgot your scythe," said jim, thoughtfully. then a spirit of mischief came into the boy's head, for he happened to think that the present opportunity to have fun would never occur again. he tied father time to his uncle's hitching post, that he might not escape, and then crossed the road to the corner grocery. the grocer had scolded jim that very morning for stepping into a basket of turnips by accident. so the boy went to the back end of the grocery and turned on the faucet of the molasses barrel. "that'll make a nice mess when time starts the molasses running all over the floor," said jim, with a laugh. a little further down the street was a barber shop, and sitting in the barber's chair jim saw the man that all the boys declared was the "meanest man in town." he certainly did not like the boys and the boys knew it. the barber was in the act of shampooing this person when time was captured. jim ran to the drug store, and, getting a bottle of mucilage, he returned and poured it over the ruffled hair of the unpopular citizen. "that'll probably surprise him when he wakes up," thought jim. near by was the schoolhouse. jim entered it and found that only a few of the pupils were assembled. but the teacher sat at his desk, stern and frowning as usual. taking a piece of chalk, jim marked upon the blackboard in big letters the following words: "every scholar is requested to yell the minute he enters the room. he will also please throw his books at the teacher's head. signed, prof. sharpe." "that ought to raise a nice rumpus," murmured the mischiefmaker, as he walked away. on the corner stood policeman mulligan, talking with old miss scrapple, the worst gossip in town, who always delighted in saying something disagreeable about her neighbors. jim thought this opportunity was too good to lose. so he took off the policeman's cap and brass-buttoned coat and put them on miss scrapple, while the lady's feathered and ribboned hat he placed jauntily upon the policeman's head. the effect was so comical that the boy laughed aloud, and as a good many people were standing near the corner jim decided that miss scrapple and officer mulligan would create a sensation when time started upon his travels. then the young cowboy remembered his prisoner, and, walking back to the hitching post, he came within three feet of it and saw father time still standing patiently within the toils of the lasso. he looked angry and annoyed, however, and growled out: "well, when do you intend to release me?" "i've been thinking about that ugly scythe of yours," said jim. "what about it?" asked father time. "perhaps if i let you go you'll swing it at me the first thing, to be revenged," replied the boy. father time gave him a severe look, but said: "i've known boys for thousands of years, and of course i know they're mischievous and reckless. but i like boys, because they grow up to be men and people my world. now, if a man had caught me by accident, as you did, i could have scared him into letting me go instantly; but boys are harder to scare. i don't know as i blame you. i was a boy myself, long ago, when the world was new. but surely you've had enough fun with me by this time, and now i hope you'll show the respect that is due to old age. let me go, and in return i will promise to forget all about my capture. the incident won't do much harm, anyway, for no one will ever know that time has halted the last three hours or so." "all right," said jim, cheerfully, "since you've promised not to mow me down, i'll let you go." but he had a notion some people in the town would suspect time had stopped when they returned to life. he carefully unwound the rope from the old man, who, when he was free, at once shouldered his scythe, rearranged his white robe and nodded farewell. the next moment he had disappeared, and with a rustle and rumble and roar of activity the world came to life again and jogged along as it always had before. jim wound up his lasso, mounted the butcher's horse and rode slowly down the street. loud screams came from the corner, where a great crowd of people quickly assembled. from his seat on the horse jim saw miss scrapple, attired in the policeman's uniform, angrily shaking her fists in mulligan's face, while the officer was furiously stamping upon the lady's hat, which he had torn from his own head amidst the jeers of the crowd. as he rode past the schoolhouse he heard a tremendous chorus of yells, and knew prof. sharpe was having a hard time to quell the riot caused by the sign on the blackboard. through the window of the barber shop he saw the "mean man" frantically belaboring the barber with a hair brush, while his hair stood up stiff as bayonets in all directions. and the grocer ran out of his door and yelled "fire!" while his shoes left a track of molasses wherever he stepped. jim's heart was filled with joy. he was fairly reveling in the excitement he had caused when some one caught his leg and pulled him from the horse. "what're ye doin' hear, ye rascal?" cried the butcher, angrily; "didn't ye promise to put that beast inter plympton's pasture? an' now i find ye ridin' the poor nag around like a gentleman o' leisure!" "that's a fact," said jim, with surprise; "i clean forgot about the horse!" * * * * * this story should teach us the supreme importance of time and the folly of trying to stop it. for should you succeed, as jim did, in bringing time to a standstill, the world would soon become a dreary place and life decidedly unpleasant. the wonderful pump not many years ago there lived on a stony, barren new england farm a man and his wife. they were sober, honest people, working hard from early morning until dark to enable them to secure a scanty living from their poor land. their house, a small, one-storied building, stood upon the side of a steep hill, and the stones lay so thickly about it that scarce anything green could grow from the ground. at the foot of the hill, a quarter of a mile from the house by the winding path, was a small brook, and the woman was obliged to go there for water and to carry it up the hill to the house. this was a tedious task, and with the other hard work that fell to her share had made her gaunt and bent and lean. yet she never complained, but meekly and faithfully performed her duties, doing the housework, carrying the water and helping her husband hoe the scanty crop that grew upon the best part of their land. one day, as she walked down the path to the brook, her big shoes scattering the pebbles right and left, she noticed a large beetle lying upon its back and struggling hard with its little legs to turn over, that its feet might again touch the ground. but this it could not accomplish; so the woman, who had a kind heart, reached down and gently turned the beetle with her finger. at once it scampered from the path and she went on to the brook. the next day, as she came for water, she was surprised to see the beetle again lying upon its back and struggling helplessly to turn. once more the woman stopped and set him upon his feet; and then, as she stooped over the tiny creature, she heard a small voice say: "oh, thank you! thank you so much for saving me!" half frightened at hearing a beetle speak in her own language, the woman started back and exclaimed: "la sakes! surely you can't talk like humans!" then, recovering from her alarm, she again bent over the beetle, who answered her: "why shouldn't i talk, if i have anything to say? "'cause you're a bug," replied the woman. "that is true; and you saved my life--saved me from my enemies, the sparrows. and this is the second time you have come to my assistance, so i owe you a debt of gratitude. bugs value their lives as much as human beings, and i am a more important creature than you, in your ignorance, may suppose. but, tell me, why do you come each day to the brook?" "for water," she answered, staring stupidly down at the talking beetle. "isn't it hard work?" the creature inquired. "yes; but there's no water on the hill," said she. "then dig a well and put a pump in it," replied the beetle. she shook her head. "my man tried it once; but there was no water," she said, sadly. "try it again," commanded the beetle; "and in return for your kindness to me i will make this promise: if you do not get water from the well you will get that which is more precious to you. i must go now. do not forget. dig a well." and then, without pausing to say good-by, it ran swiftly away and was lost among the stones. the woman returned to the house much perplexed by what the beetle had said, and when her husband came in from his work she told him the whole story. the poor man thought deeply for a time, and then declared: "wife, there may be truth in what the bug told you. there must be magic in the world yet, if a beetle can speak; and if there is such a thing as magic we may get water from the well. the pump i bought to use in the well which proved to be dry is now lying in the barn, and the only expense in following the talking bug's advice will be the labor of digging the hole. labor i am used to; so i will dig the well." next day he set about it, and dug so far down in the ground that he could hardly reach the top to climb out again; but not a drop of water was found. "perhaps you did not dig deep enough," his wife said, when he told her of his failure. so the following day he made a long ladder, which he put into the hole; and then he dug, and dug, and dug, until the top of the ladder barely reached the top of the hole. but still there was no water. when the woman next went to the brook with her pail she saw the beetle sitting upon a stone beside her path. so she stopped and said: "my husband has dug the well; but there is no water." "did he put the pump in the well?" asked the beetle. "no," she answered. "then do as i commanded; put in the pump, and if you do not get water i promise you something still more precious." saying which, the beetle swiftly slid from the stone and disappeared. the woman went back to the house and told her husband what the bug had said. "well," replied the simple fellow, "there can be no harm in trying." so he got the pump from the barn and placed it in the well, and then he took hold of the handle and began to pump, while his wife stood by to watch what would happen. no water came, but after a few moments a gold piece dropped from the spout of the pump, and then another, and another, until several handfuls of gold lay in a little heap upon the ground. the man stopped pumping then and ran to help his wife gather the gold pieces into her apron; but their hands trembled so greatly through excitement and joy that they could scarcely pick up the sparkling coins. at last she gathered them close to her bosom and together they ran to the house, where they emptied the precious gold upon the table and counted the pieces. all were stamped with the design of the united states mint and were worth five dollars each. some were worn and somewhat discolored from use, while others seemed bright and new, as if they had not been much handled. when the value of the pieces was added together they were found to be worth three hundred dollars. suddenly the woman spoke. "husband, the beetle said truly when he declared we should get something more precious than water from the well. but run at once and take away the handle from the pump, lest anyone should pass this way and discover our secret." so the man ran to the pump and removed the handle, which he carried to the house and hid underneath the bed. they hardly slept a wink that night, lying awake to think of their good fortune and what they should do with their store of yellow gold. in all their former lives they had never possessed more than a few dollars at a time, and now the cracked teapot was nearly full of gold coins. the following day was sunday, and they arose early and ran to see if their treasure was safe. there it lay, heaped snugly within the teapot, and they were so willing to feast their eyes upon it that it was long before the man could leave it to build the fire or the woman to cook the breakfast. while they ate their simple meal the woman said: "we will go to church to-day and return thanks for the riches that have come to us so suddenly. and i will give the pastor one of the gold pieces." "it is well enough to go to church," replied her husband, "and also to return thanks. but in the night i decided how we will spend all our money; so there will be none left for the pastor." "we can pump more," said the woman. "perhaps; and perhaps not," he answered, cautiously. "what we have we can depend upon, but whether or not there be more in the well i cannot say." "then go and find out," she returned, "for i am anxious to give something to the pastor, who is a poor man and deserving." so the man got the pump handle from beneath the bed, and, going to the pump, fitted it in place. then he set a large wooden bucket under the spout and began to pump. to their joy the gold pieces soon began flowing into the pail, and, seeing it about to run over the brim, the woman brought another pail. but now the stream suddenly stopped, and the man said, cheerfully: "that is enough for to-day, good wife! we have added greatly to our treasure, and the parson shall have his gold piece. indeed, i think i shall also put a coin into the contribution box." then, because the teapot would hold no more gold, the farmer emptied the pail into the wood-box, covering the money with dried leaves and twigs, that no one might suspect what lay underneath. afterward they dressed themselves in their best clothing and started for the church, each taking a bright gold piece from the teapot as a gift to the pastor. over the hill and down into the valley beyond they walked, feeling so gay and light-hearted that they did not mind the distance at all. at last they came to the little country church and entered just as the services began. being proud of their wealth and of the gifts they had brought for the pastor, they could scarcely wait for the moment when the deacon passed the contribution box. but at last the time came, and the farmer held his hand high over the box and dropped the gold piece so that all the congregation could see what he had given. the woman did likewise, feeling important and happy at being able to give the good parson so much. the parson, watching from the pulpit, saw the gold drop into the box, and could hardly believe that his eyes did not deceive him. however, when the box was laid upon his desk there were the two gold pieces, and he was so surprised that he nearly forgot his sermon. when the people were leaving the church at the close of the services the good man stopped the farmer and his wife and asked: "where did you get so much gold?" the woman gladly told him how she had rescued the beetle, and how, in return, they had been rewarded with the wonderful pump. the pastor listened to it all gravely, and when the story was finished he said: "according to tradition strange things happened in this world ages ago, and now i find that strange things may also happen to-day. for by your tale you have found a beetle that can speak and also has power to bestow upon you great wealth." then he looked carefully at the gold pieces and continued: "either this money is fairy gold or it is genuine metal, stamped at the mint of the united states government. if it is fairy gold it will disappear within hours, and will therefore do no one any good. if it is real money, then your beetle must have robbed some one of the gold and placed it in your well. for all money belongs to some one, and if you have not earned it honestly, but have come by it in the mysterious way you mention, it was surely taken from the persons who owned it, without their consent. where else could real money come from?" the farmer and his wife were confused by this statement and looked guiltily at each other, for they were honest people and wished to wrong no one. "then you think the beetle stole the money?" asked the woman. "by his magic powers he probably took it from its rightful owners. even bugs which can speak have no consciences and cannot tell the difference between right and wrong. with a desire to reward you for your kindness the beetle took from its lawful possessors the money you pumped from the well." "perhaps it really is fairy gold," suggested the man. "if so, we must go to the town and spend the money before it disappears." "that would be wrong," answered the pastor; "for then the merchants would have neither money nor goods. to give them fairy gold would be to rob them." "what, then, shall we do?" asked the poor woman, wringing her hands with grief and disappointment. "go home and wait until to-morrow. if the gold is then in your possession it is real money and not fairy gold. but if it is real money you must try to restore it to its rightful owners. take, also, these pieces which you have given me, for i cannot accept gold that is not honestly come by." sadly the poor people returned to their home, being greatly disturbed by what they had heard. another sleepless night was passed, and on monday morning they arose at daylight and ran to see if the gold was still visible. "it is real money, after all!" cried the man; "for not a single piece has disappeared." when the woman went to the brook that day she looked for the beetle, and, sure enough, there he sat upon the flat stone. "are you happy now?" asked the beetle, as the woman paused before him. "we are very unhappy," she answered; "for, although you have given us much gold, our good parson says it surely belongs to some one else, and was stolen by you to reward us." "your parson may be a good man," returned the beetle, with some indignation, "but he certainly is not overwise. nevertheless, if you do not want the gold i can take it from you as easily as i gave it." "but we do want it!" cried the woman, fearfully. "that is," she added, "if it is honestly come by." "it is not stolen," replied the beetle, sulkily, "and now belongs to no one but yourselves. when you saved my life i thought how i might reward you; and, knowing you to be poor, i decided gold would make you happier than anything else. "you must know," he continued, "that although i appear so small and insignificant, i am really king of all the insects, and my people obey my slightest wish. living, as they do, close to the ground, the insects often come across gold and other pieces of money which have been lost by men and have fallen into cracks or crevasses or become covered with earth or hidden by grass or weeds. whenever my people find money in this way they report the fact to me; but i have always let it lie, because it could be of no possible use to an insect. "however, when i decided to give you gold i knew just where to obtain it without robbing any of your fellow creatures. thousands of insects were at once sent by me in every direction to bring the pieces of lost gold to his hill. it cost my people several days of hard labor, as you may suppose; but by the time your husband had finished the well the gold began to arrive from all parts of the country, and during the night my subjects dumped it all into the well. so you may use it with a clear conscience, knowing that you wrong no one." this explanation delighted the woman, and when she returned to the house and reported to her husband what the beetle had said he also was overjoyed. so they at once took a number of the gold pieces and went to the town to purchase provisions and clothing and many things of which they had long stood in need; but so proud were they of their newly acquired wealth that they took no pains to conceal it. they wanted everyone to know they had money, and so it was no wonder that when some of the wicked men in the village saw the gold they longed to possess it themselves. "if they spend this money so freely," whispered one to another, "there must be a great store of gold at their home." "that is true," was the answer. "let us hasten there before they return and ransack the house." so they left the village and hurried away to the farm on the hill, where they broke down the door and turned everything topsy turvy until they had discovered the gold in the wood-box and the teapot. it did not take them long to make this into bundles, which they slung upon their backs and carried off, and it was probably because they were in a great hurry that they did not stop to put the house in order again. presently the good woman and her husband came up the hill from the village with their arms full of bundles and followed by a crowd of small boys who had been hired to help carry the purchases. then followed others, youngsters and country louts, attracted by the wealth and prodigality of the pair, who, from simple curiosity, trailed along behind like the tail of a comet and helped swell the concourse into a triumphal procession. last of all came guggins, the shopkeeper, carrying with much tenderness a new silk dress which was to be paid for when they reached the house, all the money they had taken to the village having been lavishly expended. the farmer, who had formerly been a modest man, was now so swelled with pride that he tipped the rim of his hat over his left ear and smoked a big cigar that was fast making him ill. his wife strutted along beside him like a peacock, enjoying to the full the homage and respect her wealth had won from those who formerly deigned not to notice her, and glancing from time to time at the admiring procession in the rear. but, alas for their new-born pride! when they reached the farmhouse they found the door broken in, the furniture strewn in all directions and their treasure stolen to the very last gold piece. the crowd grinned and made slighting remarks of a personal nature, and guggins, the shopkeeper, demanded in a loud voice the money for the silk dress he had brought. then the woman whispered to her husband to run and pump some more gold while she kept the crowd quiet, and he obeyed quickly. but after a few moments he returned with a white face to tell her the pump was dry, and not a gold piece could now be coaxed from the spout. the procession marched back to the village laughing and jeering at the farmer and his wife, who had pretended to be so rich; and some of the boys were naughty enough to throw stones at the house from the top of the hill. mr. guggins carried away his dress after severely scolding the woman for deceiving him, and when the couple at last found themselves alone their pride had turned to humiliation and their joy to bitter grief. just before sundown the woman dried her eyes and, having resumed her ordinary attire, went to the brook for water. when she came to the flat stone she saw the king beetle sitting upon it. "the well is dry!" she cried out, angrily. "yes," answered the beetle, calmly, "you have pumped from it all the gold my people could find." "but we are now ruined," said the woman, sitting down in the path beginning to weep; "for robbers have stolen from us every penny we possessed." "i'm sorry," returned the beetle; "but it is your own fault. had you not made so great a show of your wealth no one would have suspected you possessed a treasure, or thought to rob you. as it is, you have merely lost the gold which others have lost before you. it will probably be lost many times more before the world comes to an end." "but what are we to do now?" she asked. "what did you do before i gave you the money?" "we worked from morning 'til night," said she. "then work still remains for you," remarked the beetle, composedly; "no one will ever try to rob you of that, you may be sure!" and he slid from the stone and disappeared for the last time. * * * * * this story should teach us to accept good fortune with humble hearts and to use it with moderation. for, had the farmer and his wife resisted the temptation to display their wealth ostentatiously, they might have retained it to this very day. the dummy that lived in all fairyland there is no more mischievous a person than tanko-mankie the yellow ryl. he flew through the city one afternoon--quite invisible to moral eyes, but seeing everything himself--and noticed a figure of a wax lady standing behind the big plate glass window of mr. floman's department store. the wax lady was beautifully dressed, and extended in her stiff left hand was a card bearing the words: "rare bargin! this stylish costume (imported from paris) former price, $ , reduced to only $ . ." this impressive announcement had drawn before the window a crowd of women shoppers, who stood looking at the wax lady with critical eyes. tanko-mankie laughed to himself the low, gurgling little laugh that always means mischief. then he flew close to the wax figure and breathed twice upon its forehead. from that instant the dummy began to live, but so dazed and astonished was she at the unexpected sensation that she continued to stand stupidly staring at the women outside and holding out the placard as before. the ryl laughed again and flew away. anyone but tanko-mankie would have remained to help the wax lady out of the troubles that were sure to overtake her; but this naughty elf thought it rare fun to turn the inexperienced lady loose in a cold and heartless world and leave her to shift for herself. fortunately it was almost six o'clock when the dummy first realized that she was alive, and before she had collected her new thoughts and decided what to do a man came around and drew down all the window shades, shutting off the view from the curious shoppers. then the clerks and cashiers and floorwalkers and cash girls went home and the store was closed for the night, although the sweepers and scrubbers remained to clean the floors for the following day. the window inhabited by the wax lady was boxed in, like a little room, one small door being left at the side for the window-trimmer to creep in and out of. so the scrubbers never noticed that the dummy, when left to herself, dropped the placard to the floor and sat down upon a pile of silks to wonder who she was, where she was, and how she happened to be alive. for you must consider, dear reader, that in spite of her size and her rich costume, in spite of her pink cheeks and fluffy yellow hair, this lady was very young--no older, in reality, than a baby born but half an hour. all she knew of the world was contained in the glimpse she had secured of the busy street facing her window; all she knew of people lay in the actions of the group of women which had stood before her on the other side of the window pane and criticised the fit of her dress or remarked upon its stylish appearance. so she had little enough to think about, and her thoughts moved somewhat slowly; yet one thing she really decided upon, and that was not to remain in the window and be insolently stared at by a lot of women who were not nearly so handsome or well dressed as herself. by the time she reached this important conclusion, it was after midnight; but dim lights were burning in the big, deserted store, so she crept through the door of her window and walked down the long aisles, pausing now and then to look with much curiosity at the wealth of finery confronting her on every side. when she came to the glass cases filled with trimmed hats she remembered having seen upon the heads of the women in the street similar creations. so she selected one that suited her fancy and placed it carefully upon her yellow locks. i won't attempt to explain what instinct it was that made her glance into a near-by mirror to see if the hat was straight, but this she certainly did. it didn't correspond with her dress very well, but the poor thing was too young to have much taste in matching colors. when she reached the glove counter she remembered that gloves were also worn by the women she had seen. she took a pair from the case and tried to fit them upon her stiff, wax-coated fingers; but the gloves were too small and ripped in the seams. then she tried another pair, and several others, as well; but hours passed before she finally succeeded in getting her hands covered with a pair of pea-green kids. next she selected a parasol from a large and varied assortment in the rear of the store. not that she had any idea what it was used for; but other ladies carried such things, so she also would have one. when she again examined herself critically in the mirror she decided her outfit was now complete, and to her inexperienced eyes there was no perceptible difference between her and the women who had stood outside the window. whereupon she tried to leave the store, but found every door fast locked. the wax lady was in no hurry. she inherited patience from her previous existence. just to be alive and to wear beautiful clothes was sufficient enjoyment for her at present. so she sat down upon a stool and waited quietly until daylight. when the janitor unlocked the door in the morning the wax lady swept past him and walked with stiff but stately strides down the street. the poor fellow was so completely whuckered at seeing the well-known wax lady leave her window and march away from the store that he fell over in a heap and only saved himself from fainting by striking his funny bone against the doorstep. when he recovered his wits she had turned the corner and disappeared. the wax lady's immature mind had reasoned that, since she had come to life, her evident duty was to mix with the world and do whatever other folks did. she could not realize how different she was from people of flesh and blood; nor did she know she was the first dummy that had ever lived, or that she owed her unique experience to tanko-mankie's love of mischief. so ignorance gave her a confidence in herself that she was not justly entitled to. it was yet early in the day, and the few people she met were hurrying along the streets. many of them turned into restaurants and eating houses, and following their example the wax lady also entered one and sat upon a stool before a lunch counter. "coffee 'n' rolls!" said a shop girl on the next stool. "coffee 'n' rolls!" repeated the dummy, and soon the waiter placed them before her. of course she had no appetite, as her constitution, being mostly wood, did not require food; but she watched the shop girl, and saw her put the coffee to her mouth and drink it. therefore the wax lady did the same, and the next instant was surprised to feel the hot liquid trickling out between her wooden ribs. the coffee also blistered her wax lips, and so disagreeable was the experience that she arose and left the restaurant, paying no attention to the demands of the waiter for " cents, mum." not that she intended to defraud him, but the poor creature had no idea what he meant by " cents, mum." as she came out she met the window trimmer at floman's store. the man was rather near-sighted, but seeing something familiar in the lady's features he politely raised his hat. the wax lady also raised her hat, thinking it the proper thing to do, and the man hurried away with a horrified face. then a woman touched her arm and said: "beg pardon, ma'am; but there's a price-mark hanging on your dress behind." "yes, i know," replied the wax lady, stiffly; "it was originally $ , but it's been reduced to $ . ." the woman looked surprised at such indifference and walked on. some carriages were standing at the edge of the sidewalk, and seeing the dummy hesitate a driver approached her and touched his cap. "cab, ma'am?" he asked. "no," said she, misunderstanding him; "i'm wax." "oh!" he exclaimed, and looked after her wonderingly. "here's yer mornin' paper!" yelled a newsboy. "mine, did you say?" she asked. "sure! chronicle, 'quirer, r'public 'n' 'spatch! wot'll ye 'ave?" "what are they for?" inquired the wax lady, simply. "w'y, ter read, o' course. all the news, you know." she shook her head and glanced at a paper. "it looks all speckled and mixed up," she said. "i'm afraid i can't read." "ever ben to school?" asked the boy, becoming interested. "no; what's school?" she inquired. the boy gave her an indignant look. "say!" he cried, "ye'r just a dummy, that's wot ye are!" and ran away to seek a more promising customer. "i wonder that he means," thought the poor lady. "am i really different in some way from all the others? i look like them, certainly; and i try to act like them; yet that boy called me a dummy and seemed to think i acted queerly." this idea worried her a little, but she walked on to the corner, where she noticed a street car stop to let some people on. the wax lady, still determined to do as others did, also boarded the car and sat down quietly in a corner. after riding a few blocks the conductor approached her and said: "fare, please!" "what's that?" she inquired, innocently. "your fare!" said the man, impatiently. she stared at him stupidly, trying to think what he meant. "come, come!" growled the conductor, "either pay up or get off!" still she did not understand, and he grabbed her rudely by the arm and lifted her to her feet. but when his hand came in contact with the hard wood of which her arm was made the fellow was filled with surprise. he stooped down and peered into her face, and, seeing it was wax instead of flesh, he gave a yell of fear and jumped from the car, running as if he had seen a ghost. at this the other passengers also yelled and sprang from the car, fearing a collision; and the motorman, knowing something was wrong, followed suit. the wax lady, seeing the others run, jumped from the car last of all, and stepped in front of another car coming at full speed from the opposite direction. she heard cries of fear and of warning on all sides, but before she understood her danger she was knocked down and dragged for half a block. when the car was brought to a stop a policeman reached down and pulled her from under the wheels. her dress was badly torn and soiled. her left ear was entirely gone, and the left side of her head was caved in; but she quickly scrambled to her feet and asked for her hat. this a gentleman had already picked up, and when the policeman handed it to her and noticed the great hole in her head and the hollow place it disclosed, the poor fellow trembled so frightfully that his knees actually knocked together. "why--why, ma'am, you're killed!" he gasped. "what does it mean to be killed?" asked the wax lady. the policeman shuddered and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. "you're it!" he answered, with a groan. the crowd that had collected were looking upon the lady wonderingly, and a middle-aged gentleman now exclaimed: "why, she's wax!" "wax!" echoed the policeman. "certainly. she's one of those dummies they put in the windows," declared the middle-aged man. the people who had collected shouted: "you're right!" "that's what she is!" "she's a dummy!" "are you?" inquired the policeman, sternly. the wax lady did not reply. she began to fear she was getting into trouble, and the staring crowd seemed to embarrass her. suddenly a bootblack attempted to solve the problem by saying: "you guys is all wrong! can a dummy talk? can a dummy walk? can a dummy live?" "hush!" murmured the policeman. "look here!" and he pointed to the hold in the lady's head. the newsboy looked, turned pale and whistled to keep himself from shivering. a second policeman now arrived, and after a brief conference it was decided to take the strange creature to headquarters. so they called a hurry-up wagon, and the damaged wax lady was helped inside and driven to the police station. there the policeman locked her in a cell and hastened to tell inspector mugg their wonderful story. inspector mugg had just eaten a poor breakfast, and was not in a pleasant mood; so he roared and stormed at the unlucky policemen, saying they were themselves dummies to bring such a fairy tale to a man of sense. he also hinted that they had been guilty of intemperance. the policemen tried to explain, but inspector mugg would not listen; and while they were still disputing in rushed mr. floman, the owner of the department store. "i want a dozen detectives, at once, inspector!" he cried. "what for?" demanded mugg. "one of the wax ladies has escaped from my store and eloped with a $ . costume, a $ . hat, a $ . parasol and a -cent pair of gloves, and i want her arrested!" while he paused for breath the inspector glared at him in amazement. "is everybody going crazy at the same time?" he inquired, sarcastically. "how could a wax dummy run away?" "i don't know; but she did. when my janitor opened the door this morning he saw her run out." "why didn't he stop her?" asked mugg. "he was too frightened. but she's stolen my property, your honor, and i want her arrested!" declared the storekeeper. the inspector thought for a moment. "you wouldn't be able to prosecute her," he said, "for there's no law against dummies stealing." mr. floman sighed bitterly. "am i to lose that $ . costume and the $ . hat and--" "by no means," interrupted inspector mugg. "the police of this city are ever prompt to act in defense of our worthy citizens. we have already arrested the wax lady, and she is locked up in cell no. . you may go there and recover your property, if you wish, but before you prosecute her for stealing you'd better hunt up a law that applies to dummies." "all i want," said mr. floman, "is that $ . costume and--" "come along!" interrupted the policeman. "i'll take you to the cell." but when they entered no. they found only a lifeless dummy lying prone upon the floor. its wax was cracked and blistered, its head was badly damaged, and the bargain costume was dusty, soiled and much bedraggled. for the mischief-loving tanko-mankie had flown by and breathed once more upon the poor wax lady, and in that instant her brief life ended. "it's just as i thought," said inspector mugg, leaning back in his chair contentedly. "i knew all the time the thing was a fake. it seems sometimes as though the whole world would go crazy if there wasn't some level-headed man around to bring 'em to their senses. dummies are wood an' wax, an' that's all there is of 'em." "that may be the rule," whispered the policeman to himself, "but this one were a dummy as lived!" the king of the polar bears the king of the polar bears lived among the icebergs in the far north country. he was old and monstrous big; he was wise and friendly to all who knew him. his body was thickly covered with long, white hair that glistened like silver under the rays of the midnight sun. his claws were strong and sharp, that he might walk safely over the smooth ice or grasp and tear the fishes and seals upon which he fed. the seals were afraid when he drew near, and tried to avoid him; but the gulls, both white and gray, loved him because he left the remnants of his feasts for them to devour. often his subjects, the polar bears, came to him for advice when ill or in trouble; but they wisely kept away from his hunting grounds, lest they might interfere with his sport and arouse his anger. the wolves, who sometimes came as far north as the icebergs, whispered among themselves that the king of the polar bears was either a magician or under the protection of a powerful fairy. for no earthly thing seemed able to harm him; he never failed to secure plenty of food, and he grew bigger and stronger day by day and year by year. yet the time came when this monarch of the north met man, and his wisdom failed him. he came out of his cave among the icebergs one day and saw a boat moving through the strip of water which had been uncovered by the shifting of the summer ice. in the boat were men. the great bear had never seen such creatures before, and therefore advanced toward the boat, sniffing the strange scent with aroused curiosity and wondering whether he might take them for friends or foes, food or carrion. when the king came near the water's edge a man stood up in the boat and with a queer instrument made a loud "bang!" the polar bear felt a shock; his brain became numb; his thoughts deserted him; his great limbs shook and gave way beneath him and his body fell heavily upon the hard ice. that was all he remembered for a time. when he awoke he was smarting with pain on every inch of his huge bulk, for the men had cut away his hide with its glorious white hair and carried it with them to a distant ship. above him circled thousands of his friends the gulls, wondering if their benefactor were really dead and it was proper to eat him. but when they saw him raise his head and groan and tremble they knew he still lived, and one of them said to his comrades: "the wolves were right. the king is a great magician, for even men cannot kill him. but he suffers for lack of covering. let us repay his kindness to us by each giving him as many feathers as we can spare." this idea pleased the gulls. one after another they plucked with their beaks the softest feathers from under their wings, and, flying down, dropped then gently upon the body of the king of the polar bears. then they called to him in a chorus: "courage, friend! our feathers are as soft and beautiful as your own shaggy hair. they will guard you from the cold winds and warm you while you sleep. have courage, then, and live!" and the king of the polar bears had courage to bear his pain and lived and was strong again. the feathers grew as they had grown upon the bodies of the birds and covered him as his own hair had done. mostly they were pure white in color, but some from the gray gulls gave his majesty a slight mottled appearance. the rest of that summer and all through the six months of night the king left his icy cavern only to fish or catch seals for food. he felt no shame at his feathery covering, but it was still strange to him, and he avoided meeting any of his brother bears. during this period of retirement he thought much of the men who had harmed him, and remembered the way they had made the great "bang!" and he decided it was best to keep away from such fierce creatures. thus he added to his store of wisdom. when the moon fell away from the sky and the sun came to make the icebergs glitter with the gorgeous tintings of the rainbow, two of the polar bears arrived at the king's cavern to ask his advice about the hunting season. but when they saw his great body covered with feathers instead of hair they began to laugh, and one said: "our mighty king has become a bird! who ever before heard of a feathered polar bear?" then the king gave way to wrath. he advanced upon them with deep growls and stately tread and with one blow of his monstrous paw stretched the mocker lifeless at his feet. the other ran away to his fellows and carried the news of the king's strange appearance. the result was a meeting of all the polar bears upon a broad field of ice, where they talked gravely of the remarkable change that had come upon their monarch. "he is, in reality, no longer a bear," said one; "nor can he justly be called a bird. but he is half bird and half bear, and so unfitted to remain our king." "then who shall take his place?" asked another. "he who can fight the bird-bear and overcome him," answered an aged member of the group. "only the strongest is fit to rule our race." there was silence for a time, but at length a great bear moved to the front and said: "i will fight him; i--woof--the strongest of our race! and i will be king of the polar bears." the others nodded assent, and dispatched a messenger to the king to say he must fight the great woof and master him or resign his sovereignty. "for a bear with feathers," added the messenger, "is no bear at all, and the king we obey must resemble the rest of us." "i wear feathers because it pleases me," growled the king. "am i not a great magician? but i will fight, nevertheless, and if woof masters me he shall be king in my stead." then he visited his friends, the gulls, who were even then feasting upon the dead bear, and told them of the coming battle. "i shall conquer," he said, proudly. "yet my people are in the right, for only a hairy one like themselves can hope to command their obedience." the queen gull said: "i met an eagle yesterday, which had made its escape from a big city of men. and the eagle told me he had seen a monstrous polar bear skin thrown over the back of a carriage that rolled along the street. that skin must have been yours, oh king, and if you wish i will sent an hundred of my gulls to the city to bring it back to you." "let them go!" said the king, gruffly. and the hundred gulls were soon flying rapidly southward. for three days they flew straight as an arrow, until they came to scattered houses, to villages, and to cities. then their search began. the gulls were brave, and cunning, and wise. upon the fourth day they reached the great metropolis, and hovered over the streets until a carriage rolled along with a great white bear robe thrown over the back seat. then the birds swooped down--the whole hundred of them--and seizing the skin in their beaks flew quickly away. they were late. the king's great battle was upon the seventh day, and they must fly swiftly to reach the polar regions by that time. meanwhile the bird-bear was preparing for his fight. he sharpened his claws in the small crevasses of the ice. he caught a seal and tested his big yellow teeth by crunching its bones between them. and the queen gull set her band to pluming the king bear's feathers until they lay smoothly upon his body. but every day they cast anxious glances into the southern sky, watching for the hundred gulls to bring back the king's own skin. the seventh day came, and all the polar bears in that region gathered around the king's cavern. among them was woof, strong and confident of his success. "the bird-bear's feathers will fly fast enough when i get my claws upon him!" he boasted; and the others laughed and encouraged him. the king was disappointed at not having recovered his skin, but he resolved to fight bravely without it. he advanced from the opening of his cavern with a proud and kingly bearing, and when he faced his enemy he gave so terrible a growl that woof's heart stopped beating for a moment, and he began to realize that a fight with the wise and mighty king of his race was no laughing matter. after exchanging one or two heavy blows with his foe woof's courage returned, and he determined to dishearten his adversary by bluster. "come nearer, bird-bear!" he cried. "come nearer, that i may pluck your plumage!" the defiance filled the king with rage. he ruffled his feathers as a bird does, till he appeared to be twice his actual size, and then he strode forward and struck woof so powerful a blow that his skull crackled like an egg-shell and he fell prone upon the ground. while the assembled bears stood looking with fear and wonder at their fallen champion the sky became darkened. an hundred gulls flew down from above and dripped upon the king's body a skin covered with pure white hair that glittered in the sun like silver. and behold! the bears saw before them the well-known form of their wise and respected master, and with one accord they bowed their shaggy heads in homage to the mighty king of the polar bears. * * * * * this story teaches us that true dignity and courage depend not upon outward appearance, but come rather from within; also that brag and bluster are poor weapons to carry into battle. the mandarin and the butterfly a mandarin once lived in kiang-ho who was so exceedingly cross and disagreeable that everyone hated him. he snarled and stormed at every person he met and was never known to laugh or be merry under any circumstances. especially he hated boys and girls; for the boys jeered at him, which aroused his wrath, and the girls made fun of him, which hurt his pride. when he had become so unpopular that no one would speak to him, the emperor heard about it and commanded him to emigrate to america. this suited the mandarin very well; but before he left china he stole the great book of magic that belonged to the wise magician haot-sai. then, gathering up his little store of money, he took ship for america. he settled in a city of the middle west and of course started a laundry, since that seems to be the natural vocation of every chinaman, be he coolie or mandarin. he made no acquaintances with the other chinamen of the town, who, when they met him and saw the red button in his hat, knew him for a real mandarin and bowed low before him. he put up a red and white sign and people brought their laundry to him and got paper checks, with chinese characters upon them, in exchange, this being the only sort of character the mandarin had left. one day as the ugly one was ironing in his shop in the basement of / main street, he looked up and saw a crowd of childish faces pressed against the window. most chinamen make friends with children; this one hated them and tried to drive them away. but as soon as he returned to his work they were back at the window again, mischievously smiling down upon him. the naughty mandarin uttered horrid words in the manchu language and made fierce gestures; but this did no good at all. the children stayed as long as they pleased, and they came again the very next day as soon as school was over, and likewise the next day, and the next. for they saw their presence at the window bothered the chinaman and were delighted accordingly. the following day being sunday the children did not appear, but as the mandarin, being a heathen, worked in his little shop a big butterfly flew in at the open door and fluttered about the room. the mandarin closed the door and chased the butterfly until he caught it, when he pinned it against the wall by sticking two pins through its beautiful wings. this did not hurt the butterfly, there being no feeling in its wings; but it made him a safe prisoner. this butterfly was of large size and its wings were exquisitely marked by gorgeous colors laid out in regular designs like the stained glass windows of a cathedral. the mandarin now opened his wooden chest and drew forth the great book of magic he had stolen from haot-sai. turning the pages slowly he came to a passage describing "how to understand the language of butterflies." this he read carefully and then mixed a magic formula in a tin cup and drank it down with a wry face. immediately thereafter he spoke to the butterfly in its own language, saying: "why did you enter this room?" "i smelled bees-wax," answered the butterfly; "therefore i thought i might find honey here." "but you are my prisoner," said the mandarin. "if i please i can kill you, or leave you on the wall to starve to death." "i expect that," replied the butterfly, with a sigh. "but my race is shortlived, anyway; it doesn't matter whether death comes sooner or later." "yet you like to live, do you not?" asked the mandarin. "yet; life is pleasant and the world is beautiful. i do not seek death." "then," said the mandarin, "i will give you life--a long and pleasant life--if you will promise to obey me for a time and carry out my instructions." "how can a butterfly serve a man?" asked the creature, in surprise. "usually they cannot," was the reply. "but i have a book of magic which teaches me strange things. do you promise?" "oh, yes; i promise," answered the butterfly; "for even as your slave i will get some enjoyment out of life, while should you kill me--that is the end of everything!" "truly," said the mandarin, "butterflies have no souls, and therefore cannot live again." "but i have enjoyed three lives already," returned the butterfly, with some pride. "i have been a caterpillar and a chrysalis before i became a butterfly. you were never anything but a chinaman, although i admit your life is longer than mine." "i will extend your life for many days, if you will obey me," declared the chinaman. "i can easily do so by means of my magic." "of course i will obey you," said the butterfly, carelessly. "then, listen! you know children, do you not?--boys and girls?" "yes, i know them. they chase me, and try to catch me, as you have done," replied the butterfly. "and they mock me, and jeer at me through the window," continued the mandarin, bitterly. "therefore, they are your enemies and mine! but with your aid and the help of the magic book we shall have a fine revenge for their insults." "i don't care much for revenge," said the butterfly. "they are but children, and 'tis natural they should wish to catch such a beautiful creature as i am." "nevertheless, i care! and you must obey me," retorted the mandarin, harshly. "i, at least, will have my revenge." then he stuck a drop of molasses upon the wall beside the butterfly's head and said: "eat that, while i read my book and prepare my magic formula." so the butterfly feasted upon the molasses and the mandarin studied his book, after which he began to mix a magic compound in the tin cup. when the mixture was ready he released the butterfly from the wall and said to it: "i command you to dip your two front feet into this magic compound and then fly away until you meet a child. fly close, whether it be a boy or a girl, and touch the child upon its forehead with your feet. whosoever is thus touched, the book declares, will at once become a pig, and will remain such forever after. then return to me and dip you legs afresh in the contents of this cup. so shall all my enemies, the children, become miserable swine, while no one will think of accusing me of the sorcery." "very well; since such is your command, i obey," said the butterfly. then it dipped its front legs, which were the shortest of the six, into the contents of the tin cup, and flew out of the door and away over the houses to the edge of the town. there it alighted in a flower garden and soon forgot all about its mission to turn children into swine. in going from flower to flower it soon brushed the magic compound from its legs, so that when the sun began to set and the butterfly finally remembered its master, the mandarin, it could not have injured a child had it tried. but it did not intend to try. "that horrid old chinaman," it thought, "hates children and wishes to destroy them. but i rather like children myself and shall not harm them. of course i must return to my master, for he is a magician, and would seek me out and kill me; but i can deceive him about this matter easily enough." when the butterfly flew in at the door of the mandarin's laundry he asked, eagerly: "well, did you meet a child?" "i did," replied the butterfly, calmly. "it was a pretty, golden-haired girl--but now 'tis a grunting pig!" "good! good! good!" cried the mandarin, dancing joyfully about the room. "you shall have molasses for your supper, and to-morrow you must change two children into pigs." the butterfly did not reply, but ate the molasses in silence. having no soul it had no conscience, and having no conscience it was able to lie to the mandarin with great readiness and a certain amount of enjoyment. next morning, by the mandarin's command, the butterfly dipped its legs in the mixture and flew away in search of children. when it came to the edge of the town it noticed a pig in a sty, and alighting upon the rail of the sty it looked down at the creature and thought. "if i could change a child into a pig by touching it with the magic compound, what could i change a pig into, i wonder?" being curious to determine this fine point in sorcery the butterfly fluttered down and touched its front feet to the pig's nose. instantly the animal disappeared, and in its place was a shock-headed, dirty looking boy, which sprang from the sty and ran down the road uttering load whoops. "that's funny," said the butterfly to itself. "the mandarin would be very angry with me if he knew of this, for i have liberated one more of the creatures that bother him." it fluttered along after the boy, who had paused to throw stones at a cat. but pussy escaped by running up a tree, where thick branches protected her from the stones. then the boy discovered a newly-planted garden, and trampled upon the beds until the seeds were scattered far and wide, and the garden was ruined. next he caught up a switch and struck with it a young calf that stood quietly grazing in a field. the poor creature ran away with piteous bleats, and the boy laughed and followed after it, striking the frightened animal again and again. "really," thought the butterfly, "i do not wonder the mandarin hates children, if they are all so cruel and wicked as this one." the calf having escaped him the boy came back to the road, where he met two little girls on their way to school. one of them had a red apple in her hand, and the boy snatched it away and began eating it. the little girl commenced to cry, but her companion, more brave and sturdy, cried out: "you ought to be ashamed of yourself, you nasty boy!" at this the boy reached out and slapped her pretty face, whereupon she also began to sob. although possessed of neither soul nor conscience, the butterfly had a very tender heart, and now decided it could endure this boy no longer. "if i permitted him to exist," it reflected, "i should never forgive myself, for the monster would do nothing but evil from morning 'til night." so it flew directly into his face and touched his forehead with its sticky front feet. the next instant the boy had disappeared, but a grunting pig ran swiftly up the road in the direction of its sty. the butterfly gave a sigh of relief. "this time i have indeed used the mandarin's magic upon a child," it whispered, as it floated lazily upon the light breeze; "but since the child was originally a pig i do not think i have any cause to reproach myself. the little girls were sweet and gentle, and i would not injure them to save my life, but were all boys like this transformed pig, i should not hesitate to carry out the mandarin's orders." then it flew into a rose bush, where it remained comfortably until evening. at sundown it returned to its master. "have you changed two of them into pigs?" he asked, at once. "i have," replied the butterfly. "one was a pretty, black-eyed baby, and the other a freckle-faced, red-haired, barefooted newboy." "good! good! good!" screamed the mandarin, in an ecstasy of delight. "those are the ones who torment me the most! change every newboy you meet into a pig!" "very well," answered the butterfly, quietly, and ate its supper of molasses. several days were passed by the butterfly in the same manner. it fluttered aimlessly about the flower gardens while the sun shone, and returned at night to the mandarin with false tales of turning children into swine. sometimes it would be one child which was transformed, sometimes two, and occasionally three; but the mandarin always greeted the butterfly's report with intense delight and gave him molasses for supper. one evening, however, the butterfly thought it might be well to vary the report, so that the mandarin might not grow suspicious; and when its master asked what child had been had been changed into a pig that day the lying creature answered: "it was a chinese boy, and when i touched him he became a black pig." this angered the mandarin, who was in an especially cross mood. he spitefully snapped the butterfly with his finger, and nearly broke its beautiful wing; for he forgot that chinese boys had once mocked him and only remembered his hatred for american boys. the butterfly became very indignant at this abuse from the mandarin. it refused to eat its molasses and sulked all the evening, for it had grown to hate the mandarin almost as much as the mandarin hated children. when morning came it was still trembling with indignation; but the mandarin cried out: "make haste, miserable slave; for to-day you must change four children into pigs, to make up for yesterday." the butterfly did not reply. his little black eyes were sparkling wickedly, and no sooner had he dipped his feet into the magic compound than he flew full in the mandarin's face, and touched him upon his ugly, flat forehead. soon after a gentleman came into the room for his laundry. the mandarin was not there, but running around the place was a repulsive, scrawny pig, which squealed most miserably. the butterfly flew away to a brook and washed from its feet all traces of the magic compound. when night came it slept in a rose bush. flower fables by louisa may alcott "pondering shadows, colors, clouds grass-buds, and caterpillar shrouds boughs on which the wild bees settle, tints that spot the violet's petal." emerson's wood-notes. to ellen emerson, for whom they were fancied, these flower fables are inscribed, by her friend, the author. boston, dec. , . contents the frost king: or, the power of love eva's visit to fairy-land the flower's lesson lily-bell and thistledown little bud clover-blossom little annie's dream: or, the fairy flower ripple, the water-spirit fairy song flower fables. the summer moon shone brightly down upon the sleeping earth, while far away from mortal eyes danced the fairy folk. fire-flies hung in bright clusters on the dewy leaves, that waved in the cool night-wind; and the flowers stood gazing, in very wonder, at the little elves, who lay among the fern-leaves, swung in the vine-boughs, sailed on the lake in lily cups, or danced on the mossy ground, to the music of the hare-bells, who rung out their merriest peal in honor of the night. under the shade of a wild rose sat the queen and her little maids of honor, beside the silvery mushroom where the feast was spread. "now, my friends," said she, "to while away the time till the bright moon goes down, let us each tell a tale, or relate what we have done or learned this day. i will begin with you, sunny lock," added she, turning to a lovely little elf, who lay among the fragrant leaves of a primrose. with a gay smile, "sunny lock" began her story. "as i was painting the bright petals of a blue bell, it told me this tale." the frost-king: or, the power of love. three little fairies sat in the fields eating their breakfast; each among the leaves of her favorite flower, daisy, primrose, and violet, were happy as elves need be. the morning wind gently rocked them to and fro, and the sun shone warmly down upon the dewy grass, where butterflies spread their gay wings, and bees with their deep voices sung among the flowers; while the little birds hopped merrily about to peep at them. on a silvery mushroom was spread the breakfast; little cakes of flower-dust lay on a broad green leaf, beside a crimson strawberry, which, with sugar from the violet, and cream from the yellow milkweed, made a fairy meal, and their drink was the dew from the flowers' bright leaves. "ah me," sighed primrose, throwing herself languidly back, "how warm the sun grows! give me another piece of strawberry, and then i must hasten away to the shadow of the ferns. but while i eat, tell me, dear violet, why are you all so sad? i have scarce seen a happy face since my return from rose land; dear friend, what means it?" "i will tell you," replied little violet, the tears gathering in her soft eyes. "our good queen is ever striving to keep the dear flowers from the power of the cruel frost-king; many ways she tried, but all have failed. she has sent messengers to his court with costly gifts; but all have returned sick for want of sunlight, weary and sad; we have watched over them, heedless of sun or shower, but still his dark spirits do their work, and we are left to weep over our blighted blossoms. thus have we striven, and in vain; and this night our queen holds council for the last time. therefore are we sad, dear primrose, for she has toiled and cared for us, and we can do nothing to help or advise her now." "it is indeed a cruel thing," replied her friend; "but as we cannot help it, we must suffer patiently, and not let the sorrows of others disturb our happiness. but, dear sisters, see you not how high the sun is getting? i have my locks to curl, and my robe to prepare for the evening; therefore i must be gone, or i shall be brown as a withered leaf in this warm light." so, gathering a tiny mushroom for a parasol, she flew away; daisy soon followed, and violet was left alone. then she spread the table afresh, and to it came fearlessly the busy ant and bee, gay butterfly and bird; even the poor blind mole and humble worm were not forgotten; and with gentle words she gave to all, while each learned something of their kind little teacher; and the love that made her own heart bright shone alike on all. the ant and bee learned generosity, the butterfly and bird contentment, the mole and worm confidence in the love of others; and each went to their home better for the little time they had been with violet. evening came, and with it troops of elves to counsel their good queen, who, seated on her mossy throne, looked anxiously upon the throng below, whose glittering wings and rustling robes gleamed like many-colored flowers. at length she rose, and amid the deep silence spoke thus:-- "dear children, let us not tire of a good work, hard though it be and wearisome; think of the many little hearts that in their sorrow look to us for help. what would the green earth be without its lovely flowers, and what a lonely home for us! their beauty fills our hearts with brightness, and their love with tender thoughts. ought we then to leave them to die uncared for and alone? they give to us their all; ought we not to toil unceasingly, that they may bloom in peace within their quiet homes? we have tried to gain the love of the stern frost-king, but in vain; his heart is hard as his own icy land; no love can melt, no kindness bring it back to sunlight and to joy. how then may we keep our frail blossoms from his cruel spirits? who will give us counsel? who will be our messenger for the last time? speak, my subjects." then a great murmuring arose, and many spoke, some for costlier gifts, some for war; and the fearful counselled patience and submission. long and eagerly they spoke, and their soft voices rose high. then sweet music sounded on the air, and the loud tones were hushed, as in wondering silence the fairies waited what should come. through the crowd there came a little form, a wreath of pure white violets lay among the bright locks that fell so softly round the gentle face, where a deep blush glowed, as, kneeling at the throne, little violet said:-- "dear queen, we have bent to the frost-king's power, we have borne gifts unto his pride, but have we gone trustingly to him and spoken fearlessly of his evil deeds? have we shed the soft light of unwearied love around his cold heart, and with patient tenderness shown him how bright and beautiful love can make even the darkest lot? "our messengers have gone fearfully, and with cold looks and courtly words offered him rich gifts, things he cared not for, and with equal pride has he sent them back. "then let me, the weakest of your band, go to him, trusting in the love i know lies hidden in the coldest heart. "i will bear only a garland of our fairest flowers; these will i wind about him, and their bright faces, looking lovingly in his, will bring sweet thoughts to his dark mind, and their soft breath steal in like gentle words. then, when he sees them fading on his breast, will he not sigh that there is no warmth there to keep them fresh and lovely? this will i do, dear queen, and never leave his dreary home, till the sunlight falls on flowers fair as those that bloom in our own dear land." silently the queen had listened, but now, rising and placing her hand on little violet's head, she said, turning to the throng below:-- "we in our pride and power have erred, while this, the weakest and lowliest of our subjects, has from the innocence of her own pure heart counselled us more wisely than the noblest of our train. all who will aid our brave little messenger, lift your wands, that we may know who will place their trust in the power of love." every fairy wand glistened in the air, as with silvery voices they cried, "love and little violet." then down from the throne, hand in hand, came the queen and violet, and till the moon sank did the fairies toil, to weave a wreath of the fairest flowers. tenderly they gathered them, with the night-dew fresh upon their leaves, and as they wove chanted sweet spells, and whispered fairy blessings on the bright messengers whom they sent forth to die in a dreary land, that their gentle kindred might bloom unharmed. at length it was done; and the fair flowers lay glowing in the soft starlight, while beside them stood the fairies, singing to the music of the wind-harps:-- "we are sending you, dear flowers, forth alone to die, where your gentle sisters may not weep o'er the cold graves where you lie; but you go to bring them fadeless life in the bright homes where they dwell, and you softly smile that 't is so, as we sadly sing farewell. o plead with gentle words for us, and whisper tenderly of generous love to that cold heart, and it will answer ye; and though you fade in a dreary home, yet loving hearts will tell of the joy and peace that you have given: flowers, dear flowers, farewell!" the morning sun looked softly down upon the broad green earth, which like a mighty altar was sending up clouds of perfume from its breast, while flowers danced gayly in the summer wind, and birds sang their morning hymn among the cool green leaves. then high above, on shining wings, soared a little form. the sunlight rested softly on the silken hair, and the winds fanned lovingly the bright face, and brought the sweetest odors to cheer her on. thus went violet through the clear air, and the earth looked smiling up to her, as, with the bright wreath folded in her arms, she flew among the soft, white clouds. on and on she went, over hill and valley, broad rivers and rustling woods, till the warm sunlight passed away, the winds grew cold, and the air thick with falling snow. then far below she saw the frost-king's home. pillars of hard, gray ice supported the high, arched roof, hung with crystal icicles. dreary gardens lay around, filled with withered flowers and bare, drooping trees; while heavy clouds hung low in the dark sky, and a cold wind murmured sadly through the wintry air. with a beating heart violet folded her fading wreath more closely to her breast, and with weary wings flew onward to the dreary palace. here, before the closed doors, stood many forms with dark faces and harsh, discordant voices, who sternly asked the shivering little fairy why she came to them. gently she answered, telling them her errand, beseeching them to let her pass ere the cold wind blighted her frail blossoms. then they flung wide the doors, and she passed in. walls of ice, carved with strange figures, were around her; glittering icicles hung from the high roof, and soft, white snow covered the hard floors. on a throne hung with clouds sat the frost-king; a crown of crystals bound his white locks, and a dark mantle wrought with delicate frost-work was folded over his cold breast. his stern face could not stay little violet, and on through the long hall she went, heedless of the snow that gathered on her feet, and the bleak wind that blew around her; while the king with wondering eyes looked on the golden light that played upon the dark walls as she passed. the flowers, as if they knew their part, unfolded their bright leaves, and poured forth their sweetest perfume, as, kneeling at the throne, the brave little fairy said,-- "o king of blight and sorrow, send me not away till i have brought back the light and joy that will make your dark home bright and beautiful again. let me call back to the desolate gardens the fair forms that are gone, and their soft voices blessing you will bring to your breast a never failing joy. cast by your icy crown and sceptre, and let the sunlight of love fall softly on your heart. "then will the earth bloom again in all its beauty, and your dim eyes will rest only on fair forms, while music shall sound through these dreary halls, and the love of grateful hearts be yours. have pity on the gentle flower-spirits, and do not doom them to an early death, when they might bloom in fadeless beauty, making us wiser by their gentle teachings, and the earth brighter by their lovely forms. these fair flowers, with the prayers of all fairy land, i lay before you; o send me not away till they are answered." and with tears falling thick and fast upon their tender leaves, violet laid the wreath at his feet, while the golden light grew ever brighter as it fell upon the little form so humbly kneeling there. the king's stern face grew milder as he gazed on the gentle fairy, and the flowers seemed to look beseechingly upon him; while their fragrant voices sounded softly in his ear, telling of their dying sisters, and of the joy it gives to bring happiness to the weak and sorrowing. but he drew the dark mantle closer over his breast and answered coldly,-- "i cannot grant your prayer, little fairy; it is my will the flowers should die. go back to your queen, and tell her that i cannot yield my power to please these foolish flowers." then violet hung the wreath above the throne, and with weary foot went forth again, out into the cold, dark gardens, and still the golden shadows followed her, and wherever they fell, flowers bloomed and green leaves rustled. then came the frost-spirits, and beneath their cold wings the flowers died, while the spirits bore violet to a low, dark cell, saying as they left her, that their king was angry that she had dared to stay when he had bid her go. so all alone she sat, and sad thoughts of her happy home came back to her, and she wept bitterly. but soon came visions of the gentle flowers dying in their forest homes, and their voices ringing in her ear, imploring her to save them. then she wept no longer, but patiently awaited what might come. soon the golden light gleamed faintly through the cell, and she heard little voices calling for help, and high up among the heavy cobwebs hung poor little flies struggling to free themselves, while their cruel enemies sat in their nets, watching their pain. with her wand the fairy broke the bands that held them, tenderly bound up their broken wings, and healed their wounds; while they lay in the warm light, and feebly hummed their thanks to their kind deliverer. then she went to the ugly brown spiders, and in gentle words told them, how in fairy land their kindred spun all the elfin cloth, and in return the fairies gave them food, and then how happily they lived among the green leaves, spinning garments for their neighbors. "and you too," said she, "shall spin for me, and i will give you better food than helpless insects. you shall live in peace, and spin your delicate threads into a mantle for the stern king; and i will weave golden threads amid the gray, that when folded over his cold heart gentle thoughts may enter in and make it their home." and while she gayly sung, the little weavers spun their silken threads, the flies on glittering wings flew lovingly above her head, and over all the golden light shone softly down. when the frost-spirits told their king, he greatly wondered and often stole to look at the sunny little room where friends and enemies worked peacefully together. still the light grew brighter, and floated out into the cold air, where it hung like bright clouds above the dreary gardens, whence all the spirits' power could not drive it; and green leaves budded on the naked trees, and flowers bloomed; but the spirits heaped snow upon them, and they bowed their heads and died. at length the mantle was finished, and amid the gray threads shone golden ones, making it bright; and she sent it to the king, entreating him to wear it, for it would bring peace and love to dwell within his breast. but he scornfully threw it aside, and bade his spirits take her to a colder cell, deep in the earth; and there with harsh words they left her. still she sang gayly on, and the falling drops kept time so musically, that the king in his cold ice-halls wondered at the low, sweet sounds that came stealing up to him. thus violet dwelt, and each day the golden light grew stronger; and from among the crevices of the rocky walls came troops of little velvet-coated moles, praying that they might listen to the sweet music, and lie in the warm light. "we lead," said they, "a dreary life in the cold earth; the flower-roots are dead, and no soft dews descend for us to drink, no little seed or leaf can we find. ah, good fairy, let us be your servants: give us but a few crumbs of your daily bread, and we will do all in our power to serve you." and violet said, yes; so day after day they labored to make a pathway through the frozen earth, that she might reach the roots of the withered flowers; and soon, wherever through the dark galleries she went, the soft light fell upon the roots of flowers, and they with new life spread forth in the warm ground, and forced fresh sap to the blossoms above. brightly they bloomed and danced in the soft light, and the frost-spirits tried in vain to harm them, for when they came beneath the bright clouds their power to do evil left them. from his dark castle the king looked out on the happy flowers, who nodded gayly to him, and in sweet colors strove to tell him of the good little spirit, who toiled so faithfully below, that they might live. and when he turned from the brightness without, to his stately palace, it seemed so cold and dreary, that he folded violet's mantle round him, and sat beneath the faded wreath upon his ice-carved throne, wondering at the strange warmth that came from it; till at length he bade his spirits bring the little fairy from her dismal prison. soon they came hastening back, and prayed him to come and see how lovely the dark cell had grown. the rough floor was spread with deep green moss, and over wall and roof grew flowery vines, filling the air with their sweet breath; while above played the clear, soft light, casting rosy shadows on the glittering drops that lay among the fragrant leaves; and beneath the vines stood violet, casting crumbs to the downy little moles who ran fearlessly about and listened as she sang to them. when the old king saw how much fairer she had made the dreary cell than his palace rooms, gentle thoughts within whispered him to grant her prayer, and let the little fairy go back to her friends and home; but the frost-spirits breathed upon the flowers and bid him see how frail they were, and useless to a king. then the stern, cold thoughts came back again, and he harshly bid her follow him. with a sad farewell to her little friends she followed him, and before the throne awaited his command. when the king saw how pale and sad the gentle face had grown, how thin her robe, and weak her wings, and yet how lovingly the golden shadows fell around her and brightened as they lay upon the wand, which, guided by patient love, had made his once desolate home so bright, he could not be cruel to the one who had done so much for him, and in kindly tone he said,-- "little fairy, i offer you two things, and you may choose between them. if i will vow never more to harm the flowers you may love, will you go back to your own people and leave me and my spirits to work our will on all the other flowers that bloom? the earth is broad, and we can find them in any land, then why should you care what happens to their kindred if your own are safe? will you do this?" "ah!" answered violet sadly, "do you not know that beneath the flowers' bright leaves there beats a little heart that loves and sorrows like our own? and can i, heedless of their beauty, doom them to pain and grief, that i might save my own dear blossoms from the cruel foes to which i leave them? ah no! sooner would i dwell for ever in your darkest cell, than lose the love of those warm, trusting hearts." "then listen," said the king, "to the task i give you. you shall raise up for me a palace fairer than this, and if you can work that miracle i will grant your prayer or lose my kingly crown. and now go forth, and begin your task; my spirits shall not harm you, and i will wait till it is done before i blight another flower." then out into the gardens went violet with a heavy heart; for she had toiled so long, her strength was nearly gone. but the flowers whispered their gratitude, and folded their leaves as if they blessed her; and when she saw the garden filled with loving friends, who strove to cheer and thank her for her care, courage and strength returned; and raising up thick clouds of mist, that hid her from the wondering flowers, alone and trustingly she began her work. as time went by, the frost-king feared the task had been too hard for the fairy; sounds were heard behind the walls of mist, bright shadows seen to pass within, but the little voice was never heard. meanwhile the golden light had faded from the garden, the flowers bowed their heads, and all was dark and cold as when the gentle fairy came. and to the stern king his home seemed more desolate and sad; for he missed the warm light, the happy flowers, and, more than all, the gay voice and bright face of little violet. so he wandered through his dreary palace, wondering how he had been content to live before without sunlight and love. and little violet was mourned as dead in fairy-land, and many tears were shed, for the gentle fairy was beloved by all, from the queen down to the humblest flower. sadly they watched over every bird and blossom which she had loved, and strove to be like her in kindly words and deeds. they wore cypress wreaths, and spoke of her as one whom they should never see again. thus they dwelt in deepest sorrow, till one day there came to them an unknown messenger, wrapped in a dark mantle, who looked with wondering eyes on the bright palace, and flower-crowned elves, who kindly welcomed him, and brought fresh dew and rosy fruit to refresh the weary stranger. then he told them that he came from the frost-king, who begged the queen and all her subjects to come and see the palace little violet had built; for the veil of mist would soon be withdrawn, and as she could not make a fairer home than the ice-castle, the king wished her kindred near to comfort and to bear her home. and while the elves wept, he told them how patiently she had toiled, how her fadeless love had made the dark cell bright and beautiful. these and many other things he told them; for little violet had won the love of many of the frost-spirits, and even when they killed the flowers she had toiled so hard to bring to life and beauty, she spoke gentle words to them, and sought to teach them how beautiful is love. long stayed the messenger, and deeper grew his wonder that the fairy could have left so fair a home, to toil in the dreary palace of his cruel master, and suffer cold and weariness, to give life and joy to the weak and sorrowing. when the elves had promised they would come, he bade farewell to happy fairy-land, and flew sadly home. at last the time arrived, and out in his barren garden, under a canopy of dark clouds, sat the frost-king before the misty wall, behind which were heard low, sweet sounds, as of rustling trees and warbling birds. soon through the air came many-colored troops of elves. first the queen, known by the silver lilies on her snowy robe and the bright crown in her hair, beside whom flew a band of elves in crimson and gold, making sweet music on their flower-trumpets, while all around, with smiling faces and bright eyes, fluttered her loving subjects. on they came, like a flock of brilliant butterflies, their shining wings and many-colored garments sparkling in the dim air; and soon the leafless trees were gay with living flowers, and their sweet voices filled the gardens with music. like his subjects, the king looked on the lovely elves, and no longer wondered that little violet wept and longed for her home. darker and more desolate seemed his stately home, and when the fairies asked for flowers, he felt ashamed that he had none to give them. at length a warm wind swept through the gardens, and the mist-clouds passed away, while in silent wonder looked the frost-king and the elves upon the scene before them. far as eye could reach were tall green trees whose drooping boughs made graceful arches, through which the golden light shone softly, making bright shadows on the deep green moss below, where the fairest flowers waved in the cool wind, and sang, in their low, sweet voices, how beautiful is love. flowering vines folded their soft leaves around the trees, making green pillars of their rough trunks. fountains threw their bright waters to the roof, and flocks of silver-winged birds flew singing among the flowers, or brooded lovingly above their nests. doves with gentle eyes cooed among the green leaves, snow-white clouds floated in the sunny shy, and the golden light, brighter than before, shone softly down. soon through the long aisles came violet, flowers and green leaves rustling as she passed. on she went to the frost-king's throne, bearing two crowns, one of sparkling icicles, the other of pure white lilies, and kneeling before him, said,-- "my task is done, and, thanks to the spirits of earth and air, i have made as fair a home as elfin hands can form. you must now decide. will you be king of flower-land, and own my gentle kindred for your loving friends? will you possess unfading peace and joy, and the grateful love of all the green earth's fragrant children? then take this crown of flowers. but if you can find no pleasure here, go back to your own cold home, and dwell in solitude and darkness, where no ray of sunlight or of joy can enter. "send forth your spirits to carry sorrow and desolation over the happy earth, and win for yourself the fear and hatred of those who would so gladly love and reverence you. then take this glittering crown, hard and cold as your own heart will be, if you will shut out all that is bright and beautiful. both are before you. choose." the old king looked at the little fairy, and saw how lovingly the bright shadows gathered round her, as if to shield her from every harm; the timid birds nestled in her bosom, and the flowers grew fairer as she looked upon them; while her gentle friends, with tears in their bright eyes, folded their hands beseechingly, and smiled on her. kind thought came thronging to his mind, and he turned to look at the two palaces. violet's, so fair and beautiful, with its rustling trees, calm, sunny skies, and happy birds and flowers, all created by her patient love and care. his own, so cold and dark and dreary, his empty gardens where no flowers could bloom, no green trees dwell, or gay birds sing, all desolate and dim;--and while he gazed, his own spirits, casting off their dark mantles, knelt before him and besought him not to send them forth to blight the things the gentle fairies loved so much. "we have served you long and faithfully," said they, "give us now our freedom, that we may learn to be beloved by the sweet flowers we have harmed so long. grant the little fairy's prayer; and let her go back to her own dear home. she has taught us that love is mightier than fear. choose the flower crown, and we will be the truest subjects you have ever had." then, amid a burst of wild, sweet music, the frost-king placed the flower crown on his head, and knelt to little violet; while far and near, over the broad green earth, sounded the voices of flowers, singing their thanks to the gentle fairy, and the summer wind was laden with perfumes, which they sent as tokens of their gratitude; and wherever she went, old trees bent down to fold their slender branches round her, flowers laid their soft faces against her own, and whispered blessings; even the humble moss bent over the little feet, and kissed them as they passed. the old king, surrounded by the happy fairies, sat in violet's lovely home, and watched his icy castle melt away beneath the bright sunlight; while his spirits, cold and gloomy no longer, danced with the elves, and waited on their king with loving eagerness. brighter grew the golden light, gayer sang the birds, and the harmonious voices of grateful flowers, sounding over the earth, carried new joy to all their gentle kindred. brighter shone the golden shadows; on the cool wind softly came the low, sweet tones of happy flowers, singing little violet's name. 'mong the green trees was it whispered, and the bright waves bore it on to the lonely forest flowers, where the glad news had not gone. thus the frost-king lost his kingdom, and his power to harm and blight. violet conquered, and his cold heart warmed with music, love, and light; and his fair home, once so dreary, gay with lovely elves and flowers, brought a joy that never faded through the long bright summer hours. thus, by violet's magic power, all dark shadows passed away, and o'er the home of happy flowers the golden light for ever lay. thus the fairy mission ended, and all flower-land was taught the "power of love," by gentle deeds that little violet wrought. as sunny lock ceased, another little elf came forward; and this was the tale "silver wing" told. eva's visit to fairy-land. down among the grass and fragrant clover lay little eva by the brook-side, watching the bright waves, as they went singing by under the drooping flowers that grew on its banks. as she was wondering where the waters went, she heard a faint, low sound, as of far-off music. she thought it was the wind, but not a leaf was stirring, and soon through the rippling water came a strange little boat. it was a lily of the valley, whose tall stem formed the mast, while the broad leaves that rose from the roots, and drooped again till they reached the water, were filled with gay little elves, who danced to the music of the silver lily-bells above, that rang a merry peal, and filled the air with their fragrant breath. on came the fairy boat, till it reached a moss-grown rock; and here it stopped, while the fairies rested beneath the violet-leaves, and sang with the dancing waves. eva looked with wonder on their gay faces and bright garments, and in the joy of her heart sang too, and threw crimson fruit for the little folks to feast upon. they looked kindly on the child, and, after whispering long among themselves, two little bright-eyed elves flew over the shining water, and, lighting on the clover-blossoms, said gently, "little maiden, many thanks for your kindness; and our queen bids us ask if you will go with us to fairy-land, and learn what we can teach you." "gladly would i go with you, dear fairies," said eva, "but i cannot sail in your little boat. see! i can hold you in my hand, and could not live among you without harming your tiny kingdom, i am so large." then the elves laughed gayly, as they folded their arms about her, saying, "you are a good child, dear eva, to fear doing harm to those weaker than yourself. you cannot hurt us now. look in the water and see what we have done." eva looked into the brook, and saw a tiny child standing between the elves. "now i can go with you," said she, "but see, i can no longer step from the bank to yonder stone, for the brook seems now like a great river, and you have not given me wings like yours." but the fairies took each a hand, and flew lightly over the stream. the queen and her subjects came to meet her, and all seemed glad to say some kindly word of welcome to the little stranger. they placed a flower-crown upon her head, laid their soft faces against her own, and soon it seemed as if the gentle elves had always been her friends. "now must we go home," said the queen, "and you shall go with us, little one." then there was a great bustle, as they flew about on shining wings, some laying cushions of violet leaves in the boat, others folding the queen's veil and mantle more closely round her, lest the falling dews should chill her. the cool waves' gentle plashing against the boat, and the sweet chime of the lily-bells, lulled little eva to sleep, and when she woke it was in fairy-land. a faint, rosy light, as of the setting sun, shone on the white pillars of the queen's palace as they passed in, and the sleeping flowers leaned gracefully on their stems, dreaming beneath their soft green curtains. all was cool and still, and the elves glided silently about, lest they should break their slumbers. they led eva to a bed of pure white leaves, above which drooped the fragrant petals of a crimson rose. "you can look at the bright colors till the light fades, and then the rose will sing you to sleep," said the elves, as they folded the soft leaves about her, gently kissed her, and stole away. long she lay watching the bright shadows, and listening to the song of the rose, while through the long night dreams of lovely things floated like bright clouds through her mind; while the rose bent lovingly above her, and sang in the clear moonlight. with the sun rose the fairies, and, with eva, hastened away to the fountain, whose cool waters were soon filled with little forms, and the air ringing with happy voices, as the elves floated in the blue waves among the fair white lilies, or sat on the green moss, smoothing their bright locks, and wearing fresh garlands of dewy flowers. at length the queen came forth, and her subjects gathered round her, and while the flowers bowed their heads, and the trees hushed their rustling, the fairies sang their morning hymn to the father of birds and blossoms, who had made the earth so fair a home for them. then they flew away to the gardens, and soon, high up among the tree-tops, or under the broad leaves, sat the elves in little groups, taking their breakfast of fruit and pure fresh dew; while the bright-winged birds came fearlessly among them, pecking the same ripe berries, and dipping their little beaks in the same flower-cups, and the fairies folded their arms lovingly about them, smoothed their soft bosoms, and gayly sang to them. "now, little eva," said they, "you will see that fairies are not idle, wilful spirits, as mortals believe. come, we will show you what we do." they led her to a lovely room, through whose walls of deep green leaves the light stole softly in. here lay many wounded insects, and harmless little creatures, whom cruel hands had hurt; and pale, drooping flowers grew beside urns of healing herbs, from whose fresh leaves came a faint, sweet perfume. eva wondered, but silently followed her guide, little rose-leaf, who with tender words passed among the delicate blossoms, pouring dew on their feeble roots, cheering them with her loving words and happy smile. then she went to the insects; first to a little fly who lay in a flower-leaf cradle. "do you suffer much, dear gauzy-wing?" asked the fairy. "i will bind up your poor little leg, and zephyr shall rock you to sleep." so she folded the cool leaves tenderly about the poor fly, bathed his wings, and brought him refreshing drink, while he hummed his thanks, and forgot his pain, as zephyr softly sung and fanned him with her waving wings. they passed on, and eva saw beside each bed a fairy, who with gentle hands and loving words soothed the suffering insects. at length they stopped beside a bee, who lay among sweet honeysuckle flowers, in a cool, still place, where the summer wind blew in, and the green leaves rustled pleasantly. yet he seemed to find no rest, and murmured of the pain he was doomed to bear. "why must i lie here, while my kindred are out in the pleasant fields, enjoying the sunlight and the fresh air, and cruel hands have doomed me to this dark place and bitter pain when i have done no wrong? uncared for and forgotten, i must stay here among these poor things who think only of themselves. come here, rose-leaf, and bind up my wounds, for i am far more useful than idle bird or fly." then said the fairy, while she bathed the broken wing,-- "love-blossom, you should not murmur. we may find happiness in seeking to be patient even while we suffer. you are not forgotten or uncared for, but others need our care more than you, and to those who take cheerfully the pain and sorrow sent, do we most gladly give our help. you need not be idle, even though lying here in darkness and sorrow; you can be taking from your heart all sad and discontented feelings, and if love and patience blossom there, you will be better for the lonely hours spent here. look on the bed beside you; this little dove has suffered far greater pain than you, and all our care can never ease it; yet through the long days he hath lain here, not an unkind word or a repining sigh hath he uttered. ah, love-blossom, the gentle bird can teach a lesson you will be wiser and better for." then a faint voice whispered, "little rose-leaf, come quickly, or i cannot thank you as i ought for all your loving care of me." so they passed to the bed beside the discontented bee, and here upon the softest down lay the dove, whose gentle eyes looked gratefully upon the fairy, as she knelt beside the little couch, smoothed the soft white bosom, folded her arms about it and wept sorrowing tears, while the bird still whispered its gratitude and love. "dear fairy, the fairest flowers have cheered me with their sweet breath, fresh dew and fragrant leaves have been ever ready for me, gentle hands to tend, kindly hearts to love; and for this i can only thank you and say farewell." then the quivering wings were still, and the patient little dove was dead; but the bee murmured no longer, and the dew from the flowers fell like tears around the quiet bed. sadly rose-leaf led eva away, saying, "lily-bosom shall have a grave tonight beneath our fairest blossoms, and you shall see that gentleness and love are prized far above gold or beauty, here in fairy-land. come now to the flower palace, and see the fairy court." beneath green arches, bright with birds and flowers, beside singing waves, went eva into a lofty hall. the roof of pure white lilies rested on pillars of green clustering vines, while many-colored blossoms threw their bright shadows on the walls, as they danced below in the deep green moss, and their low, sweet voices sounded softly through the sunlit palace, while the rustling leaves kept time. beside the throne stood eva, and watched the lovely forms around her, as they stood, each little band in its own color, with glistening wings, and flower wands. suddenly the music grew louder and sweeter, and the fairies knelt, and bowed their heads, as on through the crowd of loving subjects came the queen, while the air was filled with gay voices singing to welcome her. she placed the child beside her, saying, "little eva, you shall see now how the flowers on your great earth bloom so brightly. a band of loving little gardeners go daily forth from fairy-land, to tend and watch them, that no harm may befall the gentle spirits that dwell beneath their leaves. this is never known, for like all good it is unseen by mortal eyes, and unto only pure hearts like yours do we make known our secret. the humblest flower that grows is visited by our messengers, and often blooms in fragrant beauty unknown, unloved by all save fairy friends, who seek to fill the spirits with all sweet and gentle virtues, that they may not be useless on the earth; for the noblest mortals stoop to learn of flowers. now, eglantine, what have you to tell us of your rosy namesakes on the earth?" from a group of elves, whose rose-wreathed wands showed the flower they loved, came one bearing a tiny urn, and, answering the queen, she said,-- "over hill and valley they are blooming fresh and fair as summer sun and dew can make them. no drooping stem or withered leaf tells of any evil thought within their fragrant bosoms, and thus from the fairest of their race have they gathered this sweet dew, as a token of their gratitude to one whose tenderness and care have kept them pure and happy; and this, the loveliest of their sisters, have i brought to place among the fairy flowers that never pass away." eglantine laid the urn before the queen, and placed the fragrant rose on the dewy moss beside the throne, while a murmur of approval went through the hall, as each elfin wand waved to the little fairy who had toiled so well and faithfully, and could bring so fair a gift to their good queen. then came forth an elf bearing a withered leaf, while her many-colored robe and the purple tulips in her hair told her name and charge. "dear queen," she sadly said, "i would gladly bring as pleasant tidings as my sister, but, alas! my flowers are proud and wilful, and when i went to gather my little gift of colored leaves for royal garments, they bade me bring this withered blossom, and tell you they would serve no longer one who will not make them queen over all the other flowers. they would yield neither dew nor honey, but proudly closed their leaves and bid me go." "your task has been too hard for you," said the queen kindly, as she placed the drooping flower in the urn eglantine had given, "you will see how this dew from a sweet, pure heart will give new life and loveliness even to this poor faded one. so can you, dear rainbow, by loving words and gentle teachings, bring back lost purity and peace to those whom pride and selfishness have blighted. go once again to the proud flowers, and tell them when they are queen of their own hearts they will ask no fairer kingdom. watch more tenderly than ever over them, see that they lack neither dew nor air, speak lovingly to them, and let no unkind word or deed of theirs anger you. let them see by your patient love and care how much fairer they might be, and when next you come, you will be laden with gifts from humble, loving flowers." thus they told what they had done, and received from their queen some gentle chiding or loving word of praise. "you will be weary of this," said little rose-leaf to eva; "come now and see where we are taught to read the tales written on flower-leaves, and the sweet language of the birds, and all that can make a fairy heart wiser and better." then into a cheerful place they went, where were many groups of flowers, among whose leaves sat the child elves, and learned from their flower-books all that fairy hands had written there. some studied how to watch the tender buds, when to spread them to the sunlight, and when to shelter them from rain; how to guard the ripening seeds, and when to lay them in the warm earth or send them on the summer wind to far off hills and valleys, where other fairy hands would tend and cherish them, till a sisterhood of happy flowers sprang up to beautify and gladden the lonely spot where they had fallen. others learned to heal the wounded insects, whose frail limbs a breeze could shatter, and who, were it not for fairy hands, would die ere half their happy summer life had gone. some learned how by pleasant dreams to cheer and comfort mortal hearts, by whispered words of love to save from evil deeds those who had gone astray, to fill young hearts with gentle thoughts and pure affections, that no sin might mar the beauty of the human flower; while others, like mortal children, learned the fairy alphabet. thus the elves made loving friends by care and love, and no evil thing could harm them, for those they helped to cherish and protect ever watched to shield and save them. eva nodded to the gay little ones, as they peeped from among the leaves at the stranger, and then she listened to the fairy lessons. several tiny elves stood on a broad leaf while the teacher sat among the petals of a flower that bent beside them, and asked questions that none but fairies would care to know. "twinkle, if there lay nine seeds within a flower-cup and the wind bore five away, how many would the blossom have?" "four," replied the little one. "rosebud, if a cowslip opens three leaves in one day and four the next, how many rosy leaves will there be when the whole flower has bloomed?" "seven," sang the gay little elf. "harebell, if a silkworm spin one yard of fairy cloth in an hour, how many will it spin in a day?" "twelve," said the fairy child. "primrose, where lies violet island?" "in the lake of ripples." "lilla, you may bound rose land." "on the north by ferndale, south by sunny wave river, east by the hill of morning clouds, and west by the evening star." "now, little ones," said the teacher, "you may go to your painting, that our visitor may see how we repair the flowers that earthly hands have injured." then eva saw how, on large, white leaves, the fairies learned to imitate the lovely colors, and with tiny brushes to brighten the blush on the anemone's cheek, to deepen the blue of the violet's eye, and add new light to the golden cowslip. "you have stayed long enough," said the elves at length, "we have many things to show you. come now and see what is our dearest work." so eva said farewell to the child elves, and hastened with little rose-leaf to the gates. here she saw many bands of fairies, folded in dark mantles that mortals might not know them, who, with the child among them, flew away over hill and valley. some went to the cottages amid the hills, some to the sea-side to watch above the humble fisher folks; but little rose-leaf and many others went into the noisy city. eva wondered within herself what good the tiny elves could do in this great place; but she soon learned, for the fairy band went among the poor and friendless, bringing pleasant dreams to the sick and old, sweet, tender thoughts of love and gentleness to the young, strength to the weak, and patient cheerfulness to the poor and lonely. then the child wondered no longer, but deeper grew her love for the tender-hearted elves, who left their own happy home to cheer and comfort those who never knew what hands had clothed and fed them, what hearts had given of their own joy, and brought such happiness to theirs. long they stayed, and many a lesson little eva learned: but when she begged them to go back, they still led her on, saying, "our work is not yet done; shall we leave so many sad hearts when we may cheer them, so many dark homes that we may brighten? we must stay yet longer, little eva, and you may learn yet more." then they went into a dark and lonely room, and here they found a pale, sad-eyed child, who wept bitter tears over a faded flower. "ah," sighed the little one, "it was my only friend, and i cherished it with all my lone heart's love; 't was all that made my sad life happy; and it is gone." tenderly the child fastened the drooping stem, and placed it where the one faint ray of sunlight stole into the dreary room. "do you see," said the elves, "through this simple flower will we keep the child pure and stainless amid the sin and sorrow around her. the love of this shall lead her on through temptation and through grief, and she shall be a spirit of joy and consolation to the sinful and the sorrowing." and with busy love toiled the elves amid the withered leaves, and new strength was given to the flower; while, as day by day the friendless child watered the growing buds, deeper grew her love for the unseen friends who had given her one thing to cherish in her lonely home; sweet, gentle thoughts filled her heart as she bent above it, and the blossom's fragrant breath was to her a whispered voice of all fair and lovely things; and as the flower taught her, so she taught others. the loving elves brought her sweet dreams by night, and happy thoughts by day, and as she grew in childlike beauty, pure and patient amid poverty and sorrow, the sinful were rebuked, sorrowing hearts grew light, and the weak and selfish forgot their idle fears, when they saw her trustingly live on with none to aid or comfort her. the love she bore the tender flower kept her own heart innocent and bright, and the pure human flower was a lesson to those who looked upon it; and soon the gloomy house was bright with happy hearts, that learned of the gentle child to bear poverty and grief as she had done, to forgive those who brought care and wrong to them, and to seek for happiness in humble deeds of charity and love. "our work is done," whispered the elves, and with blessings on the two fair flowers, they flew away to other homes;--to a blind old man who dwelt alone with none to love him, till through long years of darkness and of silent sorrow the heart within had grown dim and cold. no sunlight could enter at the darkened eyes, and none were near to whisper gentle words, to cheer and comfort. thus he dwelt forgotten and alone, seeking to give no joy to others, possessing none himself. life was dark and sad till the untiring elves came to his dreary home, bringing sunlight and love. they whispered sweet words of comfort,--how, if the darkened eyes could find no light without, within there might be never-failing happiness; gentle feelings and sweet, loving thoughts could make the heart fair, if the gloomy, selfish sorrow were but cast away, and all would be bright and beautiful. they brought light-hearted children, who gathered round him, making the desolate home fair with their young faces, and his sad heart gay with their sweet, childish voices. the love they bore he could not cast away, sunlight stole in, the dark thoughts passed away, and the earth was a pleasant home to him. thus their little hands led him back to peace and happiness, flowers bloomed beside his door, and their fragrant breath brought happy thoughts of pleasant valleys and green hills; birds sang to him, and their sweet voices woke the music in his own soul, that never failed to calm and comfort. happy sounds were heard in his once lonely home, and bright faces gathered round his knee, and listened tenderly while he strove to tell them all the good that gentleness and love had done for him. still the elves watched near, and brighter grew the heart as kindly thoughts and tender feelings entered in, and made it their home; and when the old man fell asleep, above his grave little feet trod lightly, and loving hands laid fragrant flowers. then went the elves into the dreary prison-houses, where sad hearts pined in lonely sorrow for the joy and freedom they had lost. to these came the loving band with tender words, telling of the peace they yet might win by patient striving and repentant tears, thus waking in their bosoms all the holy feelings and sweet affections that had slept so long. they told pleasant tales, and sang their sweetest songs to cheer and gladden, while the dim cells grew bright with the sunlight, and fragrant with the flowers the loving elves had brought, and by their gentle teachings those sad, despairing hearts were filled with patient hope and earnest longing to win back their lost innocence and joy. thus to all who needed help or comfort went the faithful fairies; and when at length they turned towards fairy-land, many were the grateful, happy hearts they left behind. then through the summer sky, above the blossoming earth, they journeyed home, happier for the joy they had given, wiser for the good they had done. all fairy-land was dressed in flowers, and the soft wind went singing by, laden with their fragrant breath. sweet music sounded through the air, and troops of elves in their gayest robes hastened to the palace where the feast was spread. soon the bright hall was filled with smiling faces and fair forms, and little eva, as she stood beside the queen, thought she had never seen a sight so lovely. the many-colored shadows of the fairest flowers played on the pure white walls, and fountains sparkled in the sunlight, making music as the cool waves rose and fell, while to and fro, with waving wings and joyous voices, went the smiling elves, bearing fruit and honey, or fragrant garlands for each other's hair. long they feasted, gayly they sang, and eva, dancing merrily among them, longed to be an elf that she might dwell forever in so fair a home. at length the music ceased, and the queen said, as she laid her hand on little eva's shining hair:-- "dear child, tomorrow we must bear you home, for, much as we long to keep you, it were wrong to bring such sorrow to your loving earthly friends; therefore we will guide you to the brook-side, and there say farewell till you come again to visit us. nay, do not weep, dear rose-leaf; you shall watch over little eva's flowers, and when she looks at them she will think of you. come now and lead her to the fairy garden, and show her what we think our fairest sight. weep no more, but strive to make her last hours with us happy as you can." with gentle caresses and most tender words the loving elves gathered about the child, and, with rose-leaf by her side, they led her through the palace, and along green, winding paths, till eva saw what seemed a wall of flowers rising before her, while the air was filled with the most fragrant odors, and the low, sweet music as of singing blossoms. "where have you brought me, and what mean these lovely sounds?" asked eva. "look here, and you shall see," said rose-leaf, as she bent aside the vines, "but listen silently or you cannot hear." then eva, looking through the drooping vines, beheld a garden filled with the loveliest flowers; fair as were all the blossoms she had seen in fairy-land, none were so beautiful as these. the rose glowed with a deeper crimson, the lily's soft leaves were more purely white, the crocus and humble cowslip shone like sunlight, and the violet was blue as the sky that smiled above it. "how beautiful they are," whispered eva, "but, dear rose-leaf, why do you keep them here, and why call you this your fairest sight?" "look again, and i will tell you," answered the fairy. eva looked, and saw from every flower a tiny form come forth to welcome the elves, who all, save rose-leaf, had flown above the wall, and were now scattering dew upon the flowers' bright leaves and talking gayly with the spirits, who gathered around them, and seemed full of joy that they had come. the child saw that each one wore the colors of the flower that was its home. delicate and graceful were the little forms, bright the silken hair that fell about each lovely face; and eva heard the low, sweet murmur of their silvery voices and the rustle of their wings. she gazed in silent wonder, forgetting she knew not who they were, till the fairy said,-- "these are the spirits of the flowers, and this the fairy home where those whose hearts were pure and loving on the earth come to bloom in fadeless beauty here, when their earthly life is past. the humblest flower that blooms has a home with us, for outward beauty is a worthless thing if all be not fair and sweet within. do you see yonder lovely spirit singing with my sister moonlight? a clover blossom was her home, and she dwelt unknown, unloved; yet patient and content, bearing cheerfully the sorrows sent her. we watched and saw how fair and sweet the humble flower grew, and then gladly bore her here, to blossom with the lily and the rose. the flowers' lives are often short, for cruel hands destroy them; therefore is it our greatest joy to bring them hither, where no careless foot or wintry wind can harm them, where they bloom in quiet beauty, repaying our care by their love and sweetest perfumes." "i will never break another flower," cried eva; "but let me go to them, dear fairy; i would gladly know the lovely spirits, and ask forgiveness for the sorrow i have caused. may i not go in?" "nay, dear eva, you are a mortal child, and cannot enter here; but i will tell them of the kind little maiden who has learned to love them, and they will remember you when you are gone. come now, for you have seen enough, and we must be away." on a rosy morning cloud, surrounded by the loving elves, went eva through the sunny sky. the fresh wind bore them gently on, and soon they stood again beside the brook, whose waves danced brightly as if to welcome them. "now, ere we say farewell," said the queen, as they gathered nearer to the child, "tell me, dear eva, what among all our fairy gifts will make you happiest, and it shall be yours." "you good little fairies," said eva, folding them in her arms, for she was no longer the tiny child she had been in fairy-land, "you dear good little elves, what can i ask of you, who have done so much to make me happy, and taught me so many good and gentle lessons, the memory of which will never pass away? i can only ask of you the power to be as pure and gentle as yourselves, as tender and loving to the weak and sorrowing, as untiring in kindly deeds to all. grant me this gift, and you shall see that little eva has not forgotten what you have taught her." "the power shall be yours," said the elves, and laid their soft hands on her head; "we will watch over you in dreams, and when you would have tidings of us, ask the flowers in your garden, and they will tell you all you would know. farewell. remember fairy-land and all your loving friends." they clung about her tenderly, and little rose-leaf placed a flower crown on her head, whispering softly, "when you would come to us again, stand by the brook-side and wave this in the air, and we will gladly take you to our home again. farewell, dear eva. think of your little rose-leaf when among the flowers." long eva watched their shining wings, and listened to the music of their voices as they flew singing home, and when at length the last little form had vanished among the clouds, she saw that all around her where the elves had been, the fairest flowers had sprung up, and the lonely brook-side was a blooming garden. thus she stood among the waving blossoms, with the fairy garland in her hair, and happy feelings in her heart, better and wiser for her visit to fairy-land. "now, star-twinkle, what have you to teach?" asked the queen. "nothing but a little song i heard the hare-bells singing," replied the fairy, and, taking her harp, sang, in a low, sweet voice:-- the flower's lesson. there grew a fragrant rose-tree where the brook flows, with two little tender buds, and one full rose; when the sun went down to his bed in the west, the little buds leaned on the rose-mother's breast, while the bright eyed stars their long watch kept, and the flowers of the valley in their green cradles slept; then silently in odors they communed with each other, the two little buds on the bosom of their mother. "o sister," said the little one, as she gazed at the sky, "i wish that the dew elves, as they wander lightly by, would bring me a star; for they never grow dim, and the father does not need them to burn round him. the shining drops of dew the elves bring each day and place in my bosom, so soon pass away; but a star would glitter brightly through the long summer hours, and i should be fairer than all my sister flowers. that were better far than the dew-drops that fall on the high and the low, and come alike to all. i would be fair and stately, with a bright star to shine and give a queenly air to this crimson robe of mine." and proudly she cried, "these fire-flies shall be my jewels, since the stars can never come to me." just then a tiny dew-drop that hung o'er the dell on the breast of the bud like a soft star fell; but impatiently she flung it away from her leaf, and it fell on her mother like a tear of grief, while she folded to her breast, with wilful pride, a glittering fire-fly that hung by her side. "heed," said the mother rose, "daughter mine, why shouldst thou seek for beauty not thine? the father hath made thee what thou now art; and what he most loveth is a sweet, pure heart. then why dost thou take with such discontent the loving gift which he to thee hath sent? for the cool fresh dew will render thee far more lovely and sweet than the brightest star; they were made for heaven, and can never come to shine like the fire-fly thou hast in that foolish breast of thine. o my foolish little bud, do listen to thy mother; care only for true beauty, and seek for no other. there will be grief and trouble in that wilful little heart; unfold thy leaves, my daughter, and let the fly depart." but the proud little bud would have her own will, and folded the fire-fly more closely still; till the struggling insect tore open the vest of purple and green, that covered her breast. when the sun came up, she saw with grief the blooming of her sister bud leaf by leaf. while she, once as fair and bright as the rest, hung her weary head down on her wounded breast. bright grew the sunshine, and the soft summer air was filled with the music of flowers singing there; but faint grew the little bud with thirst and pain, and longed for the cool dew; but now 't was in vain. then bitterly she wept for her folly and pride, as drooping she stood by her fair sister's side. then the rose mother leaned the weary little head on her bosom to rest, and tenderly she said: "thou hast learned, my little bud, that, whatever may betide, thou canst win thyself no joy by passion or by pride. the loving father sends the sunshine and the shower, that thou mayst become a perfect little flower;-- the sweet dews to feed thee, the soft wind to cheer, and the earth as a pleasant home, while thou art dwelling here. then shouldst thou not be grateful for all this kindly care, and strive to keep thyself most innocent and fair? then seek, my little blossom, to win humility; be fair without, be pure within, and thou wilt happy be. so when the quiet autumn of thy fragrant life shall come, thou mayst pass away, to bloom in the flower spirits' home." then from the mother's breast, where it still lay hid, into the fading bud the dew-drop gently slid; stronger grew the little form, and happy tears fell, as the dew did its silent work, and the bud grew well, while the gentle rose leaned, with motherly pride, o'er the fair little ones that bloomed at her side. night came again, and the fire-flies flew; but the bud let them pass, and drank of the dew; while the soft stars shone, from the still summer heaven, on the happy little flower that had learned the lesson given. the music-loving elves clapped their hands, as star-twinkle ceased; and the queen placed a flower crown, with a gentle smile, upon the fairy's head, saying,-- "the little bud's lesson shall teach us how sad a thing is pride, and that humility alone can bring true happiness to flower and fairy. you shall come next, zephyr." and the little fairy, who lay rocking to and fro upon a fluttering vine-leaf, thus began her story:-- "as i lay resting in the bosom of a cowslip that bent above the brook, a little wind, tired of play, told me this tale of lily-bell and thistledown. once upon a time, two little fairies went out into the world, to seek their fortune. thistledown was as gay and gallant a little elf as ever spread a wing. his purple mantle, and doublet of green, were embroidered with the brightest threads, and the plume in his cap came always from the wing of the gayest butterfly. but he was not loved in fairy-land, for, like the flower whose name and colors he wore, though fair to look upon, many were the little thorns of cruelty and selfishness that lay concealed by his gay mantle. many a gentle flower and harmless bird died by his hand, for he cared for himself alone, and whatever gave him pleasure must be his, though happy hearts were rendered sad, and peaceful homes destroyed. such was thistledown; but far different was his little friend, lily-bell. kind, compassionate, and loving, wherever her gentle face was seen, joy and gratitude were found; no suffering flower or insect, that did not love and bless the kindly fairy; and thus all elf-land looked upon her as a friend. nor did this make her vain and heedless of others; she humbly dwelt among them, seeking to do all the good she might; and many a houseless bird and hungry insect that thistledown had harmed did she feed and shelter, and in return no evil could befall her, for so many friends were all about her, seeking to repay her tenderness and love by their watchful care. she would not now have left fairy-land, but to help and counsel her wild companion, thistledown, who, discontented with his quiet home, would seek his fortune in the great world, and she feared he would suffer from his own faults for others would not always be as gentle and forgiving as his kindred. so the kind little fairy left her home and friends to go with him; and thus, side by side, they flew beneath the bright summer sky. on and on, over hill and valley, they went, chasing the gay butterflies, or listening to the bees, as they flew from flower to flower like busy little housewives, singing as they worked; till at last they reached a pleasant garden, filled with flowers and green, old trees. "see," cried thistledown, "what a lovely home is here; let us rest among the cool leaves, and hear the flowers sing, for i am sadly tired and hungry." so into the quiet garden they went, and the winds gayly welcomed them, while the flowers nodded on their stems, offering their bright leaves for the elves to rest upon, and fresh, sweet honey to refresh them. "now, dear thistle, do not harm these friendly blossoms," said lily-bell; "see how kindly they spread their leaves, and offer us their dew. it would be very wrong in you to repay their care with cruelty and pain. you will be tender for my sake, dear thistle." then she went among the flowers, and they bent lovingly before her, and laid their soft leaves against her little face, that she might see how glad they were to welcome one so good and gentle, and kindly offered their dew and honey to the weary little fairy, who sat among their fragrant petals and looked smilingly on the happy blossoms, who, with their soft, low voices, sang her to sleep. while lily-bell lay dreaming among the rose-leaves, thistledown went wandering through the garden. first he robbed the bees of their honey, and rudely shook the little flowers, that he might get the dew they had gathered to bathe their buds in. then he chased the bright winged flies, and wounded them with the sharp thorn he carried for a sword; he broke the spider's shining webs, lamed the birds, and soon wherever he passed lay wounded insects and drooping flowers; while the winds carried the tidings over the garden, and bird and blossom looked upon him as an evil spirit, and fled away or closed their leaves, lest he should harm them. thus he went, leaving sorrow and pain behind him, till he came to the roses where lily-bell lay sleeping. there, weary of his cruel sport, he stayed to rest beneath a graceful rose-tree, where grew one blooming flower and a tiny bud. "why are you so slow in blooming, little one? you are too old to be rocked in your green cradle longer, and should be out among your sister flowers," said thistle, as he lay idly in the shadow of the tree. "my little bud is not yet strong enough to venture forth," replied the rose, as she bent fondly over it; "the sunlight and the rain would blight her tender form, were she to blossom now, but soon she will be fit to bear them; till then she is content to rest beside her mother, and to wait." "you silly flower," said thistledown, "see how quickly i will make you bloom! your waiting is all useless." and speaking thus, he pulled rudely apart the folded leaves, and laid them open to the sun and air; while the rose mother implored the cruel fairy to leave her little bud untouched. "it is my first, my only one," said she, "and i have watched over it with such care, hoping it would soon bloom beside me; and now you have destroyed it. how could you harm the little helpless one, that never did aught to injure you?" and while her tears fell like summer rain, she drooped in grief above the little bud, and sadly watched it fading in the sunlight; but thistledown, heedless of the sorrow he had given, spread his wings and flew away. soon the sky grew dark, and heavy drops began to fall. then thistle hastened to the lily, for her cup was deep, and the white leaves fell like curtains over the fragrant bed; he was a dainty little elf, and could not sleep among the clovers and bright buttercups. but when he asked the flower to unfold her leaves and take him in, she turned her pale, soft face away, and answered sadly, "i must shield my little drooping sisters whom you have harmed, and cannot let you in." then thistledown was very angry, and turned to find shelter among the stately roses; but they showed their sharp thorns, and, while their rosy faces glowed with anger, told him to begone, or they would repay him for the wrong he had done their gentle kindred. he would have stayed to harm them, but the rain fell fast, and he hurried away, saying, "the tulips will take me in, for i have praised their beauty, and they are vain and foolish flowers." but when he came, all wet and cold, praying for shelter among their thick leaves, they only laughed and said scornfully, "we know you, and will not let you in, for you are false and cruel, and will only bring us sorrow. you need not come to us for another mantle, when the rain has spoilt your fine one; and do not stay here, or we will do you harm." then they waved their broad leaves stormily, and scattered the heavy drops on his dripping garments. "now must i go to the humble daisies and blue violets," said thistle, "they will be glad to let in so fine a fairy, and i shall die in this cold wind and rain." so away he flew, as fast as his heavy wings would bear him, to the daisies; but they nodded their heads wisely, and closed their leaves yet closer, saying sharply,-- "go away with yourself, and do not imagine we will open our leaves to you, and spoil our seeds by letting in the rain. it serves you rightly; to gain our love and confidence, and repay it by such cruelty! you will find no shelter here for one whose careless hand wounded our little friend violet, and broke the truest heart that ever beat in a flower's breast. we are very angry with you, wicked fairy; go away and hide yourself." "ah," cried the shivering elf, "where can i find shelter? i will go to the violets: they will forgive and take me in." but the daisies had spoken truly; the gentle little flower was dead, and her blue-eyed sisters were weeping bitterly over her faded leaves. "now i have no friends," sighed poor thistledown, "and must die of cold. ah, if i had but minded lily-bell, i might now be dreaming beneath some flower's leaves." "others can forgive and love, beside lily-bell and violet," said a faint, sweet voice; "i have no little bud to shelter now, and you can enter here." it was the rose mother that spoke, and thistle saw how pale the bright leaves had grown, and how the slender stem was bowed. grieved, ashamed, and wondering at the flower's forgiving words, he laid his weary head on the bosom he had filled with sorrow, and the fragrant leaves were folded carefully about him. but he could find no rest. the rose strove to comfort him; but when she fancied he was sleeping, thoughts of her lost bud stole in, and the little heart beat so sadly where he lay, that no sleep came; while the bitter tears he had caused to flow fell more coldly on him than the rain without. then he heard the other flowers whispering among themselves of his cruelty, and the sorrow he had brought to their happy home; and many wondered how the rose, who had suffered most, could yet forgive and shelter him. "never could i forgive one who had robbed me of my children. i could bow my head and die, but could give no happiness to one who had taken all my own," said hyacinth, bending fondly over the little ones that blossomed by her side. "dear violet is not the only one who will leave us," sobbed little mignonette; "the rose mother will fade like her little bud, and we shall lose our gentlest teacher. her last lesson is forgiveness; let us show our love for her, and the gentle stranger lily-bell, by allowing no unkind word or thought of him who has brought us all this grief." the angry words were hushed, and through the long night nothing was heard but the dropping of the rain, and the low sighs of the rose. soon the sunlight came again, and with it lily-bell seeking for thistledown; but he was ashamed, and stole away. when the flowers told their sorrow to kind-hearted lily-bell, she wept bitterly at the pain her friend had given, and with loving words strove to comfort those whom he had grieved; with gentle care she healed the wounded birds, and watched above the flowers he had harmed, bringing each day dew and sunlight to refresh and strengthen, till all were well again; and though sorrowing for their dead friends, still they forgave thistle for the sake of her who had done so much for them. thus, erelong, buds fairer than that she had lost lay on the rose mother's breast, and for all she had suffered she was well repaid by the love of lily-bell and her sister flowers. and when bird, bee, and blossom were strong and fair again, the gentle fairy said farewell, and flew away to seek her friend, leaving behind many grateful hearts, who owed their joy and life to her. meanwhile, over hill and dale went thistledown, and for a time was kind and gentle to every living thing. he missed sadly the little friend who had left her happy home to watch over him, but he was too proud to own his fault, and so went on, hoping she would find him. one day he fell asleep, and when he woke the sun had set, and the dew began to fall; the flower-cups were closed, and he had nowhere to go, till a friendly little bee, belated by his heavy load of honey, bid the weary fairy come with him. "help me to bear my honey home, and you can stay with us tonight," he kindly said. so thistle gladly went with him, and soon they came to a pleasant garden, where among the fairest flowers stood the hive, covered with vines and overhung with blossoming trees. glow-worms stood at the door to light them home, and as they passed in, the fairy thought how charming it must be to dwell in such a lovely place. the floor of wax was pure and white as marble, while the walls were formed of golden honey-comb, and the air was fragrant with the breath of flowers. "you cannot see our queen to-night," said the little bee, "but i will show you to a bed where you can rest." and he led the tired fairy to a little cell, where on a bed of flower-leaves he folded his wings and fell asleep. as the first ray of sunlight stole in, he was awakened by sweet music. it was the morning song of the bees. "awake! awake! for the earliest gleam of golden sunlight shines on the rippling waves, that brightly flow beneath the flowering vines. awake! awake! for the low, sweet chant of the wild-birds' morning hymn comes floating by on the fragrant air, through the forest cool and dim; then spread each wing, and work, and sing, through the long, bright sunny hours; o'er the pleasant earth we journey forth, for a day among the flowers. "awake! awake! for the summer wind hath bidden the blossoms unclose, hath opened the violet's soft blue eye, and wakened the sleeping rose. and lightly they wave on their slender stems fragrant, and fresh, and fair, waiting for us, as we singing come to gather our honey-dew there. then spread each wing, and work, and sing, through the long, bright sunny hours; o'er the pleasant earth we journey forth, for a day among the flowers!" soon his friend came to bid him rise, as the queen desired to speak with him. so, with his purple mantle thrown gracefully over his shoulder, and his little cap held respectfully in his hand, he followed nimble-wing to the great hall, where the queen was being served by her little pages. some bore her fresh dew and honey, some fanned her with fragrant flower-leaves, while others scattered the sweetest perfumes on the air. "little fairy," said the queen, "you are welcome to my palace; and we will gladly have you stay with us, if you will obey our laws. we do not spend the pleasant summer days in idleness and pleasure, but each one labors for the happiness and good of all. if our home is beautiful, we have made it so by industry; and here, as one large, loving family, we dwell; no sorrow, care, or discord can enter in, while all obey the voice of her who seeks to be a wise and gentle queen to them. if you will stay with us, we will teach you many things. order, patience, industry, who can teach so well as they who are the emblems of these virtues? "our laws are few and simple. you must each day gather your share of honey, see that your cell is sweet and fresh, as you yourself must be; rise with the sun, and with him to sleep. you must harm no flower in doing your work, nor take more than your just share of honey; for they so kindly give us food, it were most cruel to treat them with aught save gentleness and gratitude. now will you stay with us, and learn what even mortals seek to know, that labor brings true happiness?" and thistle said he would stay and dwell with them; for he was tired of wandering alone, and thought he might live here till lily-bell should come, or till he was weary of the kind-hearted bees. then they took away his gay garments, and dressed him like themselves, in the black velvet cloak with golden bands across his breast. "now come with us," they said. so forth into the green fields they went, and made their breakfast among the dewy flowers; and then till the sun set they flew from bud to blossom, singing as they went; and thistle for a while was happier than when breaking flowers and harming gentle birds. but he soon grew tired of working all day in the sun, and longed to be free again. he could find no pleasure with the industrious bees, and sighed to be away with his idle friends, the butterflies; so while the others worked he slept or played, and then, in haste to get his share, he tore the flowers, and took all they had saved for their own food. nor was this all; he told such pleasant tales of the life he led before he came to live with them, that many grew unhappy and discontented, and they who had before wished no greater joy than the love and praise of their kind queen, now disobeyed and blamed her for all she had done for them. long she bore with their unkind words and deeds; and when at length she found it was the ungrateful fairy who had wrought this trouble in her quiet kingdom, she strove, with sweet, forgiving words, to show him all the wrong he had done; but he would not listen, and still went on destroying the happiness of those who had done so much for him. then, when she saw that no kindness could touch his heart, she said:-- "thistledown, we took you in, a friendless stranger, fed and clothed you, and made our home as pleasant to you as we could; and in return for all our care, you have brought discontent and trouble to my subjects, grief and care to me. i cannot let my peaceful kingdom be disturbed by you; therefore go and seek another home. you may find other friends, but none will love you more than we, had you been worthy of it; so farewell." and the doors of the once happy home he had disturbed were closed behind him. then he was very angry, and determined to bring some great sorrow on the good queen. so he sought out the idle, wilful bees, whom he had first made discontented, bidding them follow him, and win the honey the queen had stored up for the winter. "let us feast and make merry in the pleasant summer-time," said thistle; "winter is far off, why should we waste these lovely days, toiling to lay up the food we might enjoy now. come, we will take what we have made, and think no more of what the queen has said." so while the industrious bees were out among the flowers, he led the drones to the hive, and took possession of the honey, destroying and laying waste the home of the kind bees; then, fearing that in their grief and anger they might harm him, thistle flew away to seek new friends. after many wanderings, he came at length to a great forest, and here beside a still lake he stayed to rest. delicate wood-flowers grew near him in the deep green moss, with drooping heads, as if they listened to the soft wind singing among the pines. bright-eyed birds peeped at him from their nests, and many-colored insects danced above the cool, still lake. "this is a pleasant place," said thistle; "it shall be my home for a while. come hither, blue dragon-fly, i would gladly make a friend of you, for i am all alone." the dragon-fly folded his shining wings beside the elf, listened to the tale he told, promised to befriend the lonely one, and strove to make the forest a happy home to him. so here dwelt thistle, and many kind friends gathered round him, for he spoke gently to them, and they knew nothing of the cruel deeds he had done; and for a while he was happy and content. but at length he grew weary of the gentle birds, and wild-flowers, and sought new pleasure in destroying the beauty he was tired of; and soon the friends who had so kindly welcomed him looked upon him as an evil spirit, and shrunk away as he approached. at length his friend the dragon-fly besought him to leave the quiet home he had disturbed. then thistle was very angry, and while the dragon-fly was sleeping among the flowers that hung over the lake, he led an ugly spider to the spot, and bade him weave his nets about the sleeping insect, and bind him fast. the cruel spider gladly obeyed the ungrateful fairy; and soon the poor fly could move neither leg nor wing. then thistle flew away through the wood, leaving sorrow and trouble behind him. he had not journeyed far before he grew weary, and lay down to rest. long he slept, and when he awoke, and tried to rise, his hands and wings were bound; while beside him stood two strange little figures, with dark faces and garments, that rustled like withered leaves; who cried to him, as he struggled to get free,-- "lie still, you naughty fairy, you are in the brownies' power, and shall be well punished for your cruelty ere we let you go." so poor thistle lay sorrowfully, wondering what would come of it, and wishing lily-bell would come to help and comfort him; but he had left her, and she could not help him now. soon a troop of brownies came rustling through the air, and gathered round him, while one who wore an acorn-cup on his head, and was their king, said, as he stood beside the trembling fairy,-- "you have done many cruel things, and caused much sorrow to happy hearts; now you are in my power, and i shall keep you prisoner till you have repented. you cannot dwell on the earth without harming the fair things given you to enjoy, so you shall live alone in solitude and darkness, till you have learned to find happiness in gentle deeds, and forget yourself in giving joy to others. when you have learned this, i will set you free." then the brownies bore him to a high, dark rock, and, entering a little door, led him to a small cell, dimly lighted by a crevice through which came a single gleam of sunlight; and there, through long, long days, poor thistle sat alone, and gazed with wistful eyes at the little opening, longing to be out on the green earth. no one came to him, but the silent brownies who brought his daily food; and with bitter tears he wept for lily-bell, mourning his cruelty and selfishness, seeking to do some kindly deed that might atone for his wrong-doing. a little vine that grew outside his prison rock came creeping up, and looked in through the crevice, as if to cheer the lonely fairy, who welcomed it most gladly, and daily sprinkled its soft leaves with his small share of water, that the little vine might live, even if it darkened more and more his dim cell. the watchful brownies saw this kind deed, and brought him fresh flowers, and many things, which thistle gratefully received, though he never knew it was his kindness to the vine that gained for him these pleasures. thus did poor thistle strive to be more gentle and unselfish, and grew daily happier and better. now while thistledown was a captive in the lonely cell, lily-bell was seeking him far and wide, and sadly traced him by the sorrowing hearts he had left behind. she healed the drooping flowers, cheered the queen bee's grief, brought back her discontented subjects, restored the home to peace and order, and left them blessing her. thus she journeyed on, till she reached the forest where thistledown had lost his freedom. she unbound the starving dragon-fly, and tended the wounded birds; but though all learned to love her, none could tell where the brownies had borne her friend, till a little wind came whispering by, and told her that a sweet voice had been heard, singing fairy songs, deep in a moss-grown rock. then lily-bell went seeking through the forest, listening for the voice. long she looked and listened in vain; when one day, as she was wandering through a lonely dell, she heard a faint, low sound of music, and soon a distant voice mournfully singing,-- "bright shines the summer sun, soft is the summer air; gayly the wood-birds sing, flowers are blooming fair. "but, deep in the dark, cold rock, sadly i dwell, longing for thee, dear friend, lily-bell! lily-bell!" "thistle, dear thistle, where are you?" joyfully cried lily-bell, as she flew from rock to rock. but the voice was still, and she would have looked in vain, had she not seen a little vine, whose green leaves fluttering to and fro seemed beckoning her to come; and as she stood among its flowers she sang,-- "through sunlight and summer air i have sought for thee long, guided by birds and flowers, and now by thy song. "thistledown! thistledown! o'er hill and dell hither to comfort thee comes lily-bell." then from the vine-leaves two little arms were stretched out to her, and thistledown was found. so lily-bell made her home in the shadow of the vine, and brought such joy to thistle, that his lonely cell seemed pleasanter to him than all the world beside; and he grew daily more like his gentle friend. but it did not last long, for one day she did not come. he watched and waited long, for the little face that used to peep smiling in through the vine-leaves. he called and beckoned through the narrow opening, but no lily-bell answered; and he wept sadly as he thought of all she had done for him, and that now he could not go to seek and help her, for he had lost his freedom by his own cruel and wicked deeds. at last he besought the silent brownie earnestly to tell him whither she had gone. "o let me go to her," prayed thistle; "if she is in sorrow, i will comfort her, and show my gratitude for all she has done for me: dear brownie, set me free, and when she is found i will come and be your prisoner again. i will bear and suffer any danger for her sake." "lily-bell is safe," replied the brownie; "come, you shall learn the trial that awaits you." then he led the wondering fairy from his prison, to a group of tall, drooping ferns, beneath whose shade a large white lily had been placed, forming a little tent, within which, on a couch of thick green moss, lay lily-bell in a deep sleep; the sunlight stole softly in, and all was cool and still. "you cannot wake her," said the brownie, as thistle folded his arms tenderly about her. "it is a magic slumber, and she will not wake till you shall bring hither gifts from the earth, air, and water spirits. 't is a long and weary task, for you have made no friends to help you, and will have to seek for them alone. this is the trial we shall give you; and if your love for lily-bell be strong enough to keep you from all cruelty and selfishness, and make you kind and loving as you should be, she will awake to welcome you, and love you still more fondly than before." then thistle, with a last look on the little friend he loved so well, set forth alone to his long task. the home of the earth spirits was the first to find, and no one would tell him where to look. so far and wide he wandered, through gloomy forests and among lonely hills, with none to cheer him when sad and weary, none to guide him on his way. on he went, thinking of lily-bell, and for her sake bearing all; for in his quiet prison many gentle feelings and kindly thoughts had sprung up in his heart, and he now strove to be friends with all, and win for himself the love and confidence of those whom once he sought to harm and cruelly destroy. but few believed him; for they remembered his false promises and evil deeds, and would not trust him now; so poor thistle found few to love or care for him. long he wandered, and carefully he sought; but could not find the earth spirits' home. and when at length he reached the pleasant garden where he and lily-bell first parted, he said within himself,-- "here i will stay awhile, and try to win by kindly deeds the flowers' forgiveness for the pain and sorrow i brought them long ago; and they may learn to love and trust me. so, even if i never find the spirits, i shall be worthier of lily-bell's affection if i strive to atone for the wrong i have done." then he went among the flowers, but they closed their leaves, and shrank away, trembling with fear; while the birds fled to hide among the leaves as he passed. this grieved poor thistle, and he longed to tell them how changed he had become; but they would not listen. so he tried to show, by quiet deeds of kindness, that he meant no harm to them; and soon the kind-hearted birds pitied the lonely fairy, and when he came near sang cheering songs, and dropped ripe berries in his path, for he no longer broke their eggs, or hurt their little ones. and when the flowers saw this, and found the once cruel elf now watering and tending little buds, feeding hungry insects, and helping the busy ants to bear their heavy loads, they shared the pity of the birds, and longed to trust him; but they dared not yet. he came one day, while wandering through the garden, to the little rose he had once harmed so sadly. many buds now bloomed beside her, and her soft face glowed with motherly pride, as she bent fondly over them. but when thistle came, he saw with sorrow how she bade them close their green curtains, and conceal themselves beneath the leaves, for there was danger near; and, drooping still more closely over them, she seemed to wait with trembling fear the cruel fairy's coming. but no rude hand tore her little ones away, no unkind words were spoken; but a soft shower of dew fell lightly on them, and thistle, bending tenderly above them, said,-- "dear flower, forgive the sorrow i once brought you, and trust me now for lily-bell's sake. her gentleness has changed my cruelty to kindness, and i would gladly repay all for the harm i have done; but none will love and trust me now." then the little rose looked up, and while the dew-drops shone like happy tears upon her leaves, she said,-- "i will love and trust you, thistle, for you are indeed much changed. make your home among us, and my sister flowers will soon learn to love you as you deserve. not for sweet lily-bell's sake, but for your own, will i become your friend; for you are kind and gentle now, and worthy of our love. look up, my little ones, there is no danger near; look up, and welcome thistle to our home." then the little buds raised their rosy faces, danced again upon their stems, and nodded kindly at thistle, who smiled on them through happy tears, and kissed the sweet, forgiving rose, who loved and trusted him when most forlorn and friendless. but the other flowers wondered among themselves, and hyacinth said,-- "if rose-leaf is his friend, surely we may be; yet still i fear he may soon grow weary of this gentleness, and be again the wicked fairy he once was, and we shall suffer for our kindness to him now." "ah, do not doubt him!" cried warm-hearted little mignonette; "surely some good spirit has changed the wicked thistle into this good little elf. see how tenderly he lifts aside the leaves that overshadow pale harebell, and listen now how softly he sings as he rocks little eglantine to sleep. he has done many friendly things, though none save rose-leaf has been kind to him, and he is very sad. last night when i awoke to draw my curtains closer, he sat weeping in the moonlight, so bitterly, i longed to speak a kindly word to him. dear sisters, let us trust him." and they all said little mignonette was right; and, spreading wide their leaves, they bade him come, and drink their dew, and lie among the fragrant petals, striving to cheer his sorrow. thistle told them all, and, after much whispering together, they said,-- "yes, we will help you to find the earth spirits, for you are striving to be good, and for love of lily-bell we will do much for you." so they called a little bright-eyed mole, and said, "downy-back, we have given you a pleasant home among our roots, and you are a grateful little friend; so will you guide dear thistle to the earth spirits' home?" downy-back said, "yes," and thistle, thanking the kindly flowers, followed his little guide, through long, dark galleries, deeper and deeper into the ground; while a glow-worm flew before to light the way. on they went, and after a while, reached a path lit up by bright jewels hung upon the walls. here downy-back, and glimmer, the glow-worm, left him, saying,-- "we can lead you no farther; you must now go on alone, and the music of the spirits will guide you to their home." then they went quickly up the winding path, and thistle, guided by the sweet music, went on alone. he soon reached a lovely spot, whose golden halls were bright with jewels, which sparkled brightly, and threw many-colored shadows on the shining garments of the little spirits, who danced below to the melody of soft, silvery bells. long thistle stood watching the brilliant forms that flashed and sparkled round him; but he missed the flowers and the sunlight, and rejoiced that he was not an earth spirit. at last they spied him out, and, gladly welcoming him, bade him join in their dance. but thistledown was too sad for that, and when he told them all his story they no longer urged, but sought to comfort him; and one whom they called little sparkle (for her crown and robe shone with the brightest diamonds), said: "you will have to work for us, ere you can win a gift to show the brownies; do you see those golden bells that make such music, as we wave them to and fro? we worked long and hard ere they were won, and you can win one of those, if you will do the task we give you." and thistle said, "no task will be too hard for me to do for dear lily-bell's sake." then they led him to a strange, dark place, lit up with torches; where troops of spirits flew busily to and fro, among damp rocks, and through dark galleries that led far down into the earth. "what do they here?" asked thistle. "i will tell," replied little sparkle, "for i once worked here myself. some of them watch above the flower-roots, and keep them fresh and strong; others gather the clear drops that trickle from the damp rocks, and form a little spring, which, growing ever larger, rises to the light above, and gushes forth in some green field or lonely forest; where the wild-birds come to drink, and wood-flowers spread their thirsty leaves above the clear, cool waves, as they go dancing away, carrying joy and freshness wherever they go. others shape the bright jewels into lovely forms, and make the good-luck pennies which we give to mortals whom we love. and here you must toil till the golden flower is won." then thistle went among the spirits, and joined in their tasks; he tended the flower-roots, gathered the water-drops, and formed the good-luck pennies. long and hard he worked, and was often sad and weary, often tempted by unkind and selfish thoughts; but he thought of lily-bell, and strove to be kind and loving as she had been; and soon the spirits learned to love the patient fairy, who had left his home to toil among them for the sake of his gentle friend. at length came little sparkle to him, saying, "you have done enough; come now, and dance and feast with us, for the golden flower is won." but thistle could not stay, for half his task was not yet done; and he longed for sunlight and lily-bell. so, taking a kind farewell, he hastened through the torch-lit path up to the light again; and, spreading his wings, flew over hill and dale till he reached the forest where lily-bell lay sleeping. it was early morning, and the rosy light shone brightly through the lily-leaves upon her, as thistle entered, and laid his first gift at the brownie king's feet. "you have done well," said he, "we hear good tidings of you from bird and flower, and you are truly seeking to repair the evil you have done. take now one look at your little friend, and then go forth to seek from the air spirits your second gift." then thistle said farewell again to lily-bell, and flew far and wide among the clouds, seeking the air spirits; but though he wandered till his weary wings could bear him no longer, it was in vain. so, faint and sad, he lay down to rest on a broad vine-leaf, that fluttered gently in the wind; and as he lay, he saw beneath him the home of the kind bees whom he had so disturbed, and lily-bell had helped and comforted. "i will seek to win their pardon, and show them that i am no longer the cruel fairy who so harmed them," thought thistle, "and when they become again my friends, i will ask their help to find the air spirits; and if i deserve it, they will gladly aid me on my way." so he flew down into the field below, and hastened busily from flower to flower, till he had filled a tiny blue-bell with sweet, fresh honey. then he stole softly to the hive, and, placing it near the door, concealed himself to watch. soon his friend nimble-wing came flying home, and when he spied the little cup, he hummed with joy, and called his companions around him. "surely, some good elf has placed it here for us," said they; "let us bear it to our queen; it is so fresh and fragrant it will be a fit gift for her"; and they joyfully took it in, little dreaming who had placed it there. so each day thistle filled a flower-cup, and laid it at the door; and each day the bees wondered more and more, for many strange things happened. the field-flowers told of the good spirit who watched above them, and the birds sang of the same kind little elf bringing soft moss for their nests, and food for their hungry young ones; while all around the hive had grown fairer since the fairy came. but the bees never saw him, for he feared he had not yet done enough to win their forgiveness and friendship; so he lived alone among the vines, daily bringing them honey, and doing some kindly action. at length, as he lay sleeping in a flower-bell, a little bee came wandering by, and knew him for the wicked thistle; so he called his friends, and, as they flew murmuring around him, he awoke. "what shall we do to you, naughty elf?" said they. "you are in our power, and we will sting you if you are not still." "let us close the flower-leaves around him and leave him here to starve," cried one, who had not yet forgotten all the sorrow thistle had caused them long ago. "no, no, that were very cruel, dear buzz," said little hum; "let us take him to our queen, and she will tell us how to show our anger for the wicked deeds he did. see how bitterly he weeps; be kind to him, he will not harm us more." "you good little hum!" cried a kind-hearted robin who had hopped near to listen to the bees. "dear friends, do you not know that this is the good fairy who has dwelt so quietly among us, watching over bird and blossom, giving joy to all he helps? it is he who brings the honey-cup each day to you, and then goes silently away, that you may never know who works so faithfully for you. be kind to him, for if he has done wrong, he has repented of it, as you may see." "can this be naughty thistle?" said nimble-wing. "yes, it is i," said thistle, "but no longer cruel and unkind. i have tried to win your love by patient industry. ah, trust me now, and you shall see i am not naughty thistle any more." then the wondering bees led him to their queen, and when he had told his tale, and begged their forgiveness, it was gladly given; and all strove to show him that he was loved and trusted. then he asked if they could tell him where the air spirits dwelt, for he must not forget dear lily-bell; and to his great joy the queen said, "yes," and bade little hum guide thistle to cloud-land. little hum joyfully obeyed; and thistle followed him, as he flew higher and higher among the soft clouds, till in the distance they saw a radiant light. "there is their home, and i must leave you now, dear thistle," said the little bee; and, bidding him farewell, he flew singing back; while thistle, following the light, soon found himself in the air spirits' home. the sky was gold and purple like an autumn sunset, and long walls of brilliant clouds lay round him. a rosy light shone through the silver mist, on gleaming columns and the rainbow roof; soft, fragrant winds went whispering by, and airy little forms were flitting to and fro. long thistle wondered at the beauty round him; and then he went among the shining spirits, told his tale, and asked a gift. but they answered like the earth spirits. "you must serve us first, and then we will gladly give you a robe of sunlight like our own." and then they told him how they wafted flower-seeds over the earth, to beautify and brighten lonely spots; how they watched above the blossoms by day, and scattered dews at night, brought sunlight into darkened places, and soft winds to refresh and cheer. "these are the things we do," said they, "and you must aid us for a time." and thistle gladly went with the lovely spirits; by day he joined the sunlight and the breeze in their silent work; by night, with star-light and her sister spirits, he flew over the moon-lit earth, dropping cool dew upon the folded flowers, and bringing happy dreams to sleeping mortals. many a kind deed was done, many a gentle word was spoken; and each day lighter grew his heart, and stronger his power of giving joy to others. at length star-light bade him work no more, and gladly gave him the gift he had won. then his second task was done, and he flew gayly back to the green earth and slumbering lily-bell. the silvery moonlight shone upon her, as he came to give his second gift; and the brownie spoke more kindly than before. "one more trial, thistle, and she will awake. go bravely forth and win your last and hardest gift." then with a light heart thistle journeyed away to the brooks and rivers, seeking the water spirits. but he looked in vain; till, wandering through the forest where the brownies took him captive, he stopped beside the quiet lake. as he stood here he heard a sound of pain, and, looking in the tall grass at his side, he saw the dragon-fly whose kindness he once repayed by pain and sorrow, and who now lay suffering and alone. thistle bent tenderly beside him, saying, "dear flutter, do not fear me. i will gladly ease your pain, if you will let me; i am your friend, and long to show you how i grieve for all the wrong i did you, when you were so kind to me. forgive, and let me help and comfort you." then he bound up the broken wing, and spoke so tenderly that flutter doubted him no longer, and was his friend again. day by day did thistle watch beside him, making little beds of cool, fresh moss for him to rest upon, fanning him when he slept, and singing sweet songs to cheer him when awake. and often when poor flutter longed to be dancing once again over the blue waves, the fairy bore him in his arms to the lake, and on a broad leaf, with a green flag for a sail, they floated on the still water; while the dragon-fly's companions flew about them, playing merry games. at length the broken wing was well, and thistle said he must again seek the water spirits. "i can tell you where to find them," said flutter; "you must follow yonder little brook, and it will lead you to the sea, where the spirits dwell. i would gladly do more for you, dear thistle, but i cannot, for they live deep beneath the waves. you will find some kind friend to aid you on your way; and so farewell." thistle followed the little brook, as it flowed through field and valley, growing ever larger, till it reached the sea. here the wind blew freshly, and the great waves rolled and broke at thistle's feet, as he stood upon the shore, watching the billows dancing and sparkling in the sun. "how shall i find the spirits in this great sea, with none to help or guide me? yet it is my last task, and for lily-bell's sake i must not fear or falter now," said thistle. so he flew hither and thither over the sea, looking through the waves. soon he saw, far below, the branches of the coral tree. "they must be here," thought he, and, folding his wings, he plunged into the deep, cold sea. but he saw only fearful monsters and dark shapes that gathered round him; and, trembling with fear, he struggled up again. the great waves tossed him to and fro, and cast him bruised and faint upon the shore. here he lay weeping bitterly, till a voice beside him said, "poor little elf, what has befallen you? these rough waves are not fit playmates for so delicate a thing as you. tell me your sorrow, and i will comfort you." and thistle, looking up, saw a white sea-bird at his side, who tried with friendly words to cheer him. so he told all his wanderings, and how he sought the sea spirits. "surely, if bee and blossom do their part to help you, birds should aid you too," said the sea-bird. "i will call my friend, the nautilus, and he will bear you safely to the coral palace where the spirits dwell." so, spreading his great wings, he flew away, and soon thistle saw a little boat come dancing over the waves, and wait beside the shore for him. in he sprang. nautilus raised his little sail to the wind, and the light boat glided swiftly over the blue sea. at last thistle cried, "i see lovely arches far below; let me go, it is the spirits' home." "nay, close your eyes, and trust to me. i will bear you safely down," said nautilus. so thistle closed his eyes, and listened to the murmur of the sea, as they sank slowly through the waves. the soft sound lulled him to sleep, and when he awoke the boat was gone, and he stood among the water spirits, in their strange and lovely home. lofty arches of snow-white coral bent above him, and the walls of brightly tinted shells were wreathed with lovely sea-flowers, and the sunlight shining on the waves cast silvery shadows on the ground, where sparkling stones glowed in the sand. a cool, fresh wind swept through the waving garlands of bright sea-moss, and the distant murmur of dashing waves came softly on the air. soon troops of graceful spirits flitted by, and when they found the wondering elf, they gathered round him, bringing pearl-shells heaped with precious stones, and all the rare, strange gifts that lie beneath the sea. but thistle wished for none of these, and when his tale was told, the kindly spirits pitied him; and little pearl sighed, as she told him of the long and weary task he must perform, ere he could win a crown of snow-white pearls like those they wore. but thistle had gained strength and courage in his wanderings, and did not falter now, when they led him to a place among the coral-workers, and told him he must labor here, till the spreading branches reached the light and air, through the waves that danced above. with a patient hope that he might yet be worthy of lily-bell, the fairy left the lovely spirits and their pleasant home, to toil among the coral-builders, where all was strange and dim. long, long, he worked; but still the waves rolled far above them, and his task was not yet done; and many bitter tears poor thistle shed, and sadly he pined for air and sunlight, the voice of birds, and breath of flowers. often, folded in the magic garments which the spirits gave him, that he might pass unharmed among the fearful creatures dwelling there, he rose to the surface of the sea, and, gliding through the waves, gazed longingly upon the hills, now looking blue and dim so far away, or watched the flocks of summer birds, journeying to a warmer land; and they brought sad memories of green old forests, and sunny fields, to the lonely little fairy floating on the great, wild sea. day after day went by, and slowly thistle's task drew towards an end. busily toiled the coral-workers, but more busily toiled he; insect and spirit daily wondered more and more, at the industry and patience of the silent little elf, who had a friendly word for all, though he never joined them in their sport. higher and higher grew the coral-boughs, and lighter grew the fairy's heart, while thoughts of dear lily-bell cheered him on, as day by day he steadily toiled; and when at length the sun shone on his work, and it was done, he stayed but to take the garland he had won, and to thank the good spirits for their love and care. then up through the cold, blue waves he swiftly glided, and, shaking the bright drops from his wings, soared singing up to the sunny sky. on through the fragrant air went thistle, looking with glad face upon the fair, fresh earth below, where flowers looked smiling up, and green trees bowed their graceful heads as if to welcome him. soon the forest where lily-bell lay sleeping rose before him, and as he passed along the cool, dim wood-paths, never had they seemed so fair. but when he came where his little friend had slept, it was no longer the dark, silent spot where he last saw her. garlands hung from every tree, and the fairest flowers filled the air with their sweet breath. bird's gay voices echoed far and wide, and the little brook went singing by, beneath the arching ferns that bent above it; green leaves rustled in the summer wind, and the air was full of music. but the fairest sight was lily-bell, as she lay on the couch of velvet moss that fairy hands had spread. the golden flower lay beside her, and the glittering robe was folded round her little form. the warmest sunlight fell upon her, and the softest breezes lifted her shining hair. happy tears fell fast, as thistle folded his arms around her, crying, "o lily-bell, dear lily-bell, awake! i have been true to you, and now my task is done." then, with a smile, lily-bell awoke, and looked with wondering eyes upon the beauty that had risen round her. "dear thistle, what mean these fair things, and why are we in this lovely place?" "listen, lily-bell," said the brownie king, as he appeared beside her. and then he told all that thistle had done to show his love for her; how he had wandered far and wide to seek the fairy gifts, and toiled long and hard to win them; how he had been loving, true, and tender, when most lonely and forsaken. "bird, bee, and blossom have forgiven him, and none is more loved and trusted now by all, than the once cruel thistle," said the king, as he bent down to the happy elf, who bowed low before him. "you have learned the beauty of a gentle, kindly heart, dear thistle; and you are now worthy to become the friend of her for whom you have done so much. place the crown upon her head, for she is queen of all the forest fairies now." and as the crown shone on the head that lily-bell bent down on thistle's breast, the forest seemed alive with little forms, who sprang from flower and leaf, and gathered round her, bringing gifts for their new queen. "if i am queen, then you are king, dear thistle," said the fairy. "take the crown, and i will have a wreath of flowers. you have toiled and suffered for my sake, and you alone should rule over these little elves whose love you have won." "keep your crown, lily-bell, for yonder come the spirits with their gifts to thistle," said the brownie. and, as he pointed with his wand, out from among the mossy roots of an old tree came trooping the earth spirits, their flower-bells ringing softly as they came, and their jewelled garments glittering in the sun. on to where thistledown stood beneath the shadow of the flowers, with lily-bell beside him, went the spirits; and then forth sprang little sparkle, waving a golden flower, whose silvery music filled the air. "dear thistle," said the shining spirit, "what you toiled so faithfully to win for another, let us offer now as a token of our love for you." as she ceased, down through the air came floating bands of lovely air spirits, bringing a shining robe, and they too told their love for the gentle fairy who had dwelt with them. then softly on the breeze came distant music, growing ever nearer, till over the rippling waves came the singing water spirits, in their boats of many-colored shells; and as they placed their glittering crown on thistle's head, loud rang the flowers, and joyously sang the birds, while all the forest fairies cried, with silvery voices, "lily-bell and thistledown! long live our king and queen!" "have you a tale for us too, dear violet-eye?" said the queen, as zephyr ceased. the little elf thus named looked from among the flower-leaves where she sat, and with a smile replied, "as i was weaving garlands in the field, i heard a primrose tell this tale to her friend golden-rod." little bud. in a great forest, high up among the green boughs, lived bird brown-breast, and his bright-eyed little mate. they were now very happy; their home was done, the four blue eggs lay in the soft nest, and the little wife sat still and patient on them, while the husband sang, and told her charming tales, and brought her sweet berries and little worms. things went smoothly on, till one day she found in the nest a little white egg, with a golden band about it. "my friend," cried she, "come and see! where can this fine egg have come from? my four are here, and this also; what think you of it?" the husband shook his head gravely, and said, "be not alarmed, my love; it is doubtless some good fairy who has given us this, and we shall find some gift within; do not let us touch it, but do you sit carefully upon it, and we shall see in time what has been sent us." so they said nothing about it, and soon their home had four little chirping children; and then the white egg opened, and, behold, a little maiden lay singing within. then how amazed were they, and how they welcomed her, as she lay warm beneath the mother's wing, and how the young birds did love her. great joy was in the forest, and proud were the parents of their family, and still more of the little one who had come to them; while all the neighbors flocked in, to see dame brown-breast's little child. and the tiny maiden talked to them, and sang so merrily, that they could have listened for ever. soon she was the joy of the whole forest, dancing from tree to tree, making every nest her home, and none were ever so welcome as little bud; and so they lived right merrily in the green old forest. the father now had much to do to supply his family with food, and choice morsels did he bring little bud. the wild fruits were her food, the fresh dew in the flower-cups her drink, while the green leaves served her for little robes; and thus she found garments in the flowers of the field, and a happy home with mother brown-breast; and all in the wood, from the stately trees to the little mosses in the turf, were friends to the merry child. and each day she taught the young birds sweet songs, and as their gay music rang through the old forest, the stern, dark pines ceased their solemn waving, that they might hear the soft sounds stealing through the dim wood-paths, and mortal children came to listen, saying softly, "hear the flowers sing, and touch them not, for the fairies are here." then came a band of sad little elves to bud, praying that they might hear the sweet music; and when she took them by the hand, and spoke gently to them, they wept and said sadly, when she asked them whence they came,-- "we dwelt once in fairy-land, and o how happy were we then! but alas! we were not worthy of so fair a home, and were sent forth into the cold world. look at our robes, they are like the withered leaves; our wings are dim, our crowns are gone, and we lead sad, lonely lives in this dark forest. let us stay with you; your gay music sounds like fairy songs, and you have such a friendly way with you, and speak so gently to us. it is good to be near one so lovely and so kind; and you can tell us how we may again become fair and innocent. say we may stay with you, kind little maiden." and bud said, "yes," and they stayed; but her kind little heart was grieved that they wept so sadly, and all she could say could not make them happy; till at last she said,-- "do not weep, and i will go to queen dew-drop, and beseech her to let you come back. i will tell her that you are repentant, and will do anything to gain her love again; that you are sad, and long to be forgiven. this will i say, and more, and trust she will grant my prayer." "she will not say no to you, dear bud," said the poor little fairies; "she will love you as we do, and if we can but come again to our lost home, we cannot give you thanks enough. go, bud, and if there be power in fairy gifts, you shall be as happy as our hearts' best love can make you." the tidings of bud's departure flew through the forest, and all her friends came to say farewell, as with the morning sun she would go; and each brought some little gift, for the land of fairies was far away, and she must journey long. "nay, you shall not go on your feet, my child," said mother brown-breast; "your friend golden-wing shall carry you. call him hither, that i may seat you rightly, for if you should fall off my heart would break." then up came golden-wing, and bud was safely seated on the cushion of violet-leaves; and it was really charming to see her merry little face, peeping from under the broad brim of her cow-slip hat, as her butterfly steed stood waving his bright wings in the sunlight. then came the bee with his yellow honey-bags, which he begged she would take, and the little brown spider that lived under the great leaves brought a veil for her hat, and besought her to wear it, lest the sun should shine too brightly; while the ant came bringing a tiny strawberry, lest she should miss her favorite fruit. the mother gave her good advice, and the papa stood with his head on one side, and his round eyes twinkling with delight, to think that his little bud was going to fairy-land. then they all sang gayly together, till she passed out of sight over the hills, and they saw her no more. and now bud left the old forest far behind her. golden-wing bore her swiftly along, and she looked down on the green mountains, and the peasant's cottages, that stood among overshadowing trees; and the earth looked bright, with its broad, blue rivers winding through soft meadows, the singing birds, and flowers, who kept their bright eyes ever on the sky. and she sang gayly as they floated in the clear air, while her friend kept time with his waving wings, and ever as they went along all grew fairer; and thus they came to fairy-land. as bud passed through the gates, she no longer wondered that the exiled fairies wept and sorrowed for the lovely home they had lost. bright clouds floated in the sunny sky, casting a rainbow light on the fairy palaces below, where the elves were dancing; while the low, sweet voices of the singing flowers sounded softly through the fragrant air, and mingled with the music of the rippling waves, as they flowed on beneath the blossoming vines that drooped above them. all was bright and beautiful; but kind little bud would not linger, for the forms of the weeping fairies were before her; and though the blossoms nodded gayly on their stems to welcome her, and the soft winds kissed her cheek, she would not stay, but on to the flower palace she went, into a pleasant hall whose walls were formed of crimson roses, amid whose leaves sat little elves, making sweet music on their harps. when they saw bud, they gathered round her, and led her through the flower-wreathed arches to a group of the most beautiful fairies, who were gathered about a stately lily, in whose fragrant cup sat one whose purple robe and glittering crown told she was their queen. bud knelt before her, and, while tears streamed down her little face, she told her errand, and pleaded earnestly that the exiled fairies might be forgiven, and not be left to pine far from their friends and kindred. and as she prayed, many wept with her; and when she ceased, and waited for her answer, many knelt beside her, praying forgiveness for the unhappy elves. with tearful eyes, queen dew-drop replied,-- "little maiden, your prayer has softened my heart. they shall not be left sorrowing and alone, nor shall you go back without a kindly word to cheer and comfort them. we will pardon their fault, and when they can bring hither a perfect fairy crown, robe, and wand, they shall be again received as children of their loving queen. the task is hard, for none but the best and purest can form the fairy garments; yet with patience they may yet restore their robes to their former brightness. farewell, good little maiden; come with them, for but for you they would have dwelt for ever without the walls of fairy-land." "good speed to you, and farewell," cried they all, as, with loving messages to their poor friends, they bore her to the gates. day after day toiled little bud, cheering the fairies, who, angry and disappointed, would not listen to her gentle words, but turned away and sat alone weeping. they grieved her kind heart with many cruel words; but patiently she bore with them, and when they told her they could never perform so hard a task, and must dwell for ever in the dark forest, she answered gently, that the snow-white lily must be planted, and watered with repentant tears, before the robe of innocence could be won; that the sun of love must shine in their hearts, before the light could return to their dim crowns, and deeds of kindness must be performed, ere the power would come again to their now useless wands. then they planted the lilies; but they soon drooped and died, and no light came to their crowns. they did no gentle deeds, but cared only for themselves; and when they found their labor was in vain, they tried no longer, but sat weeping. bud, with ceaseless toil and patient care, tended the lilies, which bloomed brightly, the crowns grew bright, and in her hands the wands had power over birds and blossoms, for she was striving to give happiness to others, forgetful of herself. and the idle fairies, with thankful words, took the garments from her, and then with bud went forth to fairy-land, and stood with beating hearts before the gates; where crowds of fairy friends came forth to welcome them. but when queen dew-drop touched them with her wand, as they passed in, the light faded from their crowns, their robes became like withered leaves, and their wands were powerless. amid the tears of all the fairies, the queen led them to the gates, and said,-- "farewell! it is not in my power to aid you; innocence and love are not within your hearts, and were it not for this untiring little maiden, who has toiled while you have wept, you never would have entered your lost home. go and strive again, for till all is once more fair and pure, i cannot call you mine." "farewell!" sang the weeping fairies, as the gates closed on their outcast friends; who, humbled and broken-hearted, gathered around bud; and she, with cheering words, guided them back to the forest. time passed on, and the fairies had done nothing to gain their lovely home again. they wept no longer, but watched little bud, as she daily tended the flowers, restoring their strength and beauty, or with gentle words flew from nest to nest, teaching the little birds to live happily together; and wherever she went blessings fell, and loving hearts were filled with gratitude. then, one by one, the elves secretly did some little work of kindness, and found a quiet joy come back to repay them. flowers looked lovingly up as they passed, birds sang to cheer them when sad thoughts made them weep. and soon little bud found out their gentle deeds, and her friendly words gave them new strength. so day after day they followed her, and like a band of guardian spirits they flew far and wide, carrying with them joy and peace. and not only birds and flowers blessed them, but human beings also; for with tender hands they guided little children from danger, and kept their young hearts free from evil thoughts; they whispered soothing words to the sick, and brought sweet odors and fair flowers to their lonely rooms. they sent lovely visions to the old and blind, to make their hearts young and bright with happy thoughts. but most tenderly did they watch over the poor and sorrowing, and many a poor mother blessed the unseen hands that laid food before her hungry little ones, and folded warm garments round their naked limbs. many a poor man wondered at the fair flowers that sprang up in his little garden-plot, cheering him with their bright forms, and making his dreary home fair with their loveliness, and looked at his once barren field, where now waved the golden corn, turning its broad leaves to the warm sun, and promising a store of golden ears to give him food; while the care-worn face grew bright, and the troubled heart filled with gratitude towards the invisible spirits who had brought him such joy. thus time passed on, and though the exiled fairies longed often for their home, still, knowing they did not deserve it, they toiled on, hoping one day to see the friends they had lost; while the joy of their own hearts made their life full of happiness. one day came little bud to them, saying,-- "listen, dear friends. i have a hard task to offer you. it is a great sacrifice for you light loving fairies to dwell through the long winter in the dark, cold earth, watching over the flower roots, to keep them free from the little grubs and worms that seek to harm them. but in the sunny spring when they bloom again, their love and gratitude will give you happy homes among their bright leaves. "it is a wearisome task, and i can give you no reward for all your tender care, but the blessings of the gentle flowers you will have saved from death. gladly would i aid you; but my winged friends are preparing for their journey to warmer lands, and i must help them teach their little ones to fly, and see them safely on their way. then, through the winter, must i seek the dwellings of the poor and suffering, comfort the sick and lonely, and give hope and courage to those who in their poverty are led astray. these things must i do; but when the flowers bloom again i will be with you, to welcome back our friends from over the sea." then, with tears, the fairies answered, "ah, good little bud, you have taken the hardest task yourself, and who will repay you for all your deeds of tenderness and mercy in the great world? should evil befall you, our hearts would break. we will labor trustingly in the earth, and thoughts of you shall cheer us on; for without you we had been worthless beings, and never known the joy that kindly actions bring. yes, dear bud, we will gladly toil among the roots, that the fair flowers may wear their gayest robes to welcome you." then deep in the earth the fairies dwelt, and no frost or snow could harm the blossoms they tended. every little seed was laid in the soft earth, watered, and watched. tender roots were folded in withered leaves, that no chilling drops might reach them; and safely dreamed the flowers, till summer winds should call them forth; while lighter grew each fairy heart, as every gentle deed was tenderly performed. at length the snow was gone, and they heard little voices calling them to come up; but patiently they worked, till seed and root were green and strong. then, with eager feet, they hastened to the earth above, where, over hill and valley, bright flowers and budding trees smiled in the warm sunlight, blossoms bent lovingly before them, and rang their colored bells, till the fragrant air was full of music; while the stately trees waved their great arms above them, and scattered soft leaves at their feet. then came the merry birds, making the wood alive with their gay voices, calling to one another, as they flew among the vines, building their little homes. long waited the elves, and at last she came with father brown-breast. happy days passed; and summer flowers were in their fullest beauty, when bud bade the fairies come with her. mounted on bright-winged butterflies, they flew over forest and meadow, till with joyful eyes they saw the flower-crowned walls of fairy-land. before the gates they stood, and soon troops of loving elves came forth to meet them. and on through the sunny gardens they went, into the lily hall, where, among the golden stamens of a graceful flower, sat the queen; while on the broad, green leaves around it stood the brighteyed little maids of honor. then, amid the deep silence, little bud, leading the fairies to the throne, said,-- "dear queen, i here bring back your subjects, wiser for their sorrow, better for their hard trial; and now might any queen be proud of them, and bow to learn from them that giving joy and peace to others brings it fourfold to us, bearing a double happiness in the blessings to those we help. through the dreary months, when they might have dwelt among fair southern flowers, beneath a smiling sky, they toiled in the dark and silent earth, filling the hearts of the gentle flower spirits with grateful love, seeking no reward but the knowledge of their own good deeds, and the joy they always bring. this they have done unmurmuringly and alone; and now, far and wide, flower blessings fall upon them, and the summer winds bear the glad tidings unto those who droop in sorrow, and new joy and strength it brings, as they look longingly for the friends whose gentle care hath brought such happiness to their fair kindred. "are they not worthy of your love, dear queen? have they not won their lovely home? say they are pardoned, and you have gained the love of hearts pure as the snow-white robes now folded over them." as bud ceased, she touched the wondering fairies with her wand, and the dark faded garments fell away; and beneath, the robes of lily-leaves glittered pure and spotless in the sun-light. then, while happy tears fell, queen dew-drop placed the bright crowns on the bowed heads of the kneeling fairies, and laid before them the wands their own good deeds had rendered powerful. they turned to thank little bud for all her patient love, but she was gone; and high above, in the clear air, they saw the little form journeying back to the quiet forest. she needed no reward but the joy she had given. the fairy hearts were pure again, and her work was done; yet all fairy-land had learned a lesson from gentle little bud. "now, little sunbeam, what have you to tell us?" said the queen, looking down on a bright-eyed elf, who sat half hidden in the deep moss at her feet. "i too, like star-twinkle, have nothing but a song to offer," replied the fairy; and then, while the nightingale's sweet voice mingled with her own, she sang,-- clover-blossom. in a quiet, pleasant meadow, beneath a summer sky, where green old trees their branches waved, and winds went singing by; where a little brook went rippling so musically low, and passing clouds cast shadows on the waving grass below; where low, sweet notes of brooding birds stole out on the fragrant air, and golden sunlight shone undimmed on all most fresh and fair;-- there bloomed a lovely sisterhood of happy little flowers, together in this pleasant home, through quiet summer hours. no rude hand came to gather them, no chilling winds to blight; warm sunbeams smiled on them by day, and soft dews fell at night. so here, along the brook-side, beneath the green old trees, the flowers dwelt among their friends, the sunbeams and the breeze. one morning, as the flowers awoke, fragrant, and fresh, and fair, a little worm came creeping by, and begged a shelter there. "ah! pity and love me," sighed the worm, "i am lonely, poor, and weak; a little spot for a resting-place, dear flowers, is all i seek. i am not fair, and have dwelt unloved by butterfly, bird, and bee. they little knew that in this dark form lay the beauty they yet may see. then let me lie in the deep green moss, and weave my little tomb, and sleep my long, unbroken sleep till spring's first flowers come. then will i come in a fairer dress, and your gentle care repay by the grateful love of the humble worm; kind flowers, o let me stay!" but the wild rose showed her little thorns, while her soft face glowed with pride; the violet hid beneath the drooping ferns, and the daisy turned aside. little houstonia scornfully laughed, as she danced on her slender stem; while the cowslip bent to the rippling waves, and whispered the tale to them. a blue-eyed grass looked down on the worm, as it silently turned away, and cried, "thou wilt harm our delicate leaves, and therefore thou canst not stay." then a sweet, soft voice, called out from far, "come hither, poor worm, to me; the sun lies warm in this quiet spot, and i'll share my home with thee." the wondering flowers looked up to see who had offered the worm a home: 't was a clover-blossom, whose fluttering leaves seemed beckoning him to come; it dwelt in a sunny little nook, where cool winds rustled by, and murmuring bees and butterflies came, on the flower's breast to lie. down through the leaves the sunlight stole, and seemed to linger there, as if it loved to brighten the home of one so sweet and fair. its rosy face smiled kindly down, as the friendless worm drew near; and its low voice, softly whispering, said "poor thing, thou art welcome here; close at my side, in the soft green moss, thou wilt find a quiet bed, where thou canst softly sleep till spring, with my leaves above thee spread. i pity and love thee, friendless worm, though thou art not graceful or fair; for many a dark, unlovely form, hath a kind heart dwelling there; no more o'er the green and pleasant earth, lonely and poor, shalt thou roam, for a loving friend hast thou found in me, and rest in my little home." then, deep in its quiet mossy bed, sheltered from sun and shower, the grateful worm spun its winter tomb, in the shadow of the flower. and clover guarded well its rest, till autumn's leaves were sere, till all her sister flowers were gone, and her winter sleep drew near. then her withered leaves were softly spread o'er the sleeping worm below, ere the faithful little flower lay beneath the winter snow. spring came again, and the flowers rose from their quiet winter graves, and gayly danced on their slender stems, and sang with the rippling waves. softly the warm winds kissed their cheeks; brightly the sunbeams fell, as, one by one, they came again in their summer homes to dwell. and little clover bloomed once more, rosy, and sweet, and fair, and patiently watched by the mossy bed, for the worm still slumbered there. then her sister flowers scornfully cried, as they waved in the summer air, "the ugly worm was friendless and poor; little clover, why shouldst thou care? then watch no more, nor dwell alone, away from thy sister flowers; come, dance and feast, and spend with us these pleasant summer hours. we pity thee, foolish little flower, to trust what the false worm said; he will not come in a fairer dress, for he lies in the green moss dead." but little clover still watched on, alone in her sunny home; she did not doubt the poor worm's truth, and trusted he would come. at last the small cell opened wide, and a glittering butterfly, from out the moss, on golden wings, soared up to the sunny sky. then the wondering flowers cried aloud, "clover, thy watch was vain; he only sought a shelter here, and never will come again." and the unkind flowers danced for joy, when they saw him thus depart; for the love of a beautiful butterfly is dear to a flower's heart. they feared he would stay in clover's home, and her tender care repay; so they danced for joy, when at last he rose and silently flew away. then little clover bowed her head, while her soft tears fell like dew; for her gentle heart was grieved, to find that her sisters' words were true, and the insect she had watched so long when helpless, poor, and lone, thankless for all her faithful care, on his golden wings had flown. but as she drooped, in silent grief, she heard little daisy cry, "o sisters, look! i see him now, afar in the sunny sky; he is floating back from cloud-land now, borne by the fragrant air. spread wide your leaves, that he may choose the flower he deems most fair." then the wild rose glowed with a deeper blush, as she proudly waved on her stem; the cowslip bent to the clear blue waves, and made her mirror of them. little houstonia merrily danced, and spread her white leaves wide; while daisy whispered her joy and hope, as she stood by her gay friends' side. violet peeped from the tall green ferns, and lifted her soft blue eye to watch the glittering form, that shone afar in the summer sky. they thought no more of the ugly worm, who once had wakened their scorn; but looked and longed for the butterfly now, as the soft wind bore him on. nearer and nearer the bright form came, and fairer the blossoms grew; each welcomed him, in her sweetest tones; each offered her honey and dew. but in vain did they beckon, and smile, and call, and wider their leaves unclose; the glittering form still floated on, by violet, daisy, and rose. lightly it flew to the pleasant home of the flower most truly fair, on clover's breast he softly lit, and folded his bright wings there. "dear flower," the butterfly whispered low, "long hast thou waited for me; now i am come, and my grateful love shall brighten thy home for thee; thou hast loved and cared for me, when alone, hast watched o'er me long and well; and now will i strive to show the thanks the poor worm could not tell. sunbeam and breeze shall come to thee, and the coolest dews that fall; whate'er a flower can wish is thine, for thou art worthy all. and the home thou shared with the friendless worm the butterfly's home shall be; and thou shalt find, dear, faithful flower, a loving friend in me." then, through the long, bright summer hours through sunshine and through shower, together in their happy home dwelt butterfly and flower. "ah, that is very lovely," cried the elves, gathering round little sunbeam as she ceased, to place a garland in her hair and praise her song. "now," said the queen, "call hither moon-light and summer-wind, for they have seen many pleasant things in their long wanderings, and will gladly tell us them." "most joyfully will we do our best, dear queen," said the elves, as they folded their wings beside her. "now, summer-wind," said moonlight, "till your turn comes, do you sit here and fan me while i tell this tale of little annie's dream; or, the fairy flower. in a large and pleasant garden sat little annie all alone, and she seemed very sad, for drops that were not dew fell fast upon the flowers beside her, who looked wonderingly up, and bent still nearer, as if they longed to cheer and comfort her. the warm wind lifted up her shining hair and softly kissed her cheek, while the sunbeams, looking most kindly in her face, made little rainbows in her tears, and lingered lovingly about her. but annie paid no heed to sun, or wind, or flower; still the bright tears fell, and she forgot all but her sorrow. "little annie, tell me why you weep," said a low voice in her ear; and, looking up, the child beheld a little figure standing on a vine-leaf at her side; a lovely face smiled on her, from amid bright locks of hair, and shining wings were folded on a white and glittering robe, that fluttered in the wind. "who are you, lovely little thing?" cried annie, smiling through her tears. "i am a fairy, little child, and am come to help and comfort you; now tell me why you weep, and let me be your friend," replied the spirit, as she smiled more kindly still on annie's wondering face. "and are you really, then, a little elf, such as i read of in my fairy books? do you ride on butterflies, sleep in flower-cups, and live among the clouds?" "yes, all these things i do, and many stranger still, that all your fairy books can never tell; but now, dear annie," said the fairy, bending nearer, "tell me why i found no sunshine on your face; why are these great drops shining on the flowers, and why do you sit alone when bird and bee are calling you to play?" "ah, you will not love me any more if i should tell you all," said annie, while the tears began to fall again; "i am not happy, for i am not good; how shall i learn to be a patient, gentle child? good little fairy, will you teach me how?" "gladly will i aid you, annie, and if you truly wish to be a happy child, you first must learn to conquer many passions that you cherish now, and make your heart a home for gentle feelings and happy thoughts; the task is hard, but i will give this fairy flower to help and counsel you. bend hither, that i may place it in your breast; no hand can take it hence, till i unsay the spell that holds it there." as thus she spoke, the elf took from her bosom a graceful flower, whose snow-white leaves shone with a strange, soft light. "this is a fairy flower," said the elf, "invisible to every eye save yours; now listen while i tell its power, annie. when your heart is filled with loving thoughts, when some kindly deed has been done, some duty well performed, then from the flower there will arise the sweetest, softest fragrance, to reward and gladden you. but when an unkind word is on your lips, when a selfish, angry feeling rises in your heart, or an unkind, cruel deed is to be done, then will you hear the soft, low chime of the flower-bell; listen to its warning, let the word remain unspoken, the deed undone, and in the quiet joy of your own heart, and the magic perfume of your bosom flower, you will find a sweet reward." "o kind and generous fairy, how can i ever thank you for this lovely gift!" cried annie. "i will be true, and listen to my little bell whenever it may ring. but shall i never see you more? ah! if you would only stay with me, i should indeed be good." "i cannot stay now, little annie," said the elf, "but when another spring comes round, i shall be here again, to see how well the fairy gift has done its work. and now farewell, dear child; be faithful to yourself, and the magic flower will never fade." then the gentle fairy folded her little arms around annie's neck, laid a soft kiss on her cheek, and, spreading wide her shining wings, flew singing up among the white clouds floating in the sky. and little annie sat among her flowers, and watched with wondering joy the fairy blossom shining on her breast. the pleasant days of spring and summer passed away, and in little annie's garden autumn flowers were blooming everywhere, with each day's sun and dew growing still more beautiful and bright; but the fairy flower, that should have been the loveliest of all, hung pale and drooping on little annie's bosom; its fragrance seemed quite gone, and the clear, low music of its warning chime rang often in her ear. when first the fairy placed it there, she had been pleased with her new gift, and for a while obeyed the fairy bell, and often tried to win some fragrance from the flower, by kind and pleasant words and actions; then, as the fairy said, she found a sweet reward in the strange, soft perfume of the magic blossom, as it shone upon her breast; but selfish thoughts would come to tempt her, she would yield, and unkind words fell from her lips; and then the flower drooped pale and scentless, the fairy bell rang mournfully, annie would forget her better resolutions, and be again a selfish, wilful little child. at last she tried no longer, but grew angry with the faithful flower, and would have torn it from her breast; but the fairy spell still held it fast, and all her angry words but made it ring a louder, sadder peal. then she paid no heed to the silvery music sounding in her ear, and each day grew still more unhappy, discontented, and unkind; so, when the autumn days came round, she was no better for the gentle fairy's gift, and longed for spring, that it might be returned; for now the constant echo of the mournful music made her very sad. one sunny morning, when the fresh, cool winds were blowing, and not a cloud was in the sky, little annie walked among her flowers, looking carefully into each, hoping thus to find the fairy, who alone could take the magic blossom from her breast. but she lifted up their drooping leaves, peeped into their dewy cups in vain; no little elf lay hidden there, and she turned sadly from them all, saying, "i will go out into the fields and woods, and seek her there. i will not listen to this tiresome music more, nor wear this withered flower longer." so out into the fields she went, where the long grass rustled as she passed, and timid birds looked at her from their nests; where lovely wild-flowers nodded in the wind, and opened wide their fragrant leaves, to welcome in the murmuring bees, while butterflies, like winged flowers, danced and glittered in the sun. little annie looked, searched, and asked them all if any one could tell her of the fairy whom she sought; but the birds looked wonderingly at her with their soft, bright eyes, and still sang on; the flowers nodded wisely on their stems, but did not speak, while butterfly and bee buzzed and fluttered away, one far too busy, the other too idle, to stay and tell her what she asked. then she went through broad fields of yellow grain, that waved around her like a golden forest; here crickets chirped, grasshoppers leaped, and busy ants worked, but they could not tell her what she longed to know. "now will i go among the hills," said annie, "she may be there." so up and down the green hill-sides went her little feet; long she searched and vainly she called; but still no fairy came. then by the river-side she went, and asked the gay dragon-flies, and the cool white lilies, if the fairy had been there; but the blue waves rippled on the white sand at her feet, and no voice answered her. then into the forest little annie went; and as she passed along the dim, cool paths, the wood-flowers smiled up in her face, gay squirrels peeped at her, as they swung amid the vines, and doves cooed softly as she wandered by; but none could answer her. so, weary with her long and useless search, she sat amid the ferns, and feasted on the rosy strawberries that grew beside her, watching meanwhile the crimson evening clouds that glowed around the setting sun. the night-wind rustled through the boughs, rocking the flowers to sleep; the wild birds sang their evening hymns, and all within the wood grew calm and still; paler and paler grew the purple light, lower and lower drooped little annie's head, the tall ferns bent to shield her from the dew, the whispering pines sang a soft lullaby; and when the autumn moon rose up, her silver light shone on the child, where, pillowed on green moss, she lay asleep amid the wood-flowers in the dim old forest. and all night long beside her stood the fairy she had sought, and by elfin spell and charm sent to the sleeping child this dream. little annie dreamed she sat in her own garden, as she had often sat before, with angry feelings in her heart, and unkind words upon her lips. the magic flower was ringing its soft warning, but she paid no heed to anything, save her own troubled thoughts; thus she sat, when suddenly a low voice whispered in her ear,-- "little annie, look and see the evil things that you are cherishing; i will clothe in fitting shapes the thoughts and feelings that now dwell within your heart, and you shall see how great their power becomes, unless you banish them for ever." then annie saw, with fear and wonder, that the angry words she uttered changed to dark, unlovely forms, each showing plainly from what fault or passion it had sprung. some of the shapes had scowling faces and bright, fiery eyes; these were the spirits of anger. others, with sullen, anxious looks, seemed gathering up all they could reach, and annie saw that the more they gained, the less they seemed to have; and these she knew were shapes of selfishness. spirits of pride were there, who folded their shadowy garments round them, and turned scornfully away from all the rest. these and many others little annie saw, which had come from her own heart, and taken form before her eyes. when first she saw them, they were small and weak; but as she looked they seemed to grow and gather strength, and each gained a strange power over her. she could not drive them from her sight, and they grew ever stronger, darker, and more unlovely to her eyes. they seemed to cast black shadows over all around, to dim the sunshine, blight the flowers, and drive away all bright and lovely things; while rising slowly round her annie saw a high, dark wall, that seemed to shut out everything she loved; she dared not move, or speak, but, with a strange fear at her heart, sat watching the dim shapes that hovered round her. higher and higher rose the shadowy wall, slowly the flowers near her died, lingeringly the sunlight faded; but at last they both were gone, and left her all alone behind the gloomy wall. then the spirits gathered round her, whispering strange things in her ear, bidding her obey, for by her own will she had yielded up her heart to be their home, and she was now their slave. then she could hear no more, but, sinking down among the withered flowers, wept sad and bitter tears, for her lost liberty and joy; then through the gloom there shone a faint, soft light, and on her breast she saw her fairy flower, upon whose snow-white leaves her tears lay shining. clearer and brighter grew the radiant light, till the evil spirits turned away to the dark shadow of the wall, and left the child alone. the light and perfume of the flower seemed to bring new strength to annie, and she rose up, saying, as she bent to kiss the blossom on her breast, "dear flower, help and guide me now, and i will listen to your voice, and cheerfully obey my faithful fairy bell." then in her dream she felt how hard the spirits tried to tempt and trouble her, and how, but for her flower, they would have led her back, and made all dark and dreary as before. long and hard she struggled, and tears often fell; but after each new trial, brighter shone her magic flower, and sweeter grew its breath, while the spirits lost still more their power to tempt her. meanwhile, green, flowering vines crept up the high, dark wall, and hid its roughness from her sight; and over these she watched most tenderly, for soon, wherever green leaves and flowers bloomed, the wall beneath grew weak, and fell apart. thus little annie worked and hoped, till one by one the evil spirits fled away, and in their place came shining forms, with gentle eyes and smiling lips, who gathered round her with such loving words, and brought such strength and joy to annie's heart, that nothing evil dared to enter in; while slowly sank the gloomy wall, and, over wreaths of fragrant flowers, she passed out into the pleasant world again, the fairy gift no longer pale and drooping, but now shining like a star upon her breast. then the low voice spoke again in annie's sleeping ear, saying, "the dark, unlovely passions you have looked upon are in your heart; watch well while they are few and weak, lest they should darken your whole life, and shut out love and happiness for ever. remember well the lesson of the dream, dear child, and let the shining spirits make your heart their home." and with that voice sounding in her ear, little annie woke to find it was a dream; but like other dreams it did not pass away; and as she sat alone, bathed in the rosy morning light, and watched the forest waken into life, she thought of the strange forms she had seen, and, looking down upon the flower on her breast, she silently resolved to strive, as she had striven in her dream, to bring back light and beauty to its faded leaves, by being what the fairy hoped to render her, a patient, gentle little child. and as the thought came to her mind, the flower raised its drooping head, and, looking up into the earnest little face bent over it, seemed by its fragrant breath to answer annie's silent thought, and strengthen her for what might come. meanwhile the forest was astir, birds sang their gay good-morrows from tree to tree, while leaf and flower turned to greet the sun, who rose up smiling on the world; and so beneath the forest boughs and through the dewy fields went little annie home, better and wiser for her dream. autumn flowers were dead and gone, yellow leaves lay rustling on the ground, bleak winds went whistling through the naked trees, and cold, white winter snow fell softly down; yet now, when all without looked dark and dreary, on little annie's breast the fairy flower bloomed more beautiful than ever. the memory of her forest dream had never passed away, and through trial and temptation she had been true, and kept her resolution still unbroken; seldom now did the warning bell sound in her ear, and seldom did the flower's fragrance cease to float about her, or the fairy light to brighten all whereon it fell. so, through the long, cold winter, little annie dwelt like a sunbeam in her home, each day growing richer in the love of others, and happier in herself; often was she tempted, but, remembering her dream, she listened only to the music of the fairy bell, and the unkind thought or feeling fled away, the smiling spirits of gentleness and love nestled in her heart, and all was bright again. so better and happier grew the child, fairer and sweeter grew the flower, till spring came smiling over the earth, and woke the flowers, set free the streams, and welcomed back the birds; then daily did the happy child sit among her flowers, longing for the gentle elf to come again, that she might tell her gratitude for all the magic gift had done. at length, one day, as she sat singing in the sunny nook where all her fairest flowers bloomed, weary with gazing at the far-off sky for the little form she hoped would come, she bent to look with joyful love upon her bosom flower; and as she looked, its folded leaves spread wide apart, and, rising slowly from the deep white cup, appeared the smiling face of the lovely elf whose coming she had waited for so long. "dear annie, look for me no longer; i am here on your own breast, for you have learned to love my gift, and it has done its work most faithfully and well," the fairy said, as she looked into the happy child's bright face, and laid her little arms most tenderly about her neck. "and now have i brought another gift from fairy-land, as a fit reward for you, dear child," she said, when annie had told all her gratitude and love; then, touching the child with her shining wand, the fairy bid her look and listen silently. and suddenly the world seemed changed to annie; for the air was filled with strange, sweet sounds, and all around her floated lovely forms. in every flower sat little smiling elves, singing gayly as they rocked amid the leaves. on every breeze, bright, airy spirits came floating by; some fanned her cheek with their cool breath, and waved her long hair to and fro, while others rang the flower-bells, and made a pleasant rustling among the leaves. in the fountain, where the water danced and sparkled in the sun, astride of every drop she saw merry little spirits, who plashed and floated in the clear, cool waves, and sang as gayly as the flowers, on whom they scattered glittering dew. the tall trees, as their branches rustled in the wind, sang a low, dreamy song, while the waving grass was filled with little voices she had never heard before. butterflies whispered lovely tales in her ear, and birds sang cheerful songs in a sweet language she had never understood before. earth and air seemed filled with beauty and with music she had never dreamed of until now. "o tell me what it means, dear fairy! is it another and a lovelier dream, or is the earth in truth so beautiful as this?" she cried, looking with wondering joy upon the elf, who lay upon the flower in her breast. "yes, it is true, dear child," replied the fairy, "and few are the mortals to whom we give this lovely gift; what to you is now so full of music and of light, to others is but a pleasant summer world; they never know the language of butterfly or bird or flower, and they are blind to all that i have given you the power to see. these fair things are your friends and playmates now, and they will teach you many pleasant lessons, and give you many happy hours; while the garden where you once sat, weeping sad and bitter tears, is now brightened by your own happiness, filled with loving friends by your own kindly thoughts and feelings; and thus rendered a pleasant summer home for the gentle, happy child, whose bosom flower will never fade. and now, dear annie, i must go; but every springtime, with the earliest flowers, will i come again to visit you, and bring some fairy gift. guard well the magic flower, that i may find all fair and bright when next i come." then, with a kind farewell, the gentle fairy floated upward through the sunny air, smiling down upon the child, until she vanished in the soft, white clouds, and little annie stood alone in her enchanted garden, where all was brightened with the radiant light, and fragrant with the perfume of her fairy flower. when moonlight ceased, summer-wind laid down her rose-leaf fan, and, leaning back in her acorn cup, told this tale of ripple, the water-spirit. down in the deep blue sea lived ripple, a happy little water-spirit; all day long she danced beneath the coral arches, made garlands of bright ocean flowers, or floated on the great waves that sparkled in the sunlight; but the pastime that she loved best was lying in the many-colored shells upon the shore, listening to the low, murmuring music the waves had taught them long ago; and here for hours the little spirit lay watching the sea and sky, while singing gayly to herself. but when tempests rose, she hastened down below the stormy billows, to where all was calm and still, and with her sister spirits waited till it should be fair again, listening sadly, meanwhile, to the cries of those whom the wild waves wrecked and cast into the angry sea, and who soon came floating down, pale and cold, to the spirits' pleasant home; then they wept pitying tears above the lifeless forms, and laid them in quiet graves, where flowers bloomed, and jewels sparkled in the sand. this was ripple's only grief, and she often thought of those who sorrowed for the friends they loved, who now slept far down in the dim and silent coral caves, and gladly would she have saved the lives of those who lay around her; but the great ocean was far mightier than all the tender-hearted spirits dwelling in its bosom. thus she could only weep for them, and lay them down to sleep where no cruel waves could harm them more. one day, when a fearful storm raged far and wide, and the spirits saw great billows rolling like heavy clouds above their heads, and heard the wild winds sounding far away, down through the foaming waves a little child came floating to their home; its eyes were closed as if in sleep, the long hair fell like sea-weed round its pale, cold face, and the little hands still clasped the shells they had been gathering on the beach, when the great waves swept it into the troubled sea. with tender tears the spirits laid the little form to rest upon its bed of flowers, and, singing mournful songs, as if to make its sleep more calm and deep, watched long and lovingly above it, till the storm had died away, and all was still again. while ripple sang above the little child, through the distant roar of winds and waves she heard a wild, sorrowing voice, that seemed to call for help. long she listened, thinking it was but the echo of their own plaintive song, but high above the music still sounded the sad, wailing cry. then, stealing silently away, she glided up through foam and spray, till, through the parting clouds, the sunlight shone upon her from the tranquil sky; and, guided by the mournful sound, she floated on, till, close before her on the beach, she saw a woman stretching forth her arms, and with a sad, imploring voice praying the restless sea to give her back the little child it had so cruelly borne away. but the waves dashed foaming up among the bare rocks at her feet, mingling their cold spray with her tears, and gave no answer to her prayer. when ripple saw the mother's grief, she longed to comfort her; so, bending tenderly beside her, where she knelt upon the shore, the little spirit told her how her child lay softly sleeping, far down in a lovely place, where sorrowing tears were shed, and gentle hands laid garlands over him. but all in vain she whispered kindly words; the weeping mother only cried,-- "dear spirit, can you use no charm or spell to make the waves bring back my child, as full of life and strength as when they swept him from my side? o give me back my little child, or let me lie beside him in the bosom of the cruel sea." "most gladly will i help you if i can, though i have little power to use; then grieve no more, for i will search both earth and sea, to find some friend who can bring back all you have lost. watch daily on the shore, and if i do not come again, then you will know my search has been in vain. farewell, poor mother, you shall see your little child again, if fairy power can win him back." and with these cheering words ripple sprang into the sea; while, smiling through her tears, the woman watched the gentle spirit, till her bright crown vanished in the waves. when ripple reached her home, she hastened to the palace of the queen, and told her of the little child, the sorrowing mother, and the promise she had made. "good little ripple," said the queen, when she had told her all, "your promise never can be kept; there is no power below the sea to work this charm, and you can never reach the fire-spirits' home, to win from them a flame to warm the little body into life. i pity the poor mother, and would most gladly help her; but alas! i am a spirit like yourself, and cannot serve you as i long to do." "ah, dear queen! if you had seen her sorrow, you too would seek to keep the promise i have made. i cannot let her watch for me in vain, till i have done my best: then tell me where the fire-spirits dwell, and i will ask of them the flame that shall give life to the little child and such great happiness to the sad, lonely mother: tell me the path, and let me go." "it is far, far away, high up above the sun, where no spirit ever dared to venture yet," replied the queen. "i cannot show the path, for it is through the air. dear ripple, do not go, for you can never reach that distant place: some harm most surely will befall; and then how shall we live, without our dearest, gentlest spirit? stay here with us in your own pleasant home, and think no more of this, for i can never let you go." but ripple would not break the promise she had made, and besought so earnestly, and with such pleading words, that the queen at last with sorrow gave consent, and ripple joyfully prepared to go. she, with her sister spirits, built up a tomb of delicate, bright-colored shells, wherein the child might lie, till she should come to wake him into life; then, praying them to watch most faithfully above it, she said farewell, and floated bravely forth, on her long, unknown journey, far away. "i will search the broad earth till i find a path up to the sun, or some kind friend who will carry me; for, alas! i have no wings, and cannot glide through the blue air as through the sea," said ripple to herself, as she went dancing over the waves, which bore her swiftly onward towards a distant shore. long she journeyed through the pathless ocean, with no friends to cheer her, save the white sea-birds who went sweeping by, and only stayed to dip their wide wings at her side, and then flew silently away. sometimes great ships sailed by, and then with longing eyes did the little spirit gaze up at the faces that looked down upon the sea; for often they were kind and pleasant ones, and she gladly would have called to them and asked them to be friends. but they would never understand the strange, sweet language that she spoke, or even see the lovely face that smiled at them above the waves; her blue, transparent garments were but water to their eyes, and the pearl chains in her hair but foam and sparkling spray; so, hoping that the sea would be most gentle with them, silently she floated on her way, and left them far behind. at length green hills were seen, and the waves gladly bore the little spirit on, till, rippling gently over soft white sand, they left her on the pleasant shore. "ah, what a lovely place it is!" said ripple, as she passed through sunny valleys, where flowers began to bloom, and young leaves rustled on the trees. "why are you all so gay, dear birds?" she asked, as their cheerful voices sounded far and near; "is there a festival over the earth, that all is so beautiful and bright?" "do you not know that spring is coming? the warm winds whispered it days ago, and we are learning the sweetest songs, to welcome her when she shall come," sang the lark, soaring away as the music gushed from his little throat. "and shall i see her, violet, as she journeys over the earth?" asked ripple again. "yes, you will meet her soon, for the sunlight told me she was near; tell her we long to see her again, and are waiting to welcome her back," said the blue flower, dancing for joy on her stem, as she nodded and smiled on the spirit. "i will ask spring where the fire-spirits dwell; she travels over the earth each year, and surely can show me the way," thought ripple, as she went journeying on. soon she saw spring come smiling over the earth; sunbeams and breezes floated before, and then, with her white garments covered with flowers, with wreaths in her hair, and dew-drops and seeds falling fast from her hands the beautiful season came singing by. "dear spring, will you listen, and help a poor little spirit, who seeks far and wide for the fire-spirits' home?" cried ripple; and then told why she was there, and begged her to tell what she sought. "the fire-spirits' home is far, far away, and i cannot guide you there; but summer is coming behind me," said spring, "and she may know better than i. but i will give you a breeze to help you on your way; it will never tire nor fail, but bear you easily over land and sea. farewell, little spirit! i would gladly do more, but voices are calling me far and wide, and i cannot stay." "many thanks, kind spring!" cried ripple, as she floated away on the breeze; "give a kindly word to the mother who waits on the shore, and tell her i have not forgotten my vow, but hope soon to see her again." then spring flew on with her sunshine and flowers, and ripple went swiftly over hill and vale, till she came to the land where summer was dwelling. here the sun shone warmly down on the early fruit, the winds blew freshly over fields of fragrant hay, and rustled with a pleasant sound among the green leaves in the forests; heavy dews fell softly down at night, and long, bright days brought strength and beauty to the blossoming earth. "now i must seek for summer," said ripple, as she sailed slowly through the sunny sky. "i am here, what would you with me, little spirit?" said a musical voice in her ear; and, floating by her side, she saw a graceful form, with green robes fluttering in the air, whose pleasant face looked kindly on her, from beneath a crown of golden sunbeams that cast a warm, bright glow on all beneath. then ripple told her tale, and asked where she should go; but summer answered,-- "i can tell no more than my young sister spring where you may find the spirits that you seek; but i too, like her, will give a gift to aid you. take this sunbeam from my crown; it will cheer and brighten the most gloomy path through which you pass. farewell! i shall carry tidings of you to the watcher by the sea, if in my journey round the world i find her there." and summer, giving her the sunbeam, passed away over the distant hills, leaving all green and bright behind her. so ripple journeyed on again, till the earth below her shone with yellow harvests waving in the sun, and the air was filled with cheerful voices, as the reapers sang among the fields or in the pleasant vineyards, where purple fruit hung gleaming through the leaves; while the sky above was cloudless, and the changing forest-trees shone like a many-colored garland, over hill and plain; and here, along the ripening corn-fields, with bright wreaths of crimson leaves and golden wheat-ears in her hair and on her purple mantle, stately autumn passed, with a happy smile on her calm face, as she went scattering generous gifts from her full arms. but when the wandering spirit came to her, and asked for what she sought, this season, like the others, could not tell her where to go; so, giving her a yellow leaf, autumn said, as she passed on,-- "ask winter, little ripple, when you come to his cold home; he knows the fire-spirits well, for when he comes they fly to the earth, to warm and comfort those dwelling there; and perhaps he can tell you where they are. so take this gift of mine, and when you meet his chilly winds, fold it about you, and sit warm beneath its shelter, till you come to sunlight again. i will carry comfort to the patient woman, as my sisters have already done, and tell her you are faithful still." then on went the never-tiring breeze, over forest, hill, and field, till the sky grew dark, and bleak winds whistled by. then ripple, folded in the soft, warm leaf, looked sadly down on the earth, that seemed to lie so desolate and still beneath its shroud of snow, and thought how bitter cold the leaves and flowers must be; for the little water-spirit did not know that winter spread a soft white covering above their beds, that they might safely sleep below till spring should waken them again. so she went sorrowfully on, till winter, riding on the strong north-wind, came rushing by, with a sparkling ice-crown in his streaming hair, while from beneath his crimson cloak, where glittering frost-work shone like silver threads, he scattered snow-flakes far and wide. "what do you seek with me, fair little spirit, that you come so bravely here amid my ice and snow? do not fear me; i am warm at heart, though rude and cold without," said winter, looking kindly on her, while a bright smile shone like sunlight on his pleasant face, as it glowed and glistened in the frosty air. when ripple told him why she had come, he pointed upward, where the sunlight dimly shone through the heavy clouds, saying,-- "far off there, beside the sun, is the fire-spirits' home; and the only path is up, through cloud and mist. it is a long, strange path, for a lonely little spirit to be going; the fairies are wild, wilful things, and in their play may harm and trouble you. come back with me, and do not go this dangerous journey to the sky. i'll gladly bear you home again, if you will come." but ripple said, "i cannot turn back now, when i am nearly there. the spirits surely will not harm me, when i tell them why i am come; and if i win the flame, i shall be the happiest spirit in the sea, for my promise will be kept, and the poor mother happy once again. so farewell, winter! speak to her gently, and tell her to hope still, for i shall surely come." "adieu, little ripple! may good angels watch above you! journey bravely on, and take this snow-flake that will never melt, as my gift," winter cried, as the north-wind bore him on, leaving a cloud of falling snow behind. "now, dear breeze," said ripple, "fly straight upward through the air, until we reach the place we have so long been seeking; sunbeam shall go before to light the way, yellow-leaf shall shelter me from heat and rain, while snow-flake shall lie here beside me till it comes of use. so farewell to the pleasant earth, until we come again. and now away, up to the sun!" when ripple first began her airy journey, all was dark and dreary; heavy clouds lay piled like hills around her, and a cold mist filled the air but the sunbeam, like a star, lit up the way, the leaf lay warmly round her, and the tireless wind went swiftly on. higher and higher they floated up, still darker and darker grew the air, closer the damp mist gathered, while the black clouds rolled and tossed, like great waves, to and fro. "ah!" sighed the weary little spirit, "shall i never see the light again, or feel the warm winds on my cheek? it is a dreary way indeed, and but for the seasons' gifts i should have perished long ago; but the heavy clouds must pass away at last, and all be fair again. so hasten on, good breeze, and bring me quickly to my journey's end." soon the cold vapors vanished from her path, and sunshine shone upon her pleasantly; so she went gayly on, till she came up among the stars, where many new, strange sights were to be seen. with wondering eyes she looked upon the bright worlds that once seemed dim and distant, when she gazed upon them from the sea; but now they moved around her, some shining with a softly radiant light, some circled with bright, many-colored rings, while others burned with a red, angry glare. ripple would have gladly stayed to watch them longer, for she fancied low, sweet voices called her, and lovely faces seemed to look upon her as she passed; but higher up still, nearer to the sun, she saw a far-off light, that glittered like a brilliant crimson star, and seemed to cast a rosy glow along the sky. "the fire-spirits surely must be there, and i must stay no longer here," said ripple. so steadily she floated on, till straight before her lay a broad, bright path, that led up to a golden arch, beyond which she could see shapes flitting to and fro. as she drew near, brighter glowed the sky, hotter and hotter grew the air, till ripple's leaf-cloak shrivelled up, and could no longer shield her from the heat; then she unfolded the white snow-flake, and, gladly wrapping the soft, cool mantle round her, entered through the shining arch. through the red mist that floated all around her, she could see high walls of changing light, where orange, blue, and violet flames went flickering to and fro, making graceful figures as they danced and glowed; and underneath these rainbow arches, little spirits glided, far and near, wearing crowns of fire, beneath which flashed their wild, bright eyes; and as they spoke, sparks dropped quickly from their lips, and ripple saw with wonder, through their garments of transparent light, that in each fairy's breast there burned a steady flame, that never wavered or went out. as thus she stood, the spirits gathered round her, and their hot breath would have scorched her, but she drew the snow-cloak closer round her, saying,-- "take me to your queen, that i may tell her why i am here, and ask for what i seek." so, through long halls of many-colored fire, they led her to a spirit fairer than the rest, whose crown of flames waved to and fro like golden plumes, while, underneath her violet robe, the light within her breast glowed bright and strong. "this is our queen," the spirits said, bending low before her, as she turned her gleaming eyes upon the stranger they had brought. then ripple told how she had wandered round the world in search of them, how the seasons had most kindly helped her on, by giving sun-beam, breeze, leaf, and flake; and how, through many dangers, she had come at last to ask of them the magic flame that could give life to the little child again. when she had told her tale, the spirits whispered earnestly among themselves, while sparks fell thick and fast with every word; at length the fire-queen said aloud,-- "we cannot give the flame you ask, for each of us must take a part of it from our own breasts; and this we will not do, for the brighter our bosom-fire burns, the lovelier we are. so do not ask us for this thing; but any other gift we will most gladly give, for we feel kindly towards you, and will serve you if we may." but ripple asked no other boon, and, weeping sadly, begged them not to send her back without the gift she had come so far to gain. "o dear, warm-hearted spirits! give me each a little light from your own breasts, and surely they will glow the brighter for this kindly deed; and i will thankfully repay it if i can." as thus she spoke, the queen, who had spied out a chain of jewels ripple wore upon her neck, replied,-- "if you will give me those bright, sparkling stones, i will bestow on you a part of my own flame; for we have no such lovely things to wear about our necks, and i desire much to have them. will you give it me for what i offer, little spirit?" joyfully ripple gave her the chain; but, as soon as it touched her hand, the jewels melted like snow, and fell in bright drops to the ground; at this the queen's eyes flashed, and the spirits gathered angrily about poor ripple, who looked sadly at the broken chain, and thought in vain what she could give, to win the thing she longed so earnestly for. "i have many fairer gems than these, in my home below the sea; and i will bring all i can gather far and wide, if you will grant my prayer, and give me what i seek," she said, turning gently to the fiery spirits, who were hovering fiercely round her. "you must bring us each a jewel that will never vanish from our hands as these have done," they said, "and we will each give of our fire; and when the child is brought to life, you must bring hither all the jewels you can gather from the depths of the sea, that we may try them here among the flames; but if they melt away like these, then we shall keep you prisoner, till you give us back the light we lend. if you consent to this, then take our gift, and journey home again; but fail not to return, or we shall seek you out." and ripple said she would consent, though she knew not if the jewels could be found; still, thinking of the promise she had made, she forgot all else, and told the spirits what they asked most surely should be done. so each one gave a little of the fire from their breasts, and placed the flame in a crystal vase, through which it shone and glittered like a star. then, bidding her remember all she had promised them, they led her to the golden arch, and said farewell. so, down along the shining path, through mist and cloud, she travelled back; till, far below, she saw the broad blue sea she left so long ago. gladly she plunged into the clear, cool waves, and floated back to her pleasant home; where the spirits gathered joyfully about her, listening with tears and smiles, as she told all her many wanderings, and showed the crystal vase that she had brought. "now come," said they, "and finish the good work you have so bravely carried on." so to the quiet tomb they went, where, like a marble image, cold and still, the little child was lying. then ripple placed the flame upon his breast, and watched it gleam and sparkle there, while light came slowly back into the once dim eyes, a rosy glow shone over the pale face, and breath stole through the parted lips; still brighter and warmer burned the magic fire, until the child awoke from his long sleep, and looked in smiling wonder at the faces bending over him. then ripple sang for joy, and, with her sister spirits, robed the child in graceful garments, woven of bright sea-weed, while in his shining hair they wreathed long garlands of their fairest flowers, and on his little arms hung chains of brilliant shells. "now come with us, dear child," said ripple; "we will bear you safely up into the sunlight and the pleasant air; for this is not your home, and yonder, on the shore, there waits a loving friend for you." so up they went, through foam and spray, till on the beach, where the fresh winds played among her falling hair, and the waves broke sparkling at her feet, the lonely mother still stood, gazing wistfully across the sea. suddenly, upon a great blue billow that came rolling in, she saw the water-spirits smiling on her; and high aloft, in their white gleaming arms, her child stretched forth his hands to welcome her; while the little voice she so longed to hear again cried gayly,-- "see, dear mother, i am come; and look what lovely things the gentle spirits gave, that i might seem more beautiful to you." then gently the great wave broke, and rolled back to the sea, leaving ripple on the shore, and the child clasped in his mother's arms. "o faithful little spirit! i would gladly give some precious gift to show my gratitude for this kind deed; but i have nothing save this chain of little pearls: they are the tears i shed, and the sea has changed them thus, that i might offer them to you," the happy mother said, when her first joy was passed, and ripple turned to go. "yes, i will gladly wear your gift, and look upon it as my fairest ornament," the water-spirit said; and with the pearls upon her breast, she left the shore, where the child was playing gayly to and fro, and the mother's glad smile shone upon her, till she sank beneath the waves. and now another task was to be done; her promise to the fire-spirits must be kept. so far and wide she searched among the caverns of the sea, and gathered all the brightest jewels shining there; and then upon her faithful breeze once more went journeying through the sky. the spirits gladly welcomed her, and led her to the queen, before whom she poured out the sparkling gems she had gathered with such toil and care; but when the spirits tried to form them into crowns, they trickled from their hands like colored drops of dew, and ripple saw with fear and sorrow how they melted one by one away, till none of all the many she had brought remained. then the fire-spirits looked upon her angrily, and when she begged them to be merciful, and let her try once more, saying,-- "do not keep me prisoner here. i cannot breathe the flames that give you life, and but for this snow-mantle i too should melt away, and vanish like the jewels in your hands. o dear spirits, give me some other task, but let me go from this warm place, where all is strange and fearful to a spirit of the sea." they would not listen; and drew nearer, saying, while bright sparks showered from their lips, "we will not let you go, for you have promised to be ours if the gems you brought proved worthless; so fling away this cold white cloak, and bathe with us in the fire fountains, and help us bring back to our bosom flames the light we gave you for the child." then ripple sank down on the burning floor, and felt that her life was nearly done; for she well knew the hot air of the fire-palace would be death to her. the spirits gathered round, and began to lift her mantle off; but underneath they saw the pearl chain, shining with a clear, soft light, that only glowed more brightly when they laid their hands upon it. "o give us this!" cried they; "it is far lovelier than all the rest, and does not melt away like them; and see how brilliantly it glitters in our hands. if we may but have this, all will be well, and you are once more free." and ripple, safe again beneath her snow flake, gladly gave the chain to them; and told them how the pearls they now placed proudly on their breasts were formed of tears, which but for them might still be flowing. then the spirits smiled most kindly on her, and would have put their arms about her, and have kissed her cheek, but she drew back, telling them that every touch of theirs was like a wound to her. "then, if we may not tell our pleasure so, we will show it in a different way, and give you a pleasant journey home. come out with us," the spirits said, "and see the bright path we have made for you." so they led her to the lofty gate, and here, from sky to earth, a lovely rainbow arched its radiant colors in the sun. "this is indeed a pleasant road," said ripple. "thank you, friendly spirits, for your care; and now farewell. i would gladly stay yet longer, but we cannot dwell together, and i am longing sadly for my own cool home. now sunbeam, breeze, leaf, and flake, fly back to the seasons whence you came, and tell them that, thanks to their kind gifts, ripple's work at last is done." then down along the shining pathway spread before her, the happy little spirit glided to the sea. "thanks, dear summer-wind," said the queen; "we will remember the lessons you have each taught us, and when next we meet in fern dale, you shall tell us more. and now, dear trip, call them from the lake, for the moon is sinking fast, and we must hasten home." the elves gathered about their queen, and while the rustling leaves were still, and the flowers' sweet voices mingled with their own, they sang this fairy song. the moonlight fades from flower and tree, and the stars dim one by one; the tale is told, the song is sung, and the fairy feast is done. the night-wind rocks the sleeping flowers, and sings to them, soft and low. the early birds erelong will wake: 't is time for the elves to go. o'er the sleeping earth we silently pass, unseen by mortal eye, and send sweet dreams, as we lightly float through the quiet moonlit sky;-- for the stars' soft eyes alone may see, and the flowers alone may know, the feasts we hold, the tales we tell: so 't is time for the elves to go. from bird, and blossom, and bee, we learn the lessons they teach; and seek, by kindly deeds, to win a loving friend in each. and though unseen on earth we dwell, sweet voices whisper low, and gentle hearts most joyously greet the elves where'er they go. when next we meet in the fairy dell, may the silver moon's soft light shine then on faces gay as now, and elfin hearts as light. now spread each wing, for the eastern sky with sunlight soon will glow. the morning star shall light us home: farewell! for the elves must go. as the music ceased, with a soft, rustling sound the elves spread their shining wings, and flew silently over the sleeping earth; the flowers closed their bright eyes, the little winds were still, for the feast was over, and the fairy lessons ended. none not quite eighteen. [illustration: the fox stared at her, and she stared back at the fox.--page .] not quite eighteen. by susan coolidge, author of "what katy did," "the new year's bargain," "the barberry bush," "a guernsey lily," "in the high valley," etc. boston: roberts brothers. . _copyright, _, by roberts brothers. university press: john wilson and son, cambridge, u.s.a. contents. page i. how bunny brought good luck ii. a bit of wilfulness iii. the wolves of st. gervas iv. three little candles v. uncle and aunt vi. the corn-ball money vii. the prize girl of the harnessing class viii. dolly phone ix. a nursery tyrant x. what the pink flamingo did xi. two pairs of eyes xii. the pony that kept the store xiii. pink and scarlet xiv. dolly's lesson xv. a blessing in disguise xvi. a granted wish how bunny brought good luck. it was midsummer's day, that delightful point toward which the whole year climbs, and from which it slips off like an ebbing wave in the direction of the distant winter. no wonder that superstitious people in old times gave this day to the fairies, for it is the most beautiful day of all. the world seems full of bird-songs, sunshine, and flower-smells then; storm and sorrow appear impossible things; the barest and ugliest spot takes on a brief charm and, for the moment, seems lovely and desirable. "that's a picturesque old place," said a lady on the back seat of the big wagon in which hiram swift was taking his summer boarders to drive. they were passing a low, wide farmhouse, gray from want of paint, with a shabby barn and sheds attached, all overarched by tall elms. the narrow hay-field and the vegetable-patch ended in a rocky hillside, with its steep ledges, overgrown and topped with tall pines and firs, which made a dense green background to the old buildings. "i don't know about its being like a picter," said hiram, dryly, as he flicked away a fly from the shoulder of his horse, "but it isn't much by way of a farm. that bit of hay-field is about all the land there is that's worth anything; the rest is all rock. i guess the widow gale doesn't take much comfort in its bein' picturesque. she'd be glad enough to have the land made flat, if she could." "oh, is that the gale farm, where the silver-mine is said to be?" "yes, marm; at least, it's the farm where the man lived that, 'cordin' to what folks say, said he'd found a silver-mine. i don't take a great deal of stock in the story myself." "a silver-mine! that sounds interesting," said a pretty girl on the front seat, who had been driving the horses half the way, aided and abetted by hiram, with whom she was a prime favorite. "tell me about it, mr. swift. is it a story, and when did it all happen?" "well, i don't know as it ever did happen," responded the farmer, cautiously. "all i know for certain is, that my father used to tell a story that, before i was born (nigh on to sixty years ago, that must have been), squire asy allen--that used to live up to that red house on north street, where you bought the crockery mug, you know, miss rose--come up one day in a great hurry to catch the stage, with a lump of rock tied in his handkerchief. old roger gale had found it, he said, and they thought it was silver ore; and the squire was a-takin' it down to new haven to get it analyzed. my father, he saw the rock, but he didn't think much of it from the looks, till the squire got back ten days afterward and said the new haven professor pronounced it silver, sure enough, and a rich specimen; and any man who owned a mine of it had his fortune made, he said. then, of course, the township got excited, and everybody talked silver, and there was a great to-do." "and why didn't they go to work on the mine at once?" asked the pretty girl. "well, you see, unfortunately, no one knew where it was, and old roger gale had taken that particular day, of all others, to fall off his hay-riggin' and break his neck, and he hadn't happened to mention to any one before doing so where he found the rock! he was a close-mouthed old chap, roger was. for ten years after that, folks that hadn't anything else to do went about hunting for the silver-mine, but they gradooally got tired, and now it's nothin' more than an old story. does to amuse boarders with in the summer," concluded mr. swift, with a twinkle. "for my part, i don't believe there ever was a mine." "but there was the piece of ore to prove it." "oh, that don't prove anything, because it got lost. no one knows what became of it. an' sixty years is long enough for a story to get exaggerated in." "i don't see why there shouldn't be silver in beulah township," remarked the lady on the back seat. "you have all kinds of other minerals here,--soapstone and mica and emery and tourmalines and beryls." "well, ma'am, i don't see nuther, unless, mebbe, it's the lord's will there shouldn't be." "it would be so interesting if the mine could be found!" said the pretty girl. "it would be _so_, especially to the gale family,--that is, if it was found on their land. the widow's a smart, capable woman, but it's as much as she can do, turn and twist how she may, to make both ends meet. and there's that boy of hers, a likely boy as ever you see, and just hungry for book-l'arnin', the minister says. the chance of an eddication would be just everything to him, and the widow can't give him one." "it's really a romance," said the pretty girl, carelessly, the wants and cravings of others slipping off her young sympathies easily. then the horses reached the top of the long hill they had been climbing, hiram put on the brake, and they began to grind down a hill equally long, with a soft panorama of plumy tree-clad summits before them, shimmering in the june sunshine. drives in beulah township were apt to be rather perpendicular, however you took them. some one, high up on the hill behind the farmhouse, heard the clank of the brakes, and lifted up her head to listen. it was hester gale,--a brown little girl, with quick dark eyes, and a mane of curly chestnut hair, only too apt to get into tangles. she was just eight years old, and to her the old farmstead, which the neighbors scorned as worthless, was a sort of enchanted land, full of delights and surprises,--hiding-places which no one but herself knew, rocks and thickets where she was sure real fairies dwelt, and cubby-houses sacred to the use of "bunny," who was her sole playmate and companion, and the confidant to whom she told all her plans and secrets. bunny was a doll,--an old-fashioned doll, carved out of a solid piece of hickory-wood, with a stern expression of face, and a perfectly unyielding figure; but a doll whom hester loved above all things. her mother and her mother's mother had played with bunny, but this only made her the dearer. the two sat together between the gnarled roots of an old spruce which grew near the edge of a steep little cliff. it was one of the loneliest parts of the rocky hillside, and the hardest to get at. hester liked it better than any of her other hiding-places, because no one but herself ever came there. bunny lay in her lap, and hester was in the middle of a story, when she stopped to listen to the wagon grinding down-hill. "so the little chicken said, 'peep! peep!' and started off to see what the big yellow fox was like," she went on. "that was a silly thing for her to do, wasn't it, bunny? because foxes aren't a bit nice to chickens. but the little chicken didn't know any better, and she wouldn't listen to the old hens when they told her how foolish she was. that was wrong, because it's naughty to dis--dis--apute your elders, mother says; children that do are almost always sorry afterward. "well, she hadn't gone far before she heard a rustle in the bushes on one side. she thought it was the fox, and then she _did_ feel frightened, you'd better believe, and all the things she meant to say to him went straight out of her head. but it wasn't the fox that time; it was a teeny-weeny little striped squirrel, and he just said, 'it's a sightly day, isn't it?' and, without waiting for an answer, ran up a tree. so the chicken didn't mind _him_ a bit. "then, by and by, when she had gone a long way farther off from home, she heard another rustle. it was just like--oh, what's that, bunny?" hester stopped short, and i am sorry to say that bunny never heard the end of the chicken story, for the rustle resolved itself into--what do you think? it was a fox! a real fox! there he stood on the hillside, gazing straight at hester, with his yellow brush waving behind him, and his eyes looking as sharp as the row of gleaming teeth beneath them. foxes were rare animals in the beulah region. hester had never seen one before; but she had seen the picture of a fox in one of roger's books, so she knew what it was. the fox stared at her, and she stared back at the fox. then her heart melted with fear, like the heart of the little chicken, and she jumped to her feet, forgetting bunny, who fell from her lap, and rolled unobserved over the edge of the cliff. the sudden movement startled the fox, and he disappeared into the bushes with a wave of his yellow brush; just how or where he went, hester could not have told. "how sorry roger will be that he wasn't here to see him!" was her first thought. her second was for bunny. she turned, and stooped to pick up the doll--and lo! bunny was not there. high and low she searched, beneath grass tangles, under "juniper saucers," among the stems of the thickly massed blueberries and hardhacks, but nowhere was bunny to be seen. she peered over the ledge, but nothing met her eyes below but a thick growth of blackish, stunted evergreens. this place "down below" had been a sort of terror to hester's imagination always, as an entirely unknown and unexplored region; but in the cause of the beloved bunny she was prepared to risk anything, and she bravely made ready to plunge into the depths. it was not so easy to plunge, however. the cliff was ten or twelve feet in height where she stood, and ran for a considerable distance to right and left without getting lower. this way and that she quested, and at last found a crevice where it was possible to scramble down,--a steep little crevice, full of blackberry briers, which scratched her face and tore her frock. when at last she gained the lower bank, this further difficulty presented itself: she could not tell where she was. the evergreen thicket nearly met over her head, the branches got into her eyes, and buffeted and bewildered her. she could not make out the place where she had been sitting, and no signs of bunny could be found. at last, breathless with exertion, tired, hot, and hopeless, she made her way out of the thicket, and went, crying, home to her mother. she was still crying, and refusing to be comforted, when roger came in from milking. he was sorry for hester, but not so sorry as he would have been had his mind not been full of troubles of his own. he tried to console her with a vague promise of helping her to look for bunny "some day when there wasn't so much to do." but this was cold comfort, and, in the end, hester went to bed heartbroken, to sob herself to sleep. "mother," said roger, after she had gone, "jim boies is going to his uncle's, in new ipswich, in september, to do chores and help round a little, and to go all winter to the academy." the new ipswich academy was quite a famous school then, and to go there was a great chance for a studious boy. "that's a bit of good luck for jim." "yes; first-rate." "not quite so first-rate for you." "no" (gloomily). "i shall miss jim. he's always been my best friend among the boys. but what makes me mad is that he doesn't care a bit about going. mother, why doesn't good luck ever come to us gales?" "it was good luck for me when you came, roger. i don't know how i should get along without you." "i'd be worth a great deal more to you if i could get a chance at any sort of schooling. doesn't it seem hard, mother? there's squire dennis and farmer atwater, and half a dozen others in this township, who are all ready to send their boys to college, and the boys don't want to go! bob dennis says that he'd far rather do teaming in the summer, and take the girls up to singing practice at the church, than go to all the harvards and yales in the world; and i, who'd give my head, almost, to go to college, can't! it doesn't seem half right, mother." "no, roger, it doesn't; not a quarter. there are a good many things that don't seem right in this world, but i don't know who's to mend 'em. i can't. the only way is to dig along hard and do what's to be done as well as you can, whatever it is, and make the best of your 'musts.' there's always a 'must.' i suppose rich people have them as well as poor ones." "rich people's boys can go to college." "yes,--and mine can't. i'd sell all we've got to send you, roger, since your heart is so set on it, but this poor little farm wouldn't be half enough, even if any one wanted to buy it, which isn't likely. it's no use talking about it, roger; it only makes both of us feel bad.--did you kill the 'broilers' for the hotel?" she asked with a sudden change of tone. "no, not yet." "go and do it, then, right away. you'll have to carry them down early with the eggs. four pairs, roger. chickens are the best crop we can raise on this farm." "if we could find great-uncle roger's mine, we'd eat the chickens ourselves," said roger, as he reluctantly turned to go. "yes, and if that apple-tree'd take to bearing gold apples, we wouldn't have to work at all. hurry and do your chores before dark, roger." mrs. gale was a spartan in her methods, but, for all that, she sighed a bitter sigh as roger went out of the door. "he's such a smart boy," she told herself, "there's nothing he couldn't do,--nothing, if he had a chance. i do call it hard. the folks who have plenty of money to do with have dull boys; and i, who've got a bright one, can't do anything for him! it seems as if things weren't justly arranged." hester spent all her spare time during the next week in searching for the lost bunny. it rained hard one day, and all the following night; she could not sleep for fear that bunny was getting wet, and looked so pale in the morning that her mother forbade her going to the hill. "your feet were sopping when you came in yesterday," she said; "and that's the second apron you've torn. you'll just have to let bunny go, hester; no two ways about it." then hester moped and grieved and grew thin, and at last she fell ill. it was low fever, the doctor said. several days went by, and she was no better. one noon, roger came in from haying to find his mother with her eyes looking very much troubled. "hester is light-headed," she said; "we must have the doctor again." roger went in to look at the child, who was lying in a little bedroom off the kitchen. the small, flushed face on the pillow did not light up at his approach. on the contrary, hester's eyes, which were unnaturally big and bright, looked past and beyond him. "hessie, dear, don't you know roger?" "he said he'd find bunny for me some day," muttered the little voice; "but he never did. oh, i wish he would!--i wish he would! i do want her so much!" then she rambled on about foxes, and the old spruce-tree, and the rocks,--always with the refrain, "i wish i had bunny; i want her so much!" "mother, i do believe it's that wretched old doll she's fretted herself sick over," said roger, going back into the kitchen. "now, i'll tell you what! mr. hinsdale's going up to the town this noon, and he'll leave word for the doctor to come; and the minute i've swallowed my dinner, i'm going up to the hill to find bunny. i don't believe hessie'll get any better till she's found." "very well," said mrs. gale. "i suppose the hay'll be spoiled, but we've got to get hessie cured at any price." "oh, i'll find the doll. i know about where hessie was when she lost it. and the hay'll take no harm. i only got a quarter of the field cut, and it's good drying weather." roger made haste with his dinner. his conscience pricked him as he remembered his neglected promise and his indifference to hester's griefs; he felt in haste to make amends. he went straight to the old spruce, which, he had gathered from hester's rambling speech, was the scene of bunny's disappearance. it was easily found, being the oldest and largest on the hillside. roger had brought a stout stick with him, and now, leaning over the cliff edge, he tried to poke with it in the branches below, while searching for the dolly. but the stick was not long enough, and slipped through his fingers, disappearing suddenly and completely through the evergreens. "hallo!" cried roger. "there must be a hole there of some sort. bunny's at the bottom of it, no doubt. here goes to find her!" his longer legs made easy work of the steep descent which had so puzzled his little sister. presently he stood, waist-deep, in tangled hemlock boughs, below the old spruce. he parted the bushes in advance, and moved cautiously forward, step by step. he felt a cavity just before him, but the thicket was so dense that he could see nothing. feeling for his pocket-knife, which luckily was a stout one, he stood still, cutting, slashing, and breaking off the tough boughs, and throwing them on one side. it was hard work, but after ten minutes a space was cleared which let in a ray of light, and, with a hot, red face and surprised eyes, roger gale stooped over the edge of a rocky cavity, on the sides of which something glittered and shone. he swung himself over the edge, and dropped into the hole, which was but a few feet deep. his foot struck on something hard as he landed. he stooped to pick it up, and his hand encountered a soft substance. he lifted both objects out together. the soft substance was a doll's woollen frock. there, indeed, was the lost bunny, looking no whit the worse for her adventures, and the hard thing on which her wooden head had lain was a pickaxe,--an old iron pick, red with rust. three letters were rudely cut on the handle,--r. p. g. they were roger's own initials. roger perkins gale. it had been his father's name also, and that of the great-uncle after whom they both were named. with an excited cry, roger stooped again, and lifted out of the hole a lump of quartz mingled with ore. suddenly he realized where he was and what he had found. this was the long lost silver-mine, whose finding and whose disappearance had for so many years been a tradition in the township. here it was that old roger gale had found his "speciment," knocked off probably with that very pick, and, covering up all traces of his discovery, had gone sturdily off to his farm-work, to meet his death next week on the hay-rigging, with the secret locked within his breast. for sixty years the evergreen thicket had grown and toughened and guarded the hidden cavity beneath its roots; and it might easily have done so for sixty years longer, if bunny,--little wooden bunny, with her lack-lustre eyes and expressionless features,--had not led the way into its tangles. hester got well. when roger placed the doll in her arms, she seemed to come to herself, fondled and kissed her, and presently dropped into a satisfied sleep, from which she awoke conscious and relieved. the "mine" did not prove exactly a mine,--it was not deep or wide enough for that; but the ore in it was rich in quality, and the news of its finding made a great stir in the neighborhood. mrs. gale was offered a price for her hillside which made her what she considered a rich woman, and she was wise enough to close with the offer at once, and neither stand out for higher terms nor risk the chance of mining on her own account. she and her family left the quiet little farmhouse soon after that, and went to live in worcester. roger had all the schooling he desired, and made ready for harvard and the law-school, where he worked hard, and laid the foundations of what has since proved a brilliant career. you may be sure that bunny went to worcester also, treated and regarded as one of the most valued members of the family. hester took great care of her, and so did hester's little girl later on; and even mrs. gale spoke respectfully of her always, and treated her with honor. for was it not bunny who broke the long spell of evil fate, and brought good luck back to the gale family? a bit of wilfulness. there was a great excitement in the keene's pleasant home at wrentham, one morning, about three years ago. the servants were hard at work, making everything neat and orderly. the children buzzed about like active flies, for in the evening some one was coming whom none of them had as yet seen,--a new mamma, whom their father had just married. the three older children remembered their own mamma pretty well; to the babies, she was only a name. janet, the eldest, recollected her best of all, and the idea of somebody coming to take her place did not please her at all. this was not from a sense of jealousy for the mother who was gone, but rather from a jealousy for herself; for since mrs. keene's death, three years before, janet had done pretty much as she liked, and the idea of control and interference aroused within her, in advance, the spirit of resistance. janet's father was a busy lawyer, and had little time to give to the study of his children's characters. he liked to come home at night, after a hard day at his office, or in the courts, and find a nicely arranged table and room, and a bright fire in the grate, beside which he could read his newspaper without interruption, just stopping now and then to say a word to the children, or have a frolic with the younger ones before they went to bed. old maria, who had been nurse to all the five in turn, managed the housekeeping; and so long as there was no outward disturbance, mr. keene asked no questions. he had no idea that janet, in fact, ruled the family. she was only twelve, but she had the spirit of a dictator, and none of the little ones dared to dispute her will or to complain. in fact, there was not often cause for complaint. when janet was not opposed, she was both kind and amusing. she had much sense and capacity for a child of her years, and her brothers and sisters were not old enough to detect the mistakes which she sometimes made. and now a stepmother was coming to spoil all this, as janet thought. her meditations, as she dusted the china and arranged the flowers, ran something after this fashion: "she's only twenty-one, papa said, and that's only nine years older than i am, and nine years isn't much. i'm not going to call her 'mamma,' anyway. i shall call her 'jerusha,' from the very first; for maria said that jessie was only a nickname, and i hate nicknames. i know she'll want me to begin school next fall, but i don't mean to, for she don't know anything about the schools here, and i can judge better than she can. there, that looks nice!" putting a tall spike of lilies in a pale green vase. "now i'll dress baby and little jim, and we shall all be ready when they come." it was exactly six, that loveliest hour of a lovely june day, when the carriage stopped at the gate. mr. keene helped his wife out, and looked eagerly toward the piazza, on which the five children were grouped. "well, my dears," he cried, "how do you do? why don't you come and kiss your new mamma?" they all came obediently, pretty little jim and baby alice, hand in hand, then harry and mabel, and, last of all, janet. the little ones shyly allowed themselves to be kissed, saying nothing, but janet, true to her resolution, returned her stepmother's salute in a matter-of-fact way, kissed her father, and remarked: "do come in, papa; jerusha must be tired!" mr. keene gave an amazed look at his wife. the corners of her mouth twitched, and janet thought wrathfully, "i do believe she is laughing at me!" but mrs. keene stifled the laugh, and, taking little alice's hand, led the way into the house. "oh, how nice, how pretty!" were her first words. "look at the flowers, james! did you arrange them, janet? i suspect you did." "yes," said janet; "i did them all." "thank you, dear," said mrs. keene, and stooped to kiss her again. it was an affectionate kiss, and janet had to confess to herself that this new--person was pleasant looking. she had pretty brown hair and eyes, a warm glow of color in a pair of round cheeks, and an expression at once sweet and sensible and decided. it was a face full of attraction; the younger children felt it, and began to sidle up and cuddle against the new mamma. janet felt the attraction, too, but she resisted it. "don't squeeze jerusha in that way," she said to mabel; "you are creasing her jacket. jim, come here, you are in the way." "janet," said mr. keene, in a voice of displeasure, "what do you mean by calling your mother 'jerusha'?" "she isn't my real mother," explained janet, defiantly. "i don't want to call her 'mamma;' she's too young." mrs. keene laughed,--she couldn't help it. "we will settle by and by what you shall call me," she said. "but, janet, it can't be jerusha, for that is not my name. i was baptized jessie." "i shall call you mrs. keene, then," said janet, mortified, but persistent. her stepmother looked pained, but she said no more. none of the other children made any difficulty about saying "mamma" to this sweet new friend. jessie keene was the very woman to "mother" a family of children. bright and tender and firm all at once, she was playmate to them as well as authority, and in a very little while they all learned to love her dearly,--all but janet; and even she, at times, found it hard to resist this influence, which was at the same time so strong and so kind. still, she did resist, and the result was constant discomfort to both parties. to the younger children the new mamma brought added happiness, because they yielded to her wise and reasonable authority. to janet she brought only friction and resentment, because she would not yield. so two months passed. late in august, mr. and mrs keene started on a short journey which was to keep them away from home for two days. just as the carriage was driving away, mrs. keene suddenly said,-- "oh, janet! i forgot to say that i would rather you didn't go see ellen colton while we are away, or let any of the other children. please tell nurse about it." "why mustn't i?" demanded janet. "because--" began her mother, but mr. keene broke in. "never mind 'becauses,' jessie; we must be off. it's enough for you, janet, that your mother orders it. and see that you do as she says." "it's a shame!" muttered janet, as she slowly went back to the house. "i always have gone to see ellen whenever i liked. no one ever stopped me before. i don't think it's a bit fair; and i wish papa wouldn't speak to me like that before--her." gradually she worked herself into a strong fit of ill-temper. all day long she felt a growing sense of injury, and she made up her mind not to bear it. next morning, in a towering state of self-will, she marched straight down to the coltons, resolved at least to find out the meaning of this vexatious prohibition. no one was on the piazza, and janet ran up-stairs to ellen's room, expecting to find her studying her lessons. no; ellen was in the bed, fast asleep. janet took a story-book, and sat down beside her. "she'll be surprised when she wakes up," she thought. the book proved interesting, and janet read on for nearly half an hour before mrs. colton came in with a cup and spoon in her hand. she gave a scream when she saw janet. "mercy!" she cried, "what are you doing here? didn't your ma tell you? ellen's got scarlet-fever." "no, she didn't tell me _that_. she only said i mustn't come here." "and why did you come?" somehow janet found it hard to explain, even to herself, why she had been so determined not to obey. very sorrowfully she walked homeward. she had sense enough to know how dreadful might be the result of her disobedience, and she felt humble and wretched. "oh, if only i hadn't!" was the language of her heart. the little ones had gone out to play. janet hurried to her own room, and locked the door. "i won't see any of them till papa comes," she thought. "then perhaps they won't catch it from me." she watched from the window till maria came out to hang something on the clothesline, and called to her. "i'm not coming down to dinner," she said. "will you please bring me some, and leave it by my door? no, i'm not ill, but there are reasons. i'd rather not tell anybody about them but mamma." "sakes alive!" said old maria to herself, "she called missus 'mamma.' the skies must be going to fall." mrs. keene's surprise may be imagined at finding janet thus, in a state of voluntary quarantine. "i am so sorry," she said, when she had listened to her confession. "most sorry of all for you, my child, because you may have to bear the worst penalty. but it was brave and thoughtful in you to shut yourself up to spare the little ones, dear janet." "oh, mamma!" cried janet, bursting into tears. "how kind you are not to scold me! i have been so horrid to you always." all the pride and hardness were melted out of her now, and for the first time she clung to her stepmother with a sense of protection and comfort. janet said afterwards, that the fortnight which she spent in her room, waiting to know if she had caught the fever, was one of the nicest times she ever had. the children and the servants, and even papa, kept away from her, but mrs. keene came as often and stayed as long as she could; and, thrown thus upon her sole companionship, janet found out the worth of this dear, kind stepmother. she did _not_ have scarlet-fever, and at the end of three weeks was allowed to go back to her old ways, but with a different spirit. "i can't think why i didn't love you sooner," she told mamma once. "i think i know," replied mrs. keene, smiling. "that stiff little will was in the way. you willed not to like me, and it was easy to obey your will; but now you will to love me, and loving is as easy as unloving was." the wolves of st. gervas. there never seemed a place more in need of something to make it merry than was the little swiss hamlet of st. gervas toward the end of march, some years since. the winter had been the hardest ever known in the bernese oberland. ever since november the snow had fallen steadily, with few intermissions, and the fierce winds from the breithorn and the st. theodule pass had blown day and night, and the drifts deepened in the valleys, and the icicles on the eaves of the chalets grown thicker and longer. the old wives had quoted comforting saws about a "white michaelmas making a brown easter;" but easter was at hand now, and there were no signs of relenting yet. week after week the strong men had sallied forth with shovels and pickaxes to dig out the half-buried dwellings, and to open the paths between them, which had grown so deep that they seemed more like trenches than footways. month after month the intercourse between neighbors had become more difficult and meetings less frequent. people looked over the white wastes at each other, the children ran to the doors and shouted messages across the snow, but no one was brave enough to face the cold and the drifts. even the village inn was deserted. occasionally some hardy wayfarer came by and stopped for a mug of beer and to tell dame ursel, the landlady, how deep the snows were, how black clouds lay to the north, betokening another fall, and that the shoulders and flanks of the matterhorn were whiter than man had ever seen them before. then he would struggle on his way, and perhaps two or three days would pass before another guest crossed the threshold. it was a sad change for the kröne, whose big sanded kitchen was usually crowded with jolly peasants, and full of laughter and jest, the clinking of glasses, and the smoke from long pipes. dame ursel felt it keenly. but such jolly meetings were clearly impossible now. the weather was too hard. women could not easily make their way through the snow, and they dared not let the children play even close to the doors; for as the wind blew strongly down from the sheltering forest on the hill above, which was the protection of st. gervas from landslides and avalanches, shrill yelping cries would ever and anon be heard, which sounded very near. the mothers listened with a shudder, for it was known that the wolves, driven by hunger, had ventured nearer to the hamlet than they had ever before done, and were there just above on the hillside, waiting to make a prey of anything not strong enough to protect itself against them. "three pigs have they carried off since christmas," said mère kronk, "and one of those the pig of a widow! two sheep and a calf have they also taken; and only night before last they all but got at the alleene's cow. matters have come to a pass indeed in st. gervas, if cows are to be devoured in our very midst! toinette and pertal, come in at once! thou must not venture even so far as the doorstep unless thy father be along, and he with his rifle over his shoulder, if he wants me to sleep of nights." "oh, dear!" sighed little toinette for the hundredth time. "how i wish the dear summer would come! then the wolves would go away, and we could run about as we used, and gretchen slaut and i go to the alp for berries. it seems as if it had been winter forever and ever. i haven't seen gretchen or little marie for two whole weeks. _their_ mother, too, is fearful of the wolves." all the mothers in st. gervas were fearful of the wolves. the little hamlet was, as it were, in a state of siege. winter, the fierce foe, was the besieger. month by month he had drawn his lines nearer, and made them stronger; the only hope was in the rescue which spring might bring. like a beleaguered garrison, whose hopes and provisions are running low, the villagers looked out with eager eyes for the signs of coming help, and still the snows fell, and the help did not come. how fared it meanwhile in the forest slopes above? it is not a sin for a wolf to be hungry, any more than it is for a man; and the wolves of st. gervas were ravenous indeed. all their customary supplies were cut off. the leverets and marmots, and other small animals on which they were accustomed to prey, had been driven by the cold into the recesses of their hidden holes, from which they did not venture out. there was no herbage to tempt the rabbits forth, no tender birch growths for the strong gray hares. no doubt the wolves talked the situation over in their wolfish language, realized that it was a desperate one, and planned the daring forays which resulted in the disappearance of the pigs and sheep and the attack on the alleene's cow. the animals killed all belonged to outlying houses a little further from the village than the rest; but the wolves had grown bold with impunity, and, as mère kronk said, there was no knowing at what moment they might make a dash at the centre of the hamlet. i fear they would have enjoyed a fat little boy or girl if they could have come across one astray on the hillside, near their haunts, very much. but no such luck befell them. the mothers of st. gervas were too wary for that, and no child went out after dark, or ventured more than a few yards from the open house-door, even at high noon. "something must be done," declared johann vecht, the bailiff. "we are growing sickly and timorous. my wife hasn't smiled for a month. she talks of nothing but snow and wolves, and it is making the children fearful. my annerle cried out in her sleep last night that she was being devoured, and little kasper woke up and cried too. something must be done!" "something must indeed be done!" repeated solomon, the forester. "we are letting the winter get the better of us, and losing heart and courage. we must make an effort to get together in the old neighborly way; that's what we want." this conversation took place at the kröne, and here the landlady, who was tired of empty kitchen and scant custom, put in her word:-- "you are right, neighbors. what we need is to get together, and feast and make merry, forgetting the hard times. make your plans, and trust me to carry them out to the letter. is it a feast that you decide upon? i will cook it. is it a _musiker fest_? my carl, there, can play the zither with any other, no matter whom it be, and can sing. _himmel_! how he can sing! command me! i will work my fingers to the bone rather than you shall not be satisfied." "aha, the sun!" cried solomon; for as the landlady spoke, a pale yellow ray shot through the pane and streamed over the floor. "that is a good omen. dame ursel, thou art right. a jolly merrymaking is what we all want. we will have one, and thou shalt cook the supper according to thy promise." several neighbors had entered the inn kitchen since the talk began, so that quite a company had collected,--more than had got together since the mass on christmas day. all were feeling cheered by the sight of the sunshine; it seemed a happy moment to propose the merrymaking. so it was decided then and there that a supper should be held that day week at the kröne, men and women both to be invited,--all, in fact, who could pay and wished to come. it seemed likely that most of the inhabitants of st. gervas would be present, such enthusiasm did the plan awake in young and old. the week's delay would allow time to send to the villagers lower down in the valley for a reinforcement of tobacco, for the supply of that essential article was running low, and what was a feast without tobacco? "we shall have a quarter of mutton," declared the landlady. "neils austerman is to kill next monday, and i will send at once to bespeak the hind-quarter. that will insure a magnificent roast. three fat geese have i also, fit for the spit, and four hens. oh, i assure you, my masters, that there shall be no lack on my part! my fritz shall get a large mess of eels from the lake. he fishes through the ice, as thou knowest, and is lucky; the creatures always take his hook. fried eels are excellent eating! you will want a plenty of them. three months _maigre_ is good preparation for a feast. wine and beer we have in plenty in the cellar, and the cheese i shall cut is as a cartwheel for bigness. bring you the appetites, my masters, and i will engage that the supply is sufficient." the landlady rubbed her hands as she spoke, with an air of joyful anticipation. "my mouth waters already with thy list," declared kronk. "i must hasten home and tell my dame of the plan. it will raise her spirits, poor soul, and she is sadly in need of cheering." the next week seemed shorter than any week had seemed since michaelmas. true, the weather was no better. the brief sunshine had been followed by a wild snowstorm, and the wind was still blowing furiously. but now there was something to talk and think about besides weather. everybody was full of the forthcoming feast. morning after morning fritz of the kröne could be seen sitting beside his fishing-holes on the frozen lake, patiently letting down his lines, and later, climbing the hill, his basket laden with brown and wriggling eels. everybody crowded to the windows to watch him,--the catch was a matter of public interest. three hardy men on snow-shoes, with guns over their shoulders, had ventured down to st. nicklaus, and returned, bringing the wished-for tobacco and word that the lower valleys were no better off than the upper, that everything was buried in snow, and no one had got in from the rhone valley for three weeks or more. anxiously was the weather watched as the day of the feast drew near; and when the morning dawned, every one gave a sigh of relief that it did not snow. it was gray and threatening, but the wind had veered, and blew from the southwest. it was not nearly so cold, and a change seemed at hand. the wolves of st. gervas were quite as well aware as the inhabitants that something unusual was going forward. from their covert in the sheltering wood they watched the stir and excitement, the running to and fro, the columns of smoke which streamed upward from the chimneys of the inn. as the afternoon drew on, strange savory smells were wafted upward by the strong-blowing wind,--smells of frying and roasting, and hissing fat. "oh, how it smells! how good it does smell!" said one wolf. he snuffed the wind greedily, then threw back his head and gave vent to a long "o-w!" the other wolves joined in the howl. "what can it be? oh, how hungry it makes me!" cried one of the younger ones. "o-w-w-w!" "what a dreadful noise those creatures are making up there," remarked frau kronk as, under the protection of her stalwart husband, she hurried her children along the snow path toward the kröne. "they sound so hungry! i shall not feel really safe till we are all at home again, with the door fast barred." but she forgot her fears when the door of the inn was thrown hospitably open as they drew near, and the merry scene inside revealed itself. the big sanded kitchen had been dressed with fir boughs, and was brightly lighted with many candles. at the great table in the midst sat rows of men and women, clad in their sunday best. the men were smoking long pipes, tall mugs of beer stood before everybody, and a buzz of talk and laughter filled the place. beyond, in the wide chimney, blazed a glorious fire, and about and over it the supper could be seen cooking. the quarter of mutton, done to a turn, hung on its spit, and on either side of it sputtered the geese and the fat hens, brown and savory, and smelling delicious. over the fire on iron hooks hung a great kettle of potatoes and another of cabbage. on one side of the hearth knelt gretel, the landlord's daughter, grinding coffee, while on the other her brother fritz brandished an immense frying-pan heaped with sizzling eels, which sent out the loudest smells of all. the air of the room was thick with the steam of the fry mingled with the smoke of the pipes. a fastidious person might have objected to it as hard to breathe, but the natives of st. gervas were not fastidious, and found no fault whatever with the smells and the smoke which, to them, represented conviviality and good cheer. even the dogs under the table were rejoicing in it, and sending looks of expectation toward the fireplace. "welcome, welcome!" cried the jolly company as the kronks appeared. "last to come is as well off as first, if a seat remains, and the supper is still uneaten. sit thee down, dame, while the young ones join the other children in the little kitchen. supper is all but ready, and a good one too, as all noses testify. those eels smell rarely. it is but to fetch the wine now, and then fall to, eh, landlady?" "nor shall the wine be long lacking!" cried dame ursel, snatching up a big brown pitcher. "sit thee down, frau kronk. that place beside thy gossip barbe was saved for thee. 'tis but to go to the cellar and return, and all will be ready. stir the eels once more, fritz; and thou, gretchen, set the coffee-pot on the coals. i shall be back in the twinkling of an eye." there was a little hungry pause. from the smaller kitchen, behind, the children's laughter could be heard. "it is good to be in company again," said frau kronk, sinking into her seat with a sigh of pleasure. "yes, so we thought,--we who got up the feast," responded solomon, the forester. "'neighbors,' says i, 'we are all getting out of spirits with so much cold and snow, and we must rouse ourselves and do something.' 'yes,' says they, 'but what?' 'nothing can be plainer,' says i, 'we must'--_himmel_! what is that?" what was it, indeed? for even as solomon spoke, the heavy door of the kitchen burst open, letting in a whirl of cold wind and sleet, and letting in something else as well. for out of the darkness, as if blown by the wind, a troop of dark swift shapes darted in. they were the wolves of st. gervas, who, made bold by hunger, and attracted and led on by the strong fragrance of the feast, had forgotten their usual cowardice, and, stealing from the mountain-side and through the deserted streets of the hamlet, had made a dash at the inn. there were not less than twenty of them; there seemed to be a hundred. as if acting by a preconcerted plan, they made a rush at the fireplace. the guests sat petrified round the table, with their dogs cowering at their feet, and no one stirred or moved, while the biggest wolf, who seemed the leader of the band, tore the mutton from the spit, while the next in size made a grab at the fat geese and the fowls, and the rest seized upon the eels, hissing hot as they were, in the pan. gretchen and fritz sat in their respective corners of the hearth, paralyzed with fright at the near, snapping jaws and the fierce red eyes which glared at them. then, overturning the cabbage-pot as they went, the whole pack whirled, and sped out again into the night, which seemed to swallow them up all in a moment. and still the guests sat as if turned to stone, their eyes fixed upon the door, through which the flakes of the snow-squall were rapidly drifting; and no one had recovered voice to utter a word, when dame ursel, rosy and beaming, came up from the cellar with her brimming pitcher. "why is the door open?" she demanded. then her eyes went over to the fireplace, where but a moment before the supper had been. had been; for not an eatable article remained except the potatoes and the cabbages and cabbage water on the hearth. from far without rang back a long howl which had in it a note of triumph. this was the end of the merrymaking. the guests were too startled and terrified to remain for another supper, even had there been time to cook one. potatoes, black bread, and beer remained, and with these the braver of the guests consoled themselves, while the more timorous hurried home, well protected with guns, to barricade their doors, and rejoice that it was their intended feast and not themselves which was being discussed at that moment by the hungry denizens of the forest above. there was a great furbishing up of bolts and locks next day, and a fitting of stout bars to doors which had hitherto done very well without such safeguards; but it was a long time before any inhabitant of st. gervas felt it safe to go from home alone, or without a rifle over his shoulder. so the wolves had the best of the merrymaking, and the villagers decidedly the worst. still, the wolves were not altogether to be congratulated; for, stung by their disappointment and by the unmerciful laughter and ridicule of the other villages, the men of st. gervas organized a great wolf-hunt later in the spring, and killed such a number that to hear a wolf howl has become a rare thing in that part of the oberland. "ha! ha! my fine fellow, you are the one that made off with our mutton so fast," said the stout forester, as he stripped the skin from the largest of the slain. "your days for mutton are over, my friend. it will be one while before you and your thievish pack come down again to interrupt christian folk at their supper!" but, in spite of solomon's bold words, the tale of the frustrated feast has passed into a proverb; and to-day in the neighboring chalets and hamlets you may hear people say, "don't count on your mutton till it's in your mouth, or it may fare with you as with the merry-makers at st. gervas." three little candles. the winter dusk was settling down upon the old farmhouse where three generations of marshes had already lived and died. it stood on a gentle rise of ground above the kittery sands,--a low, wide, rambling structure, outgrowth of the gradual years since great-grandfather marsh, in the early days of the colony, had built the first log-house, and so laid the foundation of the settlement. this log-house still existed. it served as a lean-to for the larger building, and held the buttery, the "out-kitchen" for rougher work, and the woodshed. moss and lichens clustered thickly between the old logs, to which time had communicated a rich brown tint; a mat of luxuriant hop-vine clothed the porch, and sent fantastic garlands up to the ridgepole. the small heavily-puttied panes in the windows had taken on that strange iridescence which comes to glass with the lapse of time, and glowed, when the light touched them at a certain angle, with odd gleams of red, opal, and green-blue. on one of the central panes was an odd blur or cloud. cynthia marsh liked to "play" that it was a face,--the face of a girl who used to crawl out of that window in the early days of the house, but had long since grown up and passed away. it was rather a ghostly playmate, but cynthia enjoyed her. this same imaginative little cynthia was sitting with her brother and sister in the "new kitchen," which yet was a pretty old one, and had rafters overhead, and bunches of herbs and strings of dried apples tied to them. it was still the days of pot-hooks and trammels, and a kettle of bubbling mush hung on the crane over the fire, which smelt very good. every now and then hepzibah, the old servant, would come and give it a stir, plunging her long spoon to the very bottom of the pot. it was the "children's hour," though no longfellow had as yet given the pretty name to that delightful time between daylight and dark, when the toils of the day are over, and even grown people can fold their busy hands and rest and talk and love each other, with no sense of wasted time to spoil their pleasure. "i say," began reuben, who, if he had lived to-day, would have put on his cards "reuben marsh, th," "what do you think? we're going to have our little candles to-night. aunt doris said that mother said so. isn't that famous!" "are we really?" cried cynthia, clasping her hands. "how glad i am! it's more than a year since we had any little candles, and though i've tried to be good, i was so afraid when you broke the oil-lamp, the other day, that it would put them off. i do love them so!" "how many candles may we have?" asked little eunice. "oh, there are only three,--one for each of us. mother gave the rest away, you know. have you made up any story yet, eunice?" "i did make one, but i've forgotten part of it. it was a great while ago, when i thought we were surely going to get the candles, and then reuben had that quarrel with friend amos's son, and mother would not let us have them. she said a boy who gave place to wrath did not deserve a little candle." "i know," said reuben, penitently. "but that was a great while ago, and i've not given place to wrath since. you must begin and think of your story very hard, eunice, or the candle will burn out while you are remembering it." these "little candles," for the amusement of children, were an ancient custom in new england, long practised in the marsh family. when the great annual candle-dipping took place, and the carefully saved tallow, with its due admixture of water and bayberry wax for hardness, was made hot in the kettle, and the wicks, previously steeped in alum, were tied in bunches so that no two should touch each other, and dipped and dried, and dipped again, at the end of each bundle was hung two or three tiny candles, much smaller than the rest. these were rewards for the children when they should earn them by being unusually good. they were lit at bedtime, and, by immemorial law, so long as the candles burned, the children might tell each other ghost or fairy stories, which at other times were discouraged, as having a bad effect on the mind. this privilege was greatly valued, and the advent of the little candles made a sort of holiday, when holidays were few and far between. "i suppose reuben will have his candle first, as he is the oldest," said eunice. "mother said last year that we should have them all three on the same night," replied cynthia. "she said she would rather that we lay awake till half-past nine for once, than till half-past eight for three times. it's much nicer, i think. it's like having plenty to eat at one dinner, instead of half-enough several days running. eunice, you'd better burn your candle first, i think, because you get sleepy a great deal sooner than reuby or i do. you needn't light it till after you're in bed, you know, and that will make it last longer. when it's done, i'll hurry and go to bed too, and then we'll light mine; and reuben can do the same, and if he leaves his door open, we shall hear his story perfectly well. oh, what fun it will be! i wish there were ever and ever so many little candles,--a hundred, at the very least!" "hepsy, ain't supper nearly ready? we're in such a hurry to-night!" said eunice. "why, what are you in a hurry about?" demanded hepsy, giving a last stir to the mush, which had grown deliciously thick. "we want to go to bed early." "that's a queer reason! you're not so sharp set after bed, as a general thing. well, the mush is done. reuby, ring the bell at the shed door, and as soon as the men come in, we'll be ready." it was a good supper. the generous heat of the great fireplace in the marsh kitchen seemed to communicate a special savor of its own to everything that was cooked before it, as if the noble hickory logs lent a forest flavor to the food. the brown bread and beans and the squash pies from the deep brick oven were excellent; and the "pumpkin sweets," from the same charmed receptacle, had come out a deep rich red color, jellied with juice to their cores. nothing could have improved them, unless it were the thick yellow cream which mrs. marsh poured over each as she passed it. the children ate as only hearty children can eat, but the recollection of the little candles was all the time in their minds, and the moment that reuben had finished his third apple he began to fidget. "mayn't we go to bed now?" he asked. "not till father has returned thanks," said his mother, rebukingly. "you are glad enough to take the gifts of the lord, reuben. you should be equally ready to pay back the poor tribute of a decent gratitude." reuben sat abashed while mr. marsh uttered the customary words, which was rather a short prayer than a long grace. the boy did not dare to again allude to the candles, but stood looking sorry and shamefaced, till his mother, laying her hand indulgently on his shoulder, slipped the little candle in his fingers. "thee didn't mean it, dear, i know," she whispered. "it's natural enough that thee shouldst be impatient. now take thy candle, and be off. cynthia, eunice, here are the other two, and remember, all of you, that not a word must be told of the stories when once the candles burn out. this is the test of obedience. be good children, and i'll come up later to see that all is safe." mrs. marsh was of quaker stock, but she only reverted to the once familiar _thee_ and _thou_ at times when she felt particularly kind and tender. the children liked to have her do so. it meant that mother loved them more than usual. the bedrooms over the kitchen, in which the children slept, were very plain, with painted floors and scant furniture; but they were used to them, and missed nothing. the moon was shining, so that little eunice found no difficulty in undressing without a light. as soon as she was in bed, she called to the others, who were waiting in reuben's room, "i'm all ready!" a queer clicking noise followed. it was made by reuben's striking the flint of the tinder-box. in another moment the first of the little candles was lighted. they fetched it in; and the others sat on the foot of the bed while eunice, raised on her pillow, with red, excited cheeks, began:-- "i've remembered all about my story, and this is it: once there was a fairy. he was not a bad fairy, but a very good one. one day he broke his wing, and the fairy king said he mustn't come to court any more till he got it mended. this was very hard, because glue and things like that don't stick to fairies' wings, you know." "couldn't he have tied it up and boiled it in milk?" asked cynthia, who had once seen a saucer so treated, with good effect. "why, cynthia marsh! do you suppose fairies like to have their wings boiled? i never! of course they don't! well, the poor fairy did not know what to do. he hopped away, for he could not fly, and pretty soon he met an old woman. "'goody,' said he, 'can you tell me what will mend a fairy's broken wing?' "'is it your wing that is broken?' asked the old woman. "'yes,' said the fairy, speaking very sadly. "'there is only one thing,' said the old woman. 'if you can find a girl who has never said a cross word in her life, and she will put the pieces together, and hold them tight, and say, "_ram shackla alla balla ba_," three times, it will mend in a minute.' "so the fairy thanked her, and went his way, dragging the poor wing behind him. by and by he came to a wood, and there in front of a little house was the prettiest girl he had ever seen. her eyes were as blue as, as blue as--as the edges of mother's company saucers! and her hair, which was the color of gold, curled down to her feet. "'a girl with hair and eyes like that couldn't say a cross word to save her life,' thought the fairy. he was just going to speak to her. she couldn't see him, you know, because he was indivisible--" "'invisible,' you mean," interrupted reuben. "oh, reuben, don't stop her! see how the tallow is running down the side of the candle! she'll never have time to finish," put in cynthia, anxiously. "i meant 'invisible,' of course," went on eunice, speaking fast. "well, just then a woman came out of the house. it was the pretty girl's mother. "'estella,' she said, 'i want you to go for the cows, because your father is sick.' "'oh, bother!' said the pretty girl. 'i don't want to! i hate going for cows. i wish father wouldn't go and get sick!' just think of a girl's speaking like that to her mother! and the fairy sighed, for he thought, 'my wing won't get mended here,' and he hopped away. "by and by he came to a house in another wood, and there was another girl. she wasn't pretty at all. she had short stubby brown hair like cynthia's, and a turn-up nose like me, and her freckles were as big as reuben's, but she looked nice and kind. "the fairy didn't have much hope that a girl who was as homely as that could mend wings. but while he was waiting, another woman came out. it was the turned-up-nose girl's mother, and she said, 'i want you to go for the cows to-night, because your father has broken his leg.' "and the girl smiled just as sweet, and she said, 'yes, mother, i'll be glad to go.' "then the fairy rejoiced, and he came forward and said--oh, dear!" this was not what the fairy said, but what eunice said; for at that moment the little candle went out. "well, i am glad you got as far as you did," whispered cynthia, "for i guess the turned-up-nose girl could mend the wing. now, reuby, if you'll go into your room i'll not be two minutes. and then you can light my candle." in less than two minutes all was ready. this time there were two little girls in bed, and reuben sat alone at the foot, ready to listen. "my story," began cynthia, "is about that girl in the window-pane in the ell. her name was mercy marsh, and she lived in this house." "is it true?" asked eunice. "no, it's made up, but i'm going to make believe that it's true. she slept in the corn chamber,--it was a bedroom then,--and she had that yellow painted bedstead of hepzibah's. "there was a hiding-place under the floor of the room. it was made to put things in when indians came, or the english,--money and spoons, and things like that. "one day when mercy was spinning under the big elm, a man came running down the road. he was a young man, and very handsome, and he had on a sort of uniform. "'hide me!' he cried. 'they will kill me if they catch me. hide me, quick!' "'who will kill you?' asked mercy. "then the young man told her that he had accidentally shot a man who was out hunting with him, and that the man's brothers, who were very bad people, had sworn to have his blood. "then mercy took his hand, and led him quickly up to her room, and lifted the cover of the hiding-place, and told him to get in. and he got in, but first he said, 'fair maiden, if i come out alive, i shall have somewhat to say to thee.' and mercy blushed." "what did he mean?" asked eunice, innocently. "oh, just love-making and nonsense!" put in reuben. "hurry up, cynthia! come to the fighting. the candle's all but burned out." "there isn't going to be any fighting," returned cynthia. "well, mercy pulled the bedside carpet over the cover, and she set that red candle-stand on one corner of it and a chair on the other corner, and went back to her spinning. she had hardly begun before there was a rustling in the bushes, and two men with guns in their hands came out. "'which way did he go?' they shouted. "'who?' she said, and she looked up so quietly that they never suspected her. "'has no one gone by?' they asked her. "'no one,' she said; and you know this wasn't a lie, for the young man did not go by. he stopped! "'there is the back door open,' she went on, 'and you are welcome to search, if you desire it. my father is away, but he will be here soon.' she said this because she feared the men. "so the men searched, but they found nothing, and mercy's room looked so neat and peaceful that they did not like to disturb it, and just looked in at the door. and when they were gone, mercy went up and raised the cover, and the youth said that he loved her, and that if the lord willed, he--" pop! the second candle went suddenly out. "it's a shame!" cried reuben, dancing with vexation. "it seems as if the blamed things knew when we most wanted them to last!" "oh, reuben! don't say 'blamed.'" "i forgot. well, blame-worthy, then. there's no harm in that." "we shall never know if the young man married mercy," said little eunice, lamentably. "oh, of course he did! that's the way stories always end." "now, reuben, hurry to bed, and when you are all ready, light your candle, and if you speak loud we shall hear every word." this was reuben's story: "once there was a ghost. he had committed a murder, and that was the reason he had to go alone and fly about on cold nights in a white shirt. "he used to look in at windows and see people sitting by fires, and envy them. and he would moan and chatter his teeth, and then they would say that he was the wind." "oh, reuben! is it going to be very awful?" demanded cynthia, apprehensively. "not very. only just enough to half-scare you to death! he would put his hand out when girls stood by the door, and they would feel as if a whole pitcher of cold water had been poured down their backs. "once a boy came to the door. he was the son of the murdered man. the ghost was afraid of him. 'thomas!' said the ghost. "'who speaks?' said the boy. he couldn't have heard if he hadn't been the son of the murdered man. "'i'm the ghost of your father's slayer,' said the ghost. 'tell me what i can do to be forgiven.' "'i don't think you can be forgiven,' said the boy. then the ghost gave such a dreadful groan that the boy felt sorry for him. "'i'll tell you, then,' he said. 'go to my father's grave, and lay upon it a perfectly white blackberry, and a perfectly black snowdrop, and a valuable secret, and a hair from the head of a really happy person, and you shall be forgiven!' "so the ghost set out to find these four things. he had to bleach the blackberry and dye the snowdrop, and he got the hair from the head of a little baby who happened to be born with hair and hadn't had time to be unhappy, and the secret was about a goldmine that only the ghost knew about. but just as he was laying them on the grave, a cold hand clutched--" the sentence ended in a three-fold shriek, for just at this exciting juncture the last candle went out. "children," said mrs. marsh, opening the door, "i'm afraid you've been frightening yourselves with your stories. that was foolish. i am glad there are no more little candles. now, not another word to-night." she straightened the tossed coverlids, heard their prayers, and went away. in a few minutes all that remained of the long-anticipated treat were three little drops of tallow where three little candles had quite burned out, three stories not quite told, and three children fast asleep. uncle and aunt. uncle and aunt were a very dear and rather queer old couple, who lived in one of the small villages which dot the long indented coast of long island sound. it was four miles to the railway, so the village had not waked up from its colonial sleep on the building of the line, as had other villages nearer to its course, but remained the same shady, quiet place, with never a steam-whistle nor a manufactory bell to break its repose. sparlings-neck was the name of the place. no hotel had ever been built there, so no summer visitors came to give it a fictitious air of life for a few weeks of the year. the century-old elms waved above the gambrel roofs of the white, green-blinded houses, and saw the same names on doorplates and knockers that had been there when the century began: "benjamin," "wilson," "kirkland," "benson," "reinike,"--there they all were, with here and there the prefix of a distinguishing initial, as "j. l. benson," "eleazar wilson," or "paul reinike." paul reinike, fourth of the name who had dwelt in that house, was the "uncle" of this story. uncle was tall and gaunt and gray, of the traditional new england type. he had a shrewd, dry face, with wise little wrinkles about the corners of the eyes, and just a twinkle of fun and a quiet kindliness in the lines of the mouth. people said the squire was a master-hand at a bargain. and so he was; but if he got the uttermost penny out of all legitimate business transactions, he was always ready to give that penny, and many more, whenever deserving want knocked at his door, or a good work to be done showed itself distinctly as needing help. aunt, too, was a new englander, but of a slightly different type. she was the squire's cousin before she became his wife; and she had the family traits, but with a difference. she was spare, but she was also very small, and had a distinct air of authority which made her like a fairy godmother. she was very quiet and comfortable in her ways, but she was full of "faculty,"--that invaluable endowment which covers such a multitude of capacities. nobody's bread or pies were equal to aunt's. her preserves never fermented; her cranberry always jellied; her sponge-cake rose to heights unattained by her neighbors', and stayed there, instead of ignominiously "flopping" when removed from the oven, like the sponge-cake of inferior housekeepers. everything in the old home moved like clock-work. meals were ready to a minute; the mahogany furniture glittered like dark-red glass; the tall clock in the entry was never a tick out of the way; and yet aunt never appeared to be particularly busy. to one not conversant with her methods, she gave the impression of being generally at leisure, sitting in her rocking-chair in the "keeping-room," hemming cap-strings, and reading emerson, for aunt liked to keep up with the thought of the day. hesse declared that either she sat up and did things after the rest of the family had gone to bed, or else that she kept a brownie to work for her; but hesse was a saucy child, and aunt only smiled indulgently at these sarcasms. hesse was the only young thing in the shabby old home; for, though it held many handsome things, it was shabby. even the cat was a sober matron. the old white mare had seen almost half as many years as her master. the very rats and mice looked gray and bearded when you caught a glimpse of them. but hesse was youth incarnate, and as refreshing in the midst of the elderly stillness which surrounded her as a frolicsome puff of wind, or a dancing ray of sunshine. she had come to live with uncle and aunt when she was ten years old; she was now nearly eighteen, and she loved the quaint house and its quainter occupants with her whole heart. hesse's odd name, which had been her mother's, her grandmother's, and her great-grandmother's before her, was originally borrowed from that of the old german town whence the first reinike had emigrated to america. she had not spent quite all of the time at sparlings-neck since her mother died. there had been two years at boarding-school, broken by long vacations, and once she had made a visit in new york to her mother's cousin, mrs. de lancey, who considered herself a sort of joint guardian over hesse, and was apt to send a frock or a hat, now and then, as the fashions changed; that "the child might not look exactly like noah, and mrs. noah, and the rest of the people in the ark," she told her daughter. this visit to new york had taken place when hesse was about fifteen; now she was to make another. and, just as this story opens, she and aunt were talking over her wardrobe for the occasion. "i shall give you this china-crape shawl," said aunt, decisively. hesse looked admiringly, but a little doubtfully, at the soft, clinging fabric, rich with masses of yellow-white embroidery. "i am afraid girls don't wear shawls now," she ventured to say. "my dear," said aunt, "a handsome thing is always handsome; never mind if it is not the last novelty, put it on, all the same. the reinikes can wear what they like, i hope! they certainly know better what is proper than these oil-and-shoddy people in new york that we read about in the newspapers. now, here is my india shawl,"--unpinning a towel, and shaking out a quantity of dried rose-leaves. "i _lend_ you this; not give it, you understand." [illustration: "i shall give you this china-crape shawl," said aunt, decisively.--page .] "thank you, aunt, dear." hesse was secretly wondering what cousin julia and the girls would say to the india shawl. "you must have a pelisse, of some sort," continued her aunt; "but perhaps your cousin de lancey can see to that. though i _might_ have miss lewis for a day, and cut over that handsome camlet of mine. it's been lying there in camphor for fifteen years, of no use to anybody." "oh, but that would be a pity!" cried hesse, with innocent wiliness. "the girls are all wearing little short jackets now, trimmed with fur, or something like that; it would be a pity to cut up that great cloak to make a little bit of a wrap for me." "fur?" said her aunt, catching at the word; "the very thing! how will this do?" dragging out of the camphor-chest an enormous cape, which seemed made of tortoise-shell cats, so yellow and brown and mottled was it. "won't this do for a trimming, or would you rather have it as it is?" "i shall have to ask cousin julia," replied hesse. "oh, aunt, dear, don't give me any more! you really mustn't! you are robbing yourself of everything!" for aunt was pulling out yards of yellow lace, lengths of sash ribbon of faded colors and wonderful thickness, strange, old-fashioned trinkets. "and here's your grandmother's wedding-gown--and mine!" she said; "you had better take them both. i have little occasion for dress here, and i like you to have them, hesse. say no more about it, my dear." there was never any gainsaying aunt, so hesse departed for new york with her trunk full of antiquated finery, sage-green and "pale-colored" silks that would almost stand alone; mechlin lace, the color of a spring buttercup; hair rings set with pearls, and brooches such as no one sees, nowadays, outside of a curiosity shop. great was the amusement which the unpacking caused in madison avenue. "yet the things are really handsome," said mrs. de lancey, surveying the fur cape critically. "this fur is queer and old-timey, but it will make quite an effective trimming. as for this crape shawl, i have an idea: you shall have an overdress made of it, hesse. it will be lovely with a silk slip. you may laugh, pauline, but you will wish you had one like it when you see hesse in hers. it only needs a little taste in adapting, and fortunately these quaint old things are just coming into fashion." pauline, a pretty girl,--modern to her fingertips--held up a square brooch, on which, under pink glass, shone a complication of initials in gold, the whole set in a narrow twisted rim of pearls and garnets, and asked: "how do you propose to 'adapt' this, mamma?" "oh," cried hesse, "i wouldn't have that 'adapted' for the world! it must stay just as it is. it belonged to my grandmother, and it has a love-story connected with it." "a love-story! oh, tell it to us!" said grace, the second of the de lancey girls. "why," explained hesse; "you see, my grandmother was once engaged to a man named john sherwood. he was a 'beautiful young man,' aunt says; but very soon after they were engaged, he fell ill with consumption, and had to go to madeira. he gave grandmamma that pin before he sailed. see, there are his initials, 'j. s.,' and hers, 'h. l. r.,' for hesse lee reinike, you know. he gave her a copy of 'thomas à kempis' besides, with 'the lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me,' written on the title-page. i have the book, too; uncle gave it to me for my own." "and did _he_ ever come back?" asked pauline. "no," answered hesse. "he died in madeira, and was buried there; and quite a long time afterward, grandmamma married my grandfather. i'm so fond of that queer old brooch, i like to wear it sometimes." "how _does_ it look?" demanded pauline. "you shall see for yourself, for i'll wear it to-night," said hesse. and when hesse came down to dinner with the quaint ornament shining against her white neck on a bit of black velvet ribbon, even pauline owned that the effect was not bad,--queer, of course, and unlike other people's things, but certainly not bad. mrs. de lancey had a quick eye for character, and she noted with satisfaction that her young cousin was neither vexed at, nor affected by, her cousins' criticisms on her outfit. hesse saw for herself that her things were unusual, and not in the prevailing style, but she knew them to be handsome of their kind, and she loved them as a part of her old home. there was, too, in her blood a little of the family pride which had made aunt say, "the reinikes know what is proper, i hope." so she wore her odd fur and made-over silks and the old laces with no sense of being ill-dressed, and that very fact "carried it off," and made her seem well dressed. cousin julia saw that her wardrobe was sufficiently modernized not to look absurd, or attract too much attention, and there was something in hesse's face and figure which suited the character of her clothes. people took notice of this or that, now and again,--said it was pretty, and where could they get such a thing?--and, flattery of flatteries, some of the girls copied her effects! "estelle morgan says, if you don't mind, she means to have a ball-dress exactly like that blue one of yours," pauline told her one day. "oh, how funny! aunt's wedding-gown made up with surah!" cried hesse. "do you remember how you laughed at the idea, polly, and said it would be horrid?" "yes, and i did think so," said polly; "but somehow it looks very nice on you. when it is hanging up in the closet, i don't care much for it." "well, luckily, no one need look at it when it is hanging up in the closet," retorted hesse, laughing. her freshness, her sweet temper, and bright capacity for enjoyment had speedily made hesse a success among the young people of her cousins' set. girls liked her, and ran after her as a social favorite; and she had flowers and german favors and flatteries enough to spoil her, had she been spoilable. but she kept a steady head through all these distractions, and never forgot, however busy she might be, to send off the long journal-letter, which was the chief weekly event to uncle and aunt. three months had been the time fixed for hesse's stay in new york, but, without her knowledge, mrs. de lancey had written to beg for a little extension. gayeties thickened as lent drew near, and there was one special fancy dress ball, at mrs. shuttleworth's, about which hesse had heard a great deal, and which she had secretly regretted to lose. she was, therefore, greatly delighted at a letter from aunt, giving her leave to stay a fortnight longer. "uncle will come for you on shrove-tuesday," wrote her aunt. "he has some business to attend to, so he will stay over till thursday, and you can take your pleasure till the last possible moment." "how lovely!" cried hesse. "how good of you to write, cousin julia, and i _am_ so pleased to go to mrs. shuttleworth's ball!" "what will you wear?" asked pauline. "oh, i haven't thought of that, yet. i must invent something, for i don't wish to buy another dress, i have had so many things already." "now, hesse, you can't invent anything. it's impossible to make a fancy dress out of the ragbag," said pauline, whose ideas were all of an expensive kind. "we shall see," said hesse. "i think i shall keep my costume as a surprise,--except from you, cousin julia. i shall want you to help me, but none of the others shall know anything about it till i come down-stairs." this was a politic move on the part of hesse. she was resolved to spend no money, for she knew that her winter had cost more than uncle had expected, and more than it might be convenient for him to spare; yet she wished to avert discussion and remonstrance, and at the same time to prevent mrs. de lancey from giving her a new dress, which was very often that lady's easy way of helping hesse out of her toilet difficulties. so a little seamstress was procured, and cousin julia taken into counsel. hesse kept her door carefully locked for a day or two; and when, on the evening of the party, she came down attired as "my great-grandmother," in a short-waisted, straight-skirted white satin; with a big ante-revolutionary hat tied under her dimpled chin; a fichu of mull, embroidered in colored silks, knotted across her breast; long white silk mittens, and a reticule of pearl beads hanging from her girdle,--even pauline could find no fault. the costume was as becoming as it was queer; and all the girls told hesse that she had never looked so well in her life. eight or ten particular friends of pauline and grace had arranged to meet at the de lanceys', and all start together for the ball. the room was quite full of gay figures as "my great-grandmother" came down; it was one of those little moments of triumph which girls prize. the door-bell rang as she slowly turned before the throng, to exhibit the back of the wonderful gored and plaited skirt. there was a little colloquy in the hall, the butler opened the door, and in walked a figure which looked singularly out of place among the pretty, fantastic, girlish forms,--a tall, spare, elderly figure, in a coat of old-fashioned cut. a carpet-bag was in his hand. he was no other than uncle, come a day before he was expected. his entrance made a little pause. "what an extraordinary-looking person!" whispered maud ashurst to pauline, who colored, hesitated, and did not, for a moment, know what to do. hesse, standing with her back to the door, had seen nothing; but, struck by the silence, she turned. a meaner nature than hers might have shared pauline's momentary embarrassment, but there was not a mean fibre in the whole of hesse's frank, generous being. "uncle! dear uncle!" she cried; and, running forward, she threw her arms around the lean old neck, and gave him half a dozen of her warmest kisses. "it is my uncle," she explained to the others. "we didn't expect him till to-morrow; and isn't it too delightful that he should come in time to see us all in our dresses!" then she drew him this way and that, introducing him to all her particular friends, chattering, dimpling, laughing with such evident enjoyment, such an assured sense that it was the pleasantest thing possible to have her uncle there, that every one else began to share it. the other girls, who, with a little encouragement, a little reserve and annoyed embarrassment on the part of hesse, would have voted uncle "a countrified old quiz," and, while keeping up the outward forms of civility, would have despised him in their hearts, infected by hesse's sweet happiness, began to talk to him with the wish to please, and presently to discover how pleasant his face was, and how shrewd and droll his ideas and comments; and it ended by all pronouncing him an "old dear,"--so true it is that genuine and unaffected love and respect carry weight with them for all the rest of the world. uncle was immensely amused by the costumes. he recalled the fancy balls of his youth, and gave the party some ideas on dress which had never occurred to any of them before. he could not at all understand the principle of selection on which the different girls had chosen their various characters. "that gypsy queen looked as if she ought to be teaching a sunday-school," he told hesse afterward. "little red riding hood was too big for her wolf; and as for that scampish little nun of yours, i don't believe the stoutest convent ever built could hold her in for half a day." "come with us to mrs. shuttleworth's. it will be a pretty scene, and something for you to tell cousin marianne about when you go back," urged mrs. de lancey. "oh, do, do!" chimed in hesse. "it will be twice as much fun if you are there, uncle!" but uncle was tired by his journey, and would not consent; and i am afraid that pauline and grace were a little relieved by his decision. false shame and the fear of "people" are powerful influences. three days later, hesse's long, delightful visit ended, and she was speeding home under uncle's care. "you must write and invite some of those fine young folk to come up to see you in june," he told her. "that will be delightful," said hesse. but when she came to think about it later, she was not so sure about its being delightful. there is nothing like a long absence from home to open one's eyes to the real aspect of familiar things. the sparlings-neck house looked wofully plain and old-fashioned, even to hesse, when contrasted with the elegance of madison avenue; how much more so, she reflected, would it look to the girls! she thought of uncle's after-dinner pipe; of the queer little chamber, opening from the dining-room, where he and aunt chose to sleep; of the green-painted woodwork of the spare bedrooms, and the blue paper-shades, tied up with a cord, which aunt clung to because they were in fashion when she was a girl; and for a few foolish moments she felt that she would rather not have her friends come at all, than have them come to see all this, and perhaps make fun of it. only for a few moments; then her more generous nature asserted itself with a bound. "how mean of me to even think of such a thing!" she told herself, indignantly,--"to feel ashamed to have people know what my own home is like, and uncle and aunt, who are so good to me! hesse reinike, i should like to hire some one to give you a good whipping! the girls _shall_ come, and i'll make the old house look just as sweet as i can, and they shall like it, and have a beautiful time from the moment they come till they go away, if i can possibly give it to them." to punish herself for what she considered an unworthy feeling, she resolved not to ask aunt to let her change the blue paper-shades for white curtains, but to have everything exactly as it usually was. but aunt had her own ideas and her pride of housekeeping to consider. as the time of the visit drew near, laundering and bleaching seemed to be constantly going on, and jane, the old housemaid, was kept busy tacking dimity valances and fringed hangings on the substantial four-post bedsteads, and arranging fresh muslin covers over the toilet-tables. treasures unknown to hesse were drawn out of their receptacles,--bits of old embroidery, tamboured tablecloths and "crazy quilts," vases and bow-pots of pretty old china for the bureaus and chimney-pieces. hesse took a long drive to the woods, and brought back great masses of ferns, pink azalea, and wild laurel. all the neighbors' gardens were laid under contribution. when all was in order, with ginger-jars full of cool white daisies and golden buttercups standing on the shining mahogany tables, bunches of blue lupines on the mantel, the looking-glasses wreathed with traveller's joy, a great bowl full of early roses and quantities of lilies-of-the-valley, the old house looked cosey enough and smelt sweet enough to satisfy the most fastidious taste. hesse drove over with uncle to the station to meet her guests. they took the big carryall, which, with squeezing, would hold seven; and a wagon followed for the luggage. there were five girls coming; for, besides pauline and grace, hesse had invited georgie berrian, maud ashurst, and ella waring, who were the three special favorites among her new york friends. the five flocked out of the train, looking so dainty and stylish that they made the old carryall seem shabbier than ever by contrast. maud ashurst cast one surprised look at it and at the old white mare,--she had never seen just such a carriage before; but the quality of the equipage was soon forgotten, as uncle twitched the reins, and they started down the long lane-like road which led to sparlings-neck and was hesse's particular delight. the station and the dusty railroad were forgotten almost immediately,--lost in the sense of complete country freshness. on either hand rose tangled banks of laurel and barberries, sweet-ferns and budding grapevines, overarched by tall trees, and sending out delicious odors; while mingling with and blending all came, borne on a shoreward wind, the strong salt fragrance of the sea. "what is it? what can it be? i never smelt anything like it!" cried the girls from the city. "now, girls," cried hesse, turning her bright face around from the driver's seat, "this is real, absolute country, you know,--none of the make-believes which you get at newport or up the hudson. everything we have is just as queer and old-fashioned as it can be. you won't be asked to a single party while you are here, and there isn't the ghost of a young man in the neighborhood. well, yes, there may be a ghost, but there is no young man. you must just make up your minds, all of you, to a dull time, and then you'll find that it's lovely." "it's sure to be lovely wherever you are, you dear thing!" declared ella waring, with a little rapturous squeeze. i fancy that, just at first, the city girls did think the place very queer. none of them had ever seen just such an old house as the reinikes' before. the white wainscots with their toothed mouldings matched by the cornices above, the droll little cupboards in the walls, the fire-boards pasted with gay pictures, the queer closets and clothes-presses occurring just where no one would naturally have looked for them, and having, each and all, an odd shut-up odor, as of by-gone days,--all seemed very strange to them. but the flowers and the green elms and hesse's warm welcome were delightful; so were aunt's waffles and wonderful tarts, the strawberries smothered in country cream, and the cove oysters and clams which came in, deliciously stewed, for tea; and they soon pronounced the visit "a lark," and sparlings-neck a paradise. there were long drives in the woods, picnics in the pine groves, bathing-parties on the beach, morning sittings under the trees with an interesting book; and when a northeaster came, and brought with it what seemed a brief return of winter, there was a crackling fire, a candy-pull, and a charming evening spent in sitting on the floor telling ghost-stories, with the room only lighted by the fitfully blazing wood, and with cold creeps running down their backs! altogether, the fortnight was a complete success, and every one saw its end with reluctance. "i wish we were going to stay all summer!" said georgie berrian. "newport will seem stiff and tiresome after this." "i never had so good a time,--never!" declared ella. "and, hesse, i do think your aunt and uncle are the dearest old people i ever saw!" that pleased hesse most of all. but what pleased her still more was when, after the guests were gone, and the house restored to its old order, and the regular home life begun again, uncle put his arm around her, and gave her a kiss,--not a bedtime kiss, or one called for by any special occasion, but an extra kiss, all of his own accord. "a dear child," he said; "not a bit ashamed of the old folks, was she? i liked that, hesse." "ashamed of you and aunt? i should think not!" answered hesse, with a flush. uncle gave a dry little chuckle. "well, well," he said, "some girls would have been; you weren't,--that's all the difference. you're a good child, hesse." the corn-ball money, and what became of it. dotty and dimple were two little sisters, who looked so much alike that most people took them for twins. they both had round faces, blue eyes, straight brown hair, cut short in the neck, and cheeks as firm and pink as fall apples; and, though dotty was eleven months the oldest, dimple was the taller by half an inch, so that altogether it was very confusing. i don't believe any twins could love each other better than did these little girls. nobody ever heard them utter a quarrelsome word from the time they waked in the morning, and began to chatter and giggle in bed like two little squirrels, to the moment when they fell asleep at night, with arms tight clasped round each other's necks. they liked the same things, did the same things, and played together all day long without being tired. their father's farm was two miles from the nearest neighbor, and three from the schoolhouse; so they didn't go to school, and no little boys and girls ever came to see them. should you think it would be lonely to live so? dotty and dimple didn't. they had each other for playmates, and all outdoors to play in, and that was enough. the farm was a wild, beautiful spot. a river ran round two sides of it; and quite near the house it "met with an accident," as dotty said; that is, it tumbled over some high rocks in a waterfall, and then, picking itself up, took another jump, and landed, all white and foaming, in a deep wooded glen. the water where it fell was dazzling with rainbows, like soap-bubbles; and the pool at the bottom had the color of a green emerald, only that all over the top little flakes of sparkling spray swam and glittered in the sun. altogether it was a wonderful place, and the children were never tired of watching the cascade or hearing the rush and roar of its leap. all summer long city people, boarding in the village, six miles off, would drive over to see the fall. this was very interesting, indeed! carryalls and big wagons would stop at the gate, and ladies get out, with pretty round hats and parasols; and gentlemen, carrying canes; and dear little children, in flounced and braided frocks. and they would all come trooping up close by the house, on their way to see the view. sometimes, but not often, one would stop to get a drink of water or ask the way. dotty and dimple liked very much to have them come. they would hide, and peep out at the strangers, and make up all kinds of stories about them; but they were too shy to come forward or let themselves be seen. so the people from the city never guessed what bright eyes were looking at them from behind the door or on the other side of the bushes. but all the same, it was great fun for the children to have them come, and they were always pleased when wheels were heard and wagons drove up to the gate. it was early last summer that a droll idea popped into dotty's head. it all came from a man who, walking past, and stopping to see the fall, sat down a while to rest, and said to the farmer:-- "i should think you'd charge people something for looking at that ere place, stranger." "no," replied dotty's father. "i don't calculate on asking folks nothing for the use of their eyes." "well," said the man, getting up to go, "you might as well. it's what folks is doing all over the country. if 't was mine, i'd fix up a lunch or something, and fetch 'em that way." but the farmer only laughed. that night, when dotty and dimple were in bed, they began to whisper to each other about the man. "wasn't it funny," giggled dimple, "his telling pa to fix a lunch?" "yes," said dotty. "but i'll tell you what, dimple! when he said that, i had such a nice plan come into my head. you know you and me can make real nice corn-balls." "'course we can." "well, let's get pa, or else zach, to make us a little table,--out of boards, you know; and let's put it on the bank, close to the place where folks go to see the fall; and every day let's pop a lot of corn, and make some balls, and set them on the table for the folks to eat. don't you think that would be nice?" "i'm afraid mother wouldn't let us have so much molasses," said the practical dimple. "oh, but don't you see i mean to have the folks _pay_ for 'em! we'll put a paper on the table, with 'two cents apiece,' or something like that, on it. and then they'll put the money on the table, and when they're gone away we'll go and fetch it. won't that be fun? perhaps there'd be a great, great deal,--most as much as a dollar!" "oh, no," cried dimple, "not so much as _that_! but we might get a greenback. how much is a greenback, dot?" "oh, i don't know," replied dotty. "a good deal, i know, but i guess it isn't so much as a dollar." the little sisters could hardly sleep that night, they were so excited over their plan. next morning they were up with the birds; and before breakfast mother, father, and zach, the hired man, had heard all about the wonderful scheme. mother said she didn't mind letting them try; and zach, who was very fond of the children, promised to make the table the very first thing after the big field was ploughed. and so he did; and a very nice table it was, with four legs and a good stout top. dotty and dimple laughed with pleasure when they saw it. zach set it on the bank just at the place where the people stood to look at the view; and he drove a stake at each corner; and found some old sheeting, and made a sort of tent over the table, so that the sun should not shine under and melt the corn-balls. when it was all arranged, and the table set out, with the corn-balls on one plate and maple-sugar cakes on another, it looked very tempting, and the children were extremely proud of it. dotty cut a sheet of paper, and printed upon it the following notice: "corn bals sents apece. sugar sent apece. plese help yure selfs and put the munney on the table." this was pinned to the tent, right over the table. the first day four people came to visit the waterfall; and when the children ran down to look, after they had driven away, half the provisions were gone, and there on the table lay four shining five-cent pieces! the next day was not so good; they only made four cents. and so it went on all summer. some days a good many people would come, and a good many pennies be left on the table; and other days nobody would come, and the wasps would eat the maple-sugar, and fly away without paying anything at all. but little by little the tin box in mother's drawer got heavier and heavier, until at last, early in october, dotty declared that she was tired of making corn-balls, and she guessed the city-folks were all gone home; and now wouldn't mother please to count the money, and see how much they had got? so mother emptied the tin box into her lap, with a great jingle of pennies and rustling of fractional currency. and how much do you think there was? three dollars and seventy-eight cents! the seventy-eight cents mother said would just about pay for the molasses; so there were three dollars all their own,--for dotty and dimple to spend as they liked! you should have seen them dance about the kitchen! three dollars! why, it was a fortune! it would buy everything in the world! they had fifty plans, at least, for spending it; and sat up so late talking them over, and had such red cheeks and excited eyes, that mother said she was afraid they wouldn't sleep one wink all night. but, bless you! they did, and were as bright as buttons in the morning. for a week there was nothing talked about but the wonderful three dollars. and then one evening father, who had been over to the village, came home with a very grave face, and, drawing a newspaper from his pocket, read them all about the great fire in chicago. he read how the flames, spreading like wind, swept from one house to another, and how people had just time to run out of their homes, leaving everything to burn; how women, with babies in their arms, and frightened children crouched all that dreadful night out on the cold, wet prairie, without food or clothes or shelter; how little boys and girls ran through the burning streets, crying for the parents whom they could not find; how everybody had lost everything. "oh," said dimple, almost crying, as she listened to the piteous story, "how dreadful those little girls must feel! and i suppose all their dollies are burned up too. i wouldn't have nancy burned in a fire for anything!" and, picking up an old doll, of whom she was very fond, she hugged her with unspeakable affection. that night there was another long, mysterious confabulation in the children's bed; and, coming down in the morning, hand in hand, dotty and dimple announced that they had made up their minds what to do with the corn-ball money. "we're going to send it to the sicago," said dimple, "to those poor little girls whose dollies are all burned up!" "how will you send it?" asked their mother. "in a letter," said dotty. "and please, pa, write on the outside: 'from dotty and dimple, to buy some dollies for the little girls whose dollies were burned up in the fire.'" so their father put the money into an envelope, and wrote on the outside just what dotty said. and, when he had got through, he put his hands in his pockets and walked out of the room. the children wondered what made his face so red, and when they turned round, there was mother with tears in her eyes. "why, what's the matter?" cried they. but their mother only put her arms round them and kissed them very hard. and she whispered to herself: "of such is the kingdom of heaven." the prize girl of the harnessing class. it was the day before thanksgiving, but the warmth of a late indian summer lay over the world, and tempered the autumn chill into mildness more like early october than late november. elsie thayer, driving her village cart rapidly through the "long woods," caught herself vaguely wondering why the grass was not greener, and what should set the leaves to tumbling off the trees in such an unsummer-like fashion,--then smiled at herself for being so forgetful. the cart was packed full; for, besides elsie herself, it held a bag of sweet potatoes, a sizable bundle or two, and a large market-basket, from which protruded the unmistakable legs of a turkey, not to mention a choice smaller basket covered with a napkin. all these were going to the little farmstead in which dwelt mrs. ann sparrow, elsie's nurse in childhood, and the most faithful and kindly of friends ever since. elsie always made sure that "nursey" had a good thanksgiving dinner, and generally carried it herself. the day was so delightful that it seemed almost a pity that the pony should trot so fast. one would willingly have gone slowly, tasting drop by drop, as it were, the lovely sunshine filtering through the yellow beech boughs, the unexpected warmth, and the balmy spice of the air, which had in it a tinge of smoky haze. but the day before thanksgiving is sure to be a busy one with new england folk; elsie had other tasks awaiting her, and she knew that nursey would not be content with a short visit. "hurry up, little jack!" she said. "you shall have a long rest presently, if you are a good boy, and some nice fresh grass,--if i can find any; anyway, a little drink of water. so make haste." jack made haste. the yellow wheels of the cart spun in and out of the shadow like circles of gleaming sun. when the two miles were achieved, and the little clearing came into view, elsie slackened her pace: she wanted to take nursey by surprise. driving straight to a small open shed, she deftly unharnessed the pony, tied him with a liberal allowance of halter, hung up the harness, and wheeled the cart away from his heels, all with the ease which is born of practice. she then gathered a lapful of brown but still nourishing grasses for jack, and was about to lift the parcels from the wagon when she was espied by mrs. sparrow. out she came, hurrying and flushed with pleasure,--the dearest old woman, with pink, wrinkled cheeks like a perfectly baked apple, and a voice which still retained its pleasant english tones, after sixty long years in america. "well, missy, dear, so it's you. i made sure you'd come, and had been watching all the morning; but somehow i missed you when you drove up, and it was just by haccident like, that i looked out of window and see you in the shed. you're looking well, missy. that school hasn't hurt you a bit. just the same nice color in your cheeks as ever. i was that troubled when i heard you wa'n't coming home last summer, for i thought maybe you was ill; but your mother she said 'twas all right, and just for your pleasure, and i see it was so. why,"--her voice changing to consternation,--"if you haven't unharnessed the horse! now, missy, how came you to do that? you forgot there wasn't no one about but me. who's to put him in for you, i wonder?" "oh, i don't want any one. i can harness the pony myself." "oh, missy, dear, you mustn't do that! i couldn't let you. it's real hard to harness a horse. you'd make some mistake, and then there'd be a haccident." "nonsense, nursey! i've harnessed jack once this morning already; it's just as easy to do it twice. i'm a member of a harnessing class, i'd have you to know; and, what's more, i took the prize!" "now, missy, dear, whatever do you mean by that? young ladies learn to harness! i never heard of such a thing in my life! in my young time, in england, they learned globes and langwidges, and, it might be, to paint in oils and such, and make nice things in chenille." "i'll tell you all about it, but first let us carry these things up to the house. here's your thanksgiving turkey, nursey,--with mother's love. papa sent you the sweet potatoes and the cranberries; and the oranges and figs and the pumpkin pie are from me. i made the pie myself. that's another of the useful things that i learned to do at my school." "the master is very kind, missy; and so is your mother; and i'm thankful to you all. but that's a queer school of yours, it seems to me. for my part, i never heard of young ladies learning such things as cooking and harnessing at boarding-schools." "oh, we learn arts and languages, too,--that part of our education isn't neglected. now, nursey, we'll put these things in your buttery, and you shall give me a glass of nice cold milk; and while i drink it i'll tell you about rosemary hall,--that's the name of the school, you know; and it's the dearest, nicest place you can think of." "very likely, miss elsie," in an unconvinced tone; "but still i don't see any reason why they should set you to making pies and harnessing horses." "oh, that's just at odd times, by way of fun and pleasure; it isn't lessons, you know. you see, mrs. thanet--that's a rich lady who lives close by, and is a sort of fairy godmother to us girls--has a great notion about practical education. it was she who got up the harnessing class and the model kitchen. it's the dearest little place you ever saw, nursey, with a _perfect_ stove, and shelves, and hooks for everything; and such bright tins, and the prettiest of old-fashioned crockery! it's just like a picture. we girls were always squabbling over whose turn should come first. you can't think how much i learned there, nursey! i learned to make a pie, and clear out a grate, and scour saucepans, and," counting on her fingers, "to make bread, rolls, minute-biscuit, coffee,--delicious coffee, nursey!--good soup, creamed oysters, and pumpkin-pies and apple-pies! just wait, and you shall see!" she jumped up, ran into the buttery, and soon returned, carrying a triangle of pie on a plate. "it isn't thanksgiving yet, i know; but there is no law against eating pumpkin-pie the day before, so please, nursey, taste this and see if you don't call it good. papa says it makes him think of his mother's pies, when he was a little boy." "indeed, and it is good, missy, dear; and i won't deny but cooking may be well for you to know; but for that other--the harnessing class, as you call it,--i don't see the sense of that at all, missy." "oh, nursey, indeed there is a great deal of sense in it. mrs. thanet says it might easily happen, in the country especially,--if any one was hurt or taken very ill, you know,--that life might depend upon a girl's knowing how to harness. she had a man teach us, and we practised and practised, and at the end of the term there was an exhibition, with a prize for the girl who could harness and unharness quickest, and i won it! see, here it is!" she held out a slim brown hand, and displayed a narrow gold bangle, on which was engraved in minute letters, "what is worth doing at all, is worth doing well." "isn't it pretty?" she asked. "yes," doubtfully. "the bracelet is pretty enough, missy; but i can't quite like what it stands for. it don't seem ladylike for you to be knowing about harnesses and such things." "oh, nursey, dear, what nonsense!" there were things to be done after she got home, but elsie could not hurry her visit. jack consumed his grass heap, and then stood sleepily blinking at the flies for a long hour before his young mistress jumped up. "now, i must go!" she cried. "come out and see me harness up, nursey." it was swiftly and skilfully done, but still nurse sparrow shook her head. "i don't like it!" she insisted. "'a horse shall be a vain thing for safety'--that's in holy writ." "you are an obstinate old dear," said elsie, good-humoredly. "wait till you're ill some day, and i go for the doctor. _then_ you'll realize the advantage of practical education. what a queer smell of smoke there is, nursey!" gathering up her reins. "yes; the woods has been on fire for quite a spell, back on the other side of bald top. you can smell the smoke most of the time. seems to me it's stronger than usual, to-day." "you don't think there is any danger of its coming this way, do you?" "oh, no!" contentedly. "i don't suppose it could come so far as this." "but why not?" thought elsie to herself, as she drove rapidly back. "if the wind were right for it, why shouldn't it come this way? fires travel much farther than that on the prairies,--and they go very fast, too. i never did like having nursey all alone by herself on that farm." she reached home, to find things in unexpected confusion. her father had been called away for the night by a telegram, and her mother--on this, of all days--had gone to bed, disabled with a bad headache. there was much to be done, and elsie flung herself into the breach, and did it, too busy to think again of nurse sparrow and the fire, until, toward nightfall, she noted that the wind had changed, and was blowing straight from bald top, bringing with it an increase of smoke. she ran out to consult the hired man before he went home for the night, and to ask if he thought there was any danger of the fire reaching the long woods. he "guessed" not. "these fires get going quite often on to the other side of bald top, but there ain't none of 'em come over this way, and 'tain't likely they ever will. i guess mis' sparrow's safe enough. you needn't worry, miss elsie." in spite of this comforting assurance, elsie did worry. she looked out of her west window the last thing before going to bed; and when, at two in the morning, she woke with a sudden start, her first impulse was to run to the window again. then she gave an exclamation, and her heart stood still with fear; for the southern slopes of bald top were ringed with flames which gleamed dim and lurid through the smoke, and showers of sparks, thrown high in air, showed that the edges of the woods beyond nursey's farm were already burning. "she'll be frightened to death," thought elsie. "oh, poor dear, and no one to help her!" what should she do? to go after the man and waken him meant a long delay. he was a heavy sleeper, and his house was a quarter of a mile distant. but there was jack in the stable, and the stable key was in the hall below. as she dressed, she decided. "how glad i am that i can do this!" she thought, as she flung the harness over the pony's back, strapped, buckled, adjusted,--doing all with a speed which yet left nothing undone and slighted nothing. not even on the day when she took the prize had she put her horse in so quickly. she ran back at the last moment for two warm rugs. deftly guiding jack over the grass, that his hoofs should make no noise, she gained the road, and, quickening him to his fastest pace, drove fearlessly into the dark woods. they were not so dark as she had feared they would be, for the light of a late, low-hung moon penetrated the trees, with perhaps some reflections from the far-away fire, so that she easily made out the turns and windings of the track. the light grew stronger as she advanced. the main fire was still far distant, but before she reached nurse's little clearing, she even drove by one place where the woods were ablaze. she had expected to find mrs. sparrow in an agitation of terror; but, behold! she was in her bed, sound asleep. happily, it was easy to get at her. nursey's theory was that, "if anybody thought it would pay him to sit up at night and rob an old woman, he'd do it anyway, and needn't have the trouble of getting in at the window;" and on the strength of this philosophical utterance, she went to bed with the door on the latch. she took elsie for a dream, at first. "i'm just a-dreaming. i ain't a-going to wake up; you needn't think it," she muttered sleepily. but when elsie at last shook her into consciousness, and pointed at the fiery glow on the horizon, her terror matched her previous unconcern. "oh, dear, dear!" she wailed, as with trembling, suddenly stiff fingers she put on her clothes. "i'm a-going to be burned out! it's hard, at my time of life, just when i had got things tidy and comfortable. i was a-thinking of sending over for my niece to the isle of dogs, and getting her to come and stay with me, i was indeed, missy. but there won't be any use in that _now_." "perhaps the fire won't come so far as this, after all," said the practical elsie. "oh, yes, it will! it's 'most here now." "well, whether it does or not, i'm going to carry you home with me, where you will be safe. now, nursey, tell me which of your things you care most for, that we can take with us,--small things, i mean. of course we can't carry tables and beds in my little cart." the selection proved difficult. nurse's affections clung to a tall eight-day clock, and were hard to be detached. she also felt strongly that it was a clear flying in the face of providence not to save "sparrow's chair," a solid structure of cherry, with rockers weighing many pounds, and quite as wide as the wagon. elsie coaxed and remonstrated, and at last got nursey into the seat, with the cat and a bundle of her best clothes in her lap, her tea-spoons in her pocket, a basket of specially beloved baking-tins under the seat, and a favorite feather-bed at the back, among whose billowy folds were tucked away an assortment of treasures, ending with the thanksgiving goodies which had been brought over that morning. "i can't leave that turkey behind, missy, dear--i really can't!" pleaded nursey. "i've been thinking of him, and anticipating how good he was going to be, all day; and i haven't had but one taste of your pie. they're so little, they'll go in anywhere." the fire seemed startlingly near now, and the western sky was all aflame, while over against it, in the east, burned the first yellow beams of dawn. people were astir by this time, and men on foot and horseback were hurrying toward the burning woods. they stared curiously at the oddly laden cart. "why, you didn't ever come over for me all alone!" cried nurse sparrow, rousing suddenly to a sense of the situation. "i've be'n that flustered that i never took thought of how you got across, or anything about it. where was your pa, missy,--and hiram?" elsie explained. "oh, you blessed child; and if you hadn't come, i'd have been burned in my bed, as like as not!" cried the old woman, quite overpowered. "well, well! little did i think, when you was a baby, and i a-tending you, that the day was to come when you were to run yourself into danger for the sake of saving my poor old life!" "i don't see that there has been any particular danger for me to run, so far; and as for saving your life, nursey, it would very likely have saved itself if i hadn't come near you. see, the wind has changed; it is blowing from the north now. perhaps the fire won't reach your house, after all. but, anyway, i am glad you are here and not there. we cannot be too careful of such a dear old nursey as you are. and one thing, i think, you'll confess,"--elsie's tone was a little mischievous,--"and that is, that harnessing classes have their uses. if i hadn't known how to put jack in the cart, i might at this moment be hammering on the door of that stupid hiram (who, you know, sleeps like a log) trying to wake him, and you on the clearing alone, scared to death. now, nursey, own up: mrs. thanet wasn't so far wrong, now was she?" "indeed, no, missy. it'd be very ungrateful for me to be saying that. the lady judged wiser than i did." "very well, then," cried elsie, joyously. "if only your house isn't burned up, i shall be glad the fire happened; for it's such a triumph for mrs. thanet, and she'll be so pleased!" nursey's house did not burn down. the change of wind came just in time to save it; and, after eating her own thanksgiving turkey in her old home, and being petted and made much of for a few days, she went back, none the worse for her adventure, to find her goods and chattels in their usual places, and all safe. and mrs. thanet _was_ pleased. she sent elsie a pretty locket, with the date of the fire engraved upon it, and wrote that she gloried in her as the vindicator of a principle, which fine words made elsie laugh; but she enjoyed being praised all the same. dolly phone. a dusty workshop, dark except where one broad ray of light streamed through a broken shutter, a row of mysterious objects, with a tiny tin funnel fitted into the front of each, and a cloth over their tops, odd designs in wood and brass hanging on the wall, a carpenter's bench, a small furnace, a general strew of shavings, iron scrape, and odds and ends, and a little girl sitting on the floor, crying. it does not sound much like the beginning of a story, does it? and no one would have been more surprised than amy carpenter herself if any one had come as she sat there crying, and told her that a story was begun, and she was in it. yet that is the way in which stories in real life often do begin. dust, dulness, every-day things about one, tears, temper; and out of these unpromising materials fate weaves a "happening" for us. she does not wait till skies are blue and suns shine, till the room is dusted, and we are all ready, but chooses such time as pleases her, and surprises us. amy was in as evil a temper as little girls of ten are often visited with. things had gone very wrong with her that day. it began with a great disappointment. all miss gray's class at school was going on a picnic. amy had expected to go too, and at the last moment her mother had kept her at home. "i'm real sorry about it," mrs. carpenter had said, "but you see how it is. baby's right fretty with his teeth, and your father's that worried about his machine that i'm afraid he'll be down sick. if we can't keep baby quiet, father can't eat, and if he don't eat he won't sleep, and if he can't sleep he can't work, and then i don't see what will become of us. i've all that sewing to finish for mrs. judge peters, and she's going away monday; and if she don't have it in time, she'll be put out, and, as like as not, give her work to some one else. now, don't cry, amy. i'm right sorry to disappoint you, but all of us must take our turn in giving up things. i'm sure i take mine," with a little patient sigh. "father's sure that this new machine of his is going to make our fortune," she went on, after an interval of busy stitching. "but i don't know. he said just the same about the alarm-clock, and the imferno reaper and binder, and that thing-a-my-jig for opening cans, and the self-registering savings bank, and the minute egg-beater, and the tuck measurer, and none of them came to anything in the end. perhaps it'll be the same with this." another sigh, a little deeper than the last. some little girls might have been touched with the tired, discouraged voice and look, but amy was a stormy child, with a hot temper and a very strong will. so instead of being sorry and helpful, she went on crying and complaining, till her mother spoke sharply, and then subsided into sulky silence. baby woke, and she had to take him up, but she did it unwillingly, and her unhappy mood seemed to communicate itself to him, as moods will. he wriggled and twisted in her arms, and presently began to whimper. amy hushed and patted. she set him on his feet, she turned him over on his face, nothing pleased him. the whimper increased to a roar. "dear! dear!" cried poor mrs. carpenter, stopping her machine in the middle of a long seam. "what is the matter? i never did see anybody so unhandy with a baby as you are. here i am in such a hurry, and you don't try to amuse him worth a cent. i'm really ashamed of you, amy carpenter." amy's back and arms ached; she felt that this speech was cruelly unjust. what she did not see was that it was her own temper which was repeated in her little brother. like all babies, he knew instinctively the difference between loving tendance and that which is bestowed from a cold sense of duty, and he resented the latter with all his might. "do walk up and down and sing to him," said mrs. carpenter, who hated to have her child unhappy, but still more to leave her sewing,--"sing something cheerful. perhaps he'll go to sleep if you do." so amy, feeling very cross and injured, had to walk the heavy baby up and down, and sing "rock me to sleep, mother," which was the only "cheerful" song she could think of. it quieted the baby for a while, then, just as his eyelids were drooping, a fresh attack of fretting seized upon him, and he began to cry; amy was so vexed that she gave him a furtive slap. it was a very little slap, but her mother saw it. "you naughty, bad girl!" she cried, jumping up; "so that's the way you treat your little brother, is it? slapping him on the sly! no wonder he doesn't like you, and won't go to sleep!" she snatched the child away, and gave amy a smart box on the ear. mrs. carpenter, though a good woman, had a quick temper of her own. "you can go up-stairs now," she said in a stern, exasperated tone. "i don't want you any more this afternoon. if you were a good girl, you might have been a real comfort to me this hard day, but as it is, i'd rather have your room than your company." frightened and angry both, amy rushed up-stairs, and into her father's workshop, the door of which stood open. he had just gone out, and the confusion and dreariness of the place seemed inviting to her at the moment. flinging the door to with a great bang, she threw herself on the floor, and gave vent to her pent-up emotions. "it's unjust!" she sobbed, speaking louder than usual, as people do who are in a passion. "mamma is as mean as she can be! scolding me because that old baby wouldn't go to sleep! i hate everybody! i wish i was dead! i wish everybody else was dead!" these were dreadful words for a little girl to use. even in her anger, amy would have been startled and ashamed at the idea of any one's ever hearing them. but amy had a listener, though she little suspected it, and, what was worse, a listener who was recording every word that she uttered! the "new machine" of which mrs. carpenter had spoken was really a very clever and ingenious one. it was the adaptation of the phonographic principle to the person of a doll. mr. carpenter had succeeded in interesting somebody with capital in his project, and the dolls were at that moment being manufactured for the apparatus, the construction of which he kept in his own hands. this apparatus was held in small cylinders, just large enough to fit into the body of a doll and contain, each, a few sentences, which the doll would seem to speak when set in an upright position. these cylinders were just ready, and standing in a row waiting to receive their "charges," which were to be put into them through the tin funnels fitted for the purpose. amy, as she sat on the floor, was exactly opposite one of these funnels, and all her angry words passed into, and became a part of, the mechanism of the doll. after this, no matter how many pretty words might be uttered softly into that cylinder, none of them could make any impression; the doll was full. it could hold no more. but no one knew that the doll was full. amy, her fit of passion over, fell asleep on the floor, and when her father's step sounded below, waked in a calmer mood. she was sorry that she had been so naughty, and tried to make up for it by being more helpful and patient in the evening and next day. her mother easily forgave her, and she did not find it hard to forgive herself, and soon forgot the event of that unhappy afternoon. mr. carpenter sat down in front of his cylinders that night, and filled them all, as he supposed, with nice little sentences to please and surprise small doll owners, such as "good morning, mamma. shall i put on my pink or my olive frock this morning?" or "good-night, mamma. i'm so sleepy!" or bits of nursery rhymes,--bo peep or jack and jill or little boy blue. then, when the phonographs were filled, the machinery went away to be put in the dolls, and mr. carpenter began on a fresh set. mrs. carpenter, meanwhile, had finished her big job of sewing, so she felt less hurried, and had more time for the baby. the weather was beautiful, things went well at school, and altogether life seemed pleasant to amy, and she found it easy to be kind and good-natured. this agreeable state of things lasted through the autumn. the dolliphone, as mr. carpenter had christened his invention, proved a hit. orders poured in from all over the united states, and from england and france, and the manufactory was taxed to its utmost extent. at last one of mr. carpenter's inventions had turned out a success, and his spirits rose high. "we've fetched it this time, mother," he told his wife. "the stock's going up like all possessed, and the dolls are going out as fast as we can get them ready. why, we've had orders from as far off as australia! china'll come next, i suppose, or the cannibal islands. there's no end to the money that's in it." "i'm glad, robert, i'm sure," returned mrs. carpenter; "but don't count too much upon it all. i've thought a heap of that self-acting churn, you remember." "pshaw! the churn never did amount to shucks anyhow," said her husband, who had the true inventor's faculty for forgetting the mischances of the past in the contemplation of the hopes of the future. "it was just a little dud to make folks open their eyes, any way. this dolliphone is different. it's bound to sell like wild-fire, once it gets to going. we'll be rich folks before we know it, mother." "that'll be nice," said mrs. carpenter, with a dry, unbelieving cough. she did not mean to be as discouraging as she sounded, but a woman can scarcely be the wife of an unsuccessful genius for fifteen years, and see the family earnings vanish down the throat of one invention after another, without becoming outwardly, as well as inwardly, discouraged. "now, don't be a wet blanket, mother," said mr. carpenter, good-humoredly. "we've had some upsets in our calculation, i confess, but this time it's all coming out right, as you'll see. and i wanted to ask you about something, and that is what you'd think of amy's having one of the dolls for her christmas? don't you think it'd please her?" "why, of course; but do you think you can afford it, robert? the dolls are five dollars, aren't they?" "yes, to customers they are, but i shouldn't have to pay anything like that, of course. i can have one for cost price, say a dollar seventy-five; so if you think the child would like it, we'll fix it so." "well, i should be glad to have amy get one," said mrs. carpenter, brightening up. "and it seems only right that she should, when you invented it and all. she's been pretty good these last weeks, and she'll be mightily tickled." so it was settled, but the pile of orders to be filled was so incessant that it was not till christmas eve that mr. carpenter could get hold of a doll for his own use, and no time was left in which to dress it. that was no matter, mrs. carpenter declared; amy would like to make the clothes herself, and it would be good practice in sewing. she hunted up some pieces of cambric and flannel and scraps of ribbon for the purpose, and when amy woke on christmas morning, there by her side lay the big, beautiful creature, with flaxen hair, long-lashed blue eyes, and a dimple in her pink chin. beside her was a parcel containing the materials for her clothes and a new spool of thread, and on the doll's arm was pinned a paper with this inscription:-- "_for amy, with a merry christmas from father and mother._ "_her name is dolly phone._" amy's only doll up to this time had been a rag one, manufactured by her mother, and you can imagine her delight. she hugged dolly phone to her heart, kissed her twenty times over, and examined all her beauties in detail,--her lovely bang, her hands, and her little feet, which had brown kid shoes sewed on them, and the smile on her lips, which showed two tiny white teeth. she stood her up on the quilt to see how tall she was, and as she did so, wonder of wonders, out of these smiling red lips came a voice, sharp and high-pitched, as if a canary-bird or a jew's-harp were suddenly endowed with speech, and began to talk to her! what did the voice say? not "good-morning, mamma," or "i'm so sleepy!" or "mistress mary quite contrary," or "twinkle, twinkle, little star,"--none of these things. her sister dolls might have said these things; what dolly phone said, speaking fast and excitedly, was,-- "it's unjust! mamma is as mean as she can be! scolding me because that old baby wouldn't go to sleep! i hate everybody! i wish i was dead! i wish everybody else was dead!" and then, in a different tone, a good deal deeper, "good-morning, ma-m--" and there the voice stopped suddenly. amy had listened to this remarkable address with astonishment. that her beautiful new baby could speak, was delightful, but what horrible things she said! "how queerly you talk, darling!" she cried, snatching the doll into her arms again. "what is the matter? why do you speak so to me? are you alive, or only making believe? i'm not mean; what makes you say i am? and, oh! why do you wish you were dead?" dolly stared full in her face with an unwinking smile. she looked perfectly good-natured. amy began to think that she was dreaming, or that the whole thing was some queer trick. "there, there, dear!" she cried, patting the doll's back, "we won't say any more about it. you love me now, i know you do!" then, very gently and cautiously, she set dolly on her feet again. "perhaps she'll say something nice this time," she thought hopefully. alas! the rosy lips only uttered the self-same words. "mean--unjust--i hate everybody--i wish everybody was dead," in sharp, unpitying sequence. worst of all, the phrases began to have a familiar sound to amy's ear. she felt her cheeks burn with a sudden red. "why," she thought, "that was what i said in the workshop the day i was so cross. how could the doll know? oh, dear! she's so lovely and so beautiful, but if she keeps on talking like this, what shall i do?" deep in her heart struggled an uneasy fear. mother would hear the doll! mother might suspect what it meant! at all hazards, dolly must be kept from talking while mother was by. she was so quiet and subdued when she went downstairs to breakfast, with the doll in her arms, that her father and mother could not understand it. they had looked forward to seeing her boisterously joyful. she kissed them, and thanked them, and tried to seem like her usual self, but mothers' eyes are sharp, and mrs. carpenter detected the look of trouble. "what's the matter, dear?" she whispered. "don't you feel well?" "oh, yes! very well. nothing's the matter." amy whispered back, keeping the terrible dolly sedulously prone, as she spoke. "come, amy, let's see your new baby," said mr. carpenter. "she's a beauty, ain't she? half of her was made in this house, did you know that? set her up, and let's hear her talk." "she's asleep now," faltered amy. "but she's been talking up-stairs. she talks very nicely, papa. she's tired now, truly she is." "nonsense! she isn't the kind that gets tired. her tongue won't ache if she runs on all day; she's like some little girls in that. stand her up, amy, i want to hear her. i've never seen one of 'em out of the shop before. she looks wonderfully alive, doesn't she, mother?" but amy still hesitated. her manner was so strange that her father grew impatient at last, and, reaching out, took the doll from her, and set it sharply on the table. the little button on the sole of the foot set the curious instrument within in motion. as prepared phrases were rolled off in shrill succession, mr. carpenter leaned forward to listen. when the sounds ended, he raised his head with a look of bewilderment. "why--why--what is the creature at?" he exclaimed. "that isn't what i put into her. 'i wish i was dead! wish everybody else was dead!' i can't understand it at all. i charged all the dolls myself, and there wasn't a word like that in the whole batch. if the others have gone wrong like this, it's all up with our profits." he looked so troubled and down-hearted that amy could bear it no longer. "it's all my fault!" she cried, bursting into tears. "somehow it's all my fault, though i can't tell how, for it was i who said those things. i said those very things, papa, in your workshop one day when i was in a temper. don't you recollect the day, mother,--the day when i didn't go to the picnic, and baby wouldn't go to sleep, and i slapped him, and you boxed my ears? i went up-stairs, and i was crying, and i said,--yes, i think i said every word of those things, though i forgot all about them till dolly said them to me this morning, and how she could possibly know, i can't imagine." "but i can imagine," said her father. "where did you sit that day, amy?" "on the floor, by the door." "was there a row of things close by, with tin funnels stuck in them and a cloth over the top?" "i think there was. i recollect the funnels." "then that's all right!" exclaimed mr. carpenter, his face clearing up. "those were the phonographs, mother, and, don't you see, she must have been exactly opposite one of the funnels, and her voice went in and filled it. it's the best kind of good luck that that cylinder happened to be put into her doll. if all that bad language had gone to anybody else, there would have been the mischief to pay. folks would have been writing to the papers, as like as not, or the ministers preaching against the dolls as a bad influence. it would have ruined the whole concern, and all your fault, amy." "oh, papa, how dreadful! how perfectly dreadful!" was all amy could say, but she sobbed so wildly that her father's anger melted. "there, don't cry," he said more kindly; "we won't be too hard on you on christmas day. wipe your eyes, and we'll try to think no more about it, especially as the spoiled doll has fallen to your own share, and no real harm is done." in his relief mr. carpenter was disposed to pass lightly over the matter. not so his wife. she took a more serious view of it. "you see, amy," she said that night when they chanced to be alone, "you see how a hasty word sticks and lasts. you never supposed that day that the things you said would ever come back to you again, but here they are." "yes--because of the doll,--of her inside, i mean. it heard." "but if the doll hadn't heard, some one would have heard all the same." "do you mean god?" asked amy, in an awe-struck voice. "yes. he hears every word that we say, the minister tells us, and writes them all down in a book. if it frightened you to have the doll repeat the words you had forgotten, think how much more it will frighten you, and all of us, when that book is opened and all the wrong things we have ever said are read out for the whole world to hear." mrs. carpenter did not often speak so solemnly, and it made a great impression on amy's mind. she still plays with dolly phone, and loves her, in a way, but it is a love which is mingled with fear. the doll is like a reproach of conscience to her. that is not pleasant, so she is kept flat on her back most of the time. only, now and then, when amy has been cross and said a sharp word, and is sorry for it, she solemnly takes dolly, sets her on her feet, and, as a penance, makes herself listen to all the hateful string of phrases which form her stock of conversation. "it's horrid, but it's good for me," she tells the baby, who listens with a look of fascinated wonder. "i shall have to keep her, and let her talk that way, till i'm such a good girl that there isn't any danger of my ever being naughty again. and that must be for a long, long time yet," she concludes with a sigh. a nursery tyrant. it was such a pleasant old nursery that it seemed impossible that anything disagreeable should enter into it. the three southern windows stood open in all pleasant weather, letting in cheerful sun and air. for cold days there was a generous grate, full of blazing coals, and guarded by a high fender of green-painted wire. there were little cupboards set in the deep sides of the chimney. the two on the left were barbara's and eunice's; the two to the right, reggy's and roger's. here they kept their own particular treasures under lock and key; while little may, the left-over one, was accommodated with two shelves inside the closet where they all hung their hats and coats. no one slept in this nursery, but all the erskine children spent a good part of the daytime in it. here they studied their lessons, and played when it was too stormy to go out; there the little ones were dressed and undressed, and all five took their suppers there every night. they liked it better than any other room in the house, partly, i suppose, because they lived so much in it. barbara was the eldest of the brood. it would have shocked her very much, had she guessed that any one was ever going to speak of her as a "tyrant." her idea of a tyrant was a lofty personage with a crown on his head, like xerxes, or king john, or the emperor nero. she had not gotten far enough in life or history to know that the same thing can be done in a small house that is done on a throne; and that tyranny is tyranny even when it is not bridging the dardanelles, or flinging christians to the wild beasts, or refusing to sign magna charta. in short, that the principle of a thing is its real life, and makes it the same, whether its extent or opportunities be more or less. this particular tyrant was a bright, active, self-willed little girl of eleven, with a pair of brown eyes, a mop of curly brown hair, pink cheeks, and a mouth which was so rosy and smiled so often that people forgot to notice the resolute little chin beneath it. she was very good-humored when everybody minded her, warm-hearted, generous, full of plans and fancies, and anxious to make everybody happy in her own way. she also cared a good deal about being liked and admired, as self-willed people often do; and whenever she fancied that the children loved eunice better than herself (which was the case), she was grieved, and felt that it was unfair. "for i do a great deal more to please them than eunie does," she would say to herself, forgetting that not what we do, but what we are, it is which makes us beloved or otherwise. but though the younger ones loved eunice best, they were much more apt to do as barbara wished, partly because it was easier than to oppose her, and partly because she and her many ideas and projects interested them. they never knew what was coming next; and they seldom dared to make up their minds about anything, or form any wishes of their own, till they knew what their despot had decided upon. eunice was gentle and yielding, mary almost a baby; but the boys, as they grew older, occasionally showed signs of rebellion, and though barbara put these down with an iron hand, they were likely to come again with fresh provocation. the fifteenth of may was always a festival in the erskine household. "mamma's may day," the children called it, because not only was it their mother's birthday, but it also took the place of the regular may day, which was apt to be too cold or windy for celebration. the children were allowed to choose their own treat, and they always chose a picnic and a may crowning. barbara was invariably queen, as a matter of course, and she made a very good one, and expended much time and ingenuity in inventing something new each year to make the holiday different from what it had ever been before. she always kept her plans secret till the last moment, to enhance the pleasure of the surprise. it never occurred to any one, least of all to barbara herself, that there could be rotation in office, or that any one else should be chosen as queen. still, changes of dynasty will come to families as well as to kingdoms; and queen barbara found this out. "eunie, i want you to do something," she said, one afternoon in late april, producing two long pieces of stiff white tarlatan; "please sew this up _there_ and there, and hem it _there_,--not nice sewing, you know, but big stitches." "what is it for?" asked eunie, obediently receiving the tarlatan, and putting on her thimble. "ah, that is a secret," replied barbara. "you'll know by and by." "can't you tell me now?" "no, not till mother's may day. i'll tell you then." "oh, barbie," cried eunice, dropping the tarlatan, "i wanted to speak to you before you began anything. the children want little mary to be the queen this year." "mary! why? i've always been queen. what do they want to change for? mary wouldn't know how to do it, and i've such a nice plan for this year!" "your plans always are nice," said the peace-loving eunice; "but, barbie, really and truly, we do all want to have mary this time. she's so cunning and pretty, and you've always been queen, you know. it was the boys thought of it first, and they want her ever so much. do let her, just for once." "why, eunice, i wouldn't have believed you could be so unkind!" said barbara, in an aggrieved tone. "it's not a bit fair to turn me out, when i've always worked so hard at the may day, and done _everything_, while the rest of you just sat by and enjoyed yourselves, and had all the fun and none of the trouble." "but the boys think the trouble is half the fun," persisted eunice. "they would rather take it than not. don't you think it would be nice to be a maid of honor, just for once?"--persuasively. "no, indeed, i don't!" retorted barbara, passionately. "be maid of honor, and have that baby of a mary, queen! you must be crazy, eunice erskine. i'll be queen or nothing, you can tell the boys; and if i backed out, and didn't help, i guess you'd all be sorry enough." so saying, barbara marched off, with her chin in the air. she was not really much afraid that her usually obedient subjects would resist her authority; but she had found that this injured way of speaking impressed the children, and helped her to carry her points. so she was surprised enough, when that evening, at supper, she noticed a constraint of manner among the rest of the party. the children looked sober. reggy whispered to eunice, roger kicked reggy, and at last burst out with, "now, see here, barbie erskine, we want to tell you something. we're going to have baby for queen this time, and not you, and that's all there is about it." "roger," said the indignant barbara, "how dare you speak so? you're not going to have anything of the kind unless i say you may." "yes, we are. mamma says we ought to take turns, and we never have. nobody has ever had a turn except you, and you keep having yours all the time. we don't want the same queen always, and this year we've chosen mary." "roger erskine!" cried barbara, hotly. "you're the rudest boy that ever was!" then she turned to the others. "now listen to me," she said. "i've made all my plans for this year, and they're perfectly lovely. i won't tell you what they are, exactly, because it would spoil the surprise, but there's going to be an angel! an angel--with wings! what do you think of that? you'd be sorry if i gave it up, wouldn't you? well, if one more word is said about mary's being queen, i will give it up, and i won't help you a bit. now you can choose." her tone was awfully solemn, but the children did not give way. even the hint about the angel produced no effect. eunice began, "i'm sure, barbie--" but reggy stopped her with, "shut up, eunice! everybody in favor of mary for queen, can hold up their hands," he called out. six hands went up. eunice raised hers in a deprecating way, but she raised it. "it's a vote," cried roger. barbara glared at them all with helpless wrath; then she said, in a choked voice, "oh, well! have your old picnic, then. i sha'n't come to it," and ran out of the room, leaving her refractory subjects almost frightened at their own success. two unhappy weeks followed. true to her threat, barbara refused to take any share in the holiday preparations. she sat about in corners, sulky and unhappy, while the others worked, or tried to work. sooth to say, they missed her help very much, and did badly enough without her, but they would not let her know this. the boys whistled as they drove nails, and _sounded_ very contented and happy. presently fate sent them a new ally. aunt kate, the young aunt whom the children liked best of all their relations, came on a visit, and, finding so much going on, bestirred herself to help. she was not long in missing barbara, and she easily guessed out the position of affairs, though the children made no explanations. one afternoon, leaving the others hard at work, she went in search of barbara, who had hidden herself away with a book, in the shrubbery. "why are you all alone?" she asked, sitting down beside her. "i don't know where the others are," said barbara, moodily. "they are tying wreaths to dress the tent to-morrow. don't you want to go and help them?" "no, they don't want me! oh, aunt kate!" with a sudden burst of confidence, "they have treated me so! you can't think how they have treated me!" "why, what have they done?" "i've always been queen on mother's may day,--always. and this year i meant to be again. and i had such a nice plan for the coronation, and then they all chose mary." "well?" "they insisted on having mary for queen, though i told them i wouldn't help if they did," repeated barbara. "well?" "well? that's all. what do you mean, aunty?" "i was waiting to hear you tell the real grievance. that the children should want mary for queen, when you have been one so many times, doesn't seem to be a reason." barbara was too much surprised to speak. "yes, my dear, i mean it," persisted her aunt. "now let us talk this over. why should you always be queen on mamma's birthday? who gave you the right, i mean?" "the children liked to have me," faltered barbara. "precisely. but this year they liked to have mary." "but i worked so hard, aunty. you can't think how i worked. i did everything; and sometimes i got dreadfully tired." "was that to please the others?" "y-es--" "or would they rather have helped in the work, and did you keep it to yourself because you liked to do it alone?" asked aunt kate, with a smile. "now, my barbie, listen to me. you have led always because you liked to lead, and the others submitted to you. but no one can govern forever. the rest are growing up; they have their own rights and their own opinions. you cannot go on always ruling them as you did when they were little. do you want to be a good, useful older sister, loved and trusted, or to have eunice slip into your place, and be the real elder sister, while you gradually become a cipher in the family?" barbara began to cry. "dear child," said aunty kate, kissing her, "now is your chance. influence, not authority, should be a sister's weapon. if you want to lead the children, you must do it with a smile, not a pout." the children were surprised enough that evening when barbara came up to offer to help tie wreaths. her eyes looked as if she had been crying, but she was very kind and nice all that night and next day. she was maid of honor to little queen mary, after all. eunice gave her a rapturous kiss afterward, and said, "oh, barbie, how _dear_ you are!" and, somehow, barbara forgot to feel badly about not being queen. some defeats are better than victories. what the pink flamingo did. the great pink flamingo roused from his resting-place among the sedges when the noise began. at first he only stirred sleepily, and wondered, half awake, at the unusual sounds; but as they increased, curiosity began to trouble him. party after party in launches or bright-hued gondolas glided past, all gay and chattering, and full of excitement about something, he did not know what. it was the first night on which the buildings and grounds of the chicago fair were illuminated, and the flamingo could not tell what to make of it, any more than could the herons and swans, the muscovy ducks, the cranes, or any other of the winged creatures which had learned to make themselves at home on the banks of the lagoons. the pink flamingo's name was coco. he had been "raised" on the shore of the st. johns river, in florida, as the pet and _protégé_ of cecil schott, a boy who had taught him many tricks,--to catch fish and fetch them out in his mouth, as a retriever fetches a bird, to eat caramels, to dive after objects thrown into the water and bring them up in his beak:--after cecil himself even, so long as he was small enough to be counted as an "object." often and often had coco plunged into the deep river, following the downward sweep of his little master, and seized him by the arm or foot before he was anywhere near the bottom. he would eat from cecil's hand, also, and stand by his side, folding one wide wing across the boy's shoulder, as though it were an arm. cecil was growing up now, and had been sent to school; so when mr. schott heard that the chicago directors were making a collection of birds for the fair grounds, he offered coco, whose fearlessness and familiarity with human beings seemed peculiarly to adapt him for a public position. when the fifth electrical launch had sped past the sedges, and strange, hovering lights began to burn in the sky, and ring the domes and roofs in the distance toward the south, coco could endure it no longer, and, betaking himself to the water, started on a tour of investigation. he looked very big in the dim light of the upper waterways,--almost as big as the smaller of the gondolas. the people in the boats exclaimed with astonishment as he passed them, his broad wings raised above him, like rose-colored sails, and his stout legs beating the water into foam behind, like a propeller. at first his course lay amid soft shadows. the upper part of the fair grounds was not illuminated, and only a bird's keen vision could have made out accustomed objects. but the flamingo had no difficulty in seeing. he knew exactly where to look for the nest of the female swan on the wooded island. he could even make out her dim white shape in the gloom, and hear the disturbed flutter of her wings. there was the plantation of white hyacinths, and there the outline of the shabby old "prairie schooner," into which he had more than once poked his inquisitive head. there stood the "log cabin," and beyond, the twinkling lanterns of the japanese tea garden. the pink flamingo recognized them all. under one graceful bridge after another, past one enormous beautiful building after another, he swept, following the curves and turnings of the waterways, startled here and there by unaccustomed lights and the sounds of a hurrying crowd, till at last, with one bold sweep, he glided under the last arch and out into the broad basin of the court of honor. he had been there before. catch the pink flamingo leaving any part of the fair grounds unexplored! he was not that sort of bird. he had even been there in the evening, when the moon shone clearly on the water, with only a point of light here and there on the surrounding shores, and no sounds to break the stillness but the plash of waves washing in from the lake, and the low talk of little groups of late-stayers, sitting on the steps before the liberal arts building, looking across to the fountain and the dim row of sculptured forms on the summit of the peristyle. but now all was different. the gilded dome of the administration building was ringed with lines of fire. the façade of the agricultural blazed with lights, which shone on the bas-reliefs and sculptures, on the winged diana above, and the great bulls which guard the approach to the boat-landing. every figure which topped the long double lines of the peristyle stood out distinctly against the transparent sky; the gilding of the broad arch toward the lake glowed ruddy in the light, and so did the majestic figure of the republic, its noble outline reflected in the shimmering waters beneath. the great fountain opposite caught the blaze, and sent its smooth shoots over the basin edges with a white phosphorescent radiance. then a wide beam from a search-light swept across, and seemed to turn the figures into life; made the form of the discoverer and the beautiful figures of the rowing women on either side, throb and pulsate, fluctuating with the fluctuating ray, till they seemed to bend and move. on either side, the electrical fountains lifted high in air great sheaves of iridescent colors, scarlet, green, and blue, like a flag of upheaving jewels, while the faces of the immense throng along the esplanades and on the dome of the administration building changed from gloom to glory and back again to gloom as the dancing ray wandered to and fro. it was a scene from fairyland; but it did not altogether please coco, who, startled and affrighted, made a dive, and disappeared under water by way of a relief to his feelings. then he came up again, and, growing by degrees accustomed to these novel splendors, he recovered confidence, and began to look about him. "oh, what a beautiful bird!" he heard some one say; and though he did not understand the words, he knew well enough that he was being admired, and thereupon proceeded to make himself a part of the show. he splashed, dived, extended his wide wings, curved his long neck, and generally exhibited himself to the best of his ability, all the time maintaining an absent-minded air, as if he were not aware that any one else was present. coco was very conceited for a bird. meanwhile, at about the same moment in which the pink flamingo was roused from his slumbers, a small turkish boy named hassan awoke from his, in the retirement of the midway plaisance. he had not been at all a good little turk since he came to america, his parents thought. something in the air of freedom had apparently demoralized him. it might be that domestic discipline had been relaxed since their arrival, for there had been much to do in getting the turkish bazaar and the mosque and the village ready; but certain it is that hassan had been naughtier and given more trouble during the past ten weeks than in all the previous years of his short life. once, in a great rain-storm, he had actually run away, slipping past the guard at the gate, and tearing wildly down the street. where he was going, he did not know or care; all he wanted was to run. how far he might have gone, or what would have become of him in the end, no one can say, had his father not caught a glimpse of the small fleeting figure. "beard of the prophet!" ejaculated the scandalized mustapha. "that son of sheitan, the enemy of true believers, will be run over by the horses of the infidel if i do not overtake him speedily." he tucked up his blue robe, which almost touched the muddy ground, it was so long, revealing, as he did so, yellow boots topped with american socks, and, above these, a pair of green drawers, and started in pursuit. alas! the guard at the turnstile stopped him, and demanded his pass. in vain mustapha remonstrated, and explained, in fluent turkish, that his sole object was to capture his evil child, who had escaped from home. the guard did not understand the language of turkey, and persisted, explaining, in the tongue of chicago, that he was acting under orders, and that no "foreigner" could go in or out without proper authority. "permit! permit! pass! pass! you must show your pass!" cried the guard. "_backsheesh_, you know." it was his sole turkish word. he had learned it since the fair opened from hearing it so often. "you bet!" responded mustapha. it was his sole english word. "the prophet visit you with a murrain and total baldness!" he continued, in his own vernacular. then, seeing that hassan, who was having a most enjoyable time, was nearing a corner and about to disappear, he uttered a wild shout of despair, and, thrusting the guard aside, darted through the gate and after the child. his long petticoat waggled in the wind, and blew behind him like a wet umbrella broken loose. the guard was so convulsed with laughter that he could only stand still and hold his sides. two chairmen, who had trundled two ladies down the plaisance to the gate, were as much convulsed as he. little hassan ran for all he was worth. his gown of drab cotton, as long, in proportion, as his father's, switched and fluttered as he flew along. but longer legs always have the advantage over shorter ones in a race. the pursuer gained on the pursued. when hassan saw that there was no hope, and he was bound to be overtaken, he just flung himself down in a mud-puddle and kicked and screamed. his exasperated parent pulled him up, and, with a shake, set him on his feet. hassan made his legs limp, and refused to walk; so mustapha tucked him under his arm, and strode back toward the plaisance. the guard was still too doubled up with laughter for speech, so he let him pass unscolded. once safely inside, mustapha shifted his wet and dirty little burden on to its feet, whirled aside the drab skirt, and, with trenchant slaps, administered a brief but effectual american spanking. he then conducted hassan to his veiled mother in her retirement, and intimated his pleasure that he should be made to undergo a further penance. it was this same naughty little turk who woke up at the same time with the pink flamingo. he heard music and shouts, and saw the same strange glow toward the southward which had startled the bird from its rest. his father and mother had joined the motley throng of foreign folk of all nationalities, garbs, and shades of complexion,--arabs, javanese, alaskans, eskimos, south sea islanders, cossacks, american indians, and east indians, chinese, and dahomyans,--who had flocked out of the plaisance to see the spectacle. no one was left behind but the sleeping children, and here was hassan, no longer asleep, but very wide awake indeed. [illustration: down the esplanade sped the little figure.--page .] no time did he lose in hesitation; he knew in a moment what he wanted to do. his queer little clothes were close at hand,--the drab gown, still mud-stained from his run, the yellow slippers, the small fez for his head. into them he skipped, and, stepping out of the door, he ran down the plaisance, keeping on the shaded side as far as might be, for fear of being stopped. he need not have been afraid; there was no one to stop him. the great woman's building came in sight, with the outlines of the still larger horticultural beyond. down the esplanade sped the little figure. the light grew more brilliant with every turn; more and more people passed him, but all were pressing southward. and in a crowd like this, nobody had time to notice the advent of such a very small turk among them. hot and breathless after his long run, hassan at last emerged, as the pink flamingo had done, on the court of honor. here his smallness proved an advantage to him, for he could crowd himself into minute spaces in the living mass where a grown person could not go, squeeze between people's legs, and wriggle and twist, all the time pressing steadily forward, till at last he gained the parapet, and, climbing up, seated himself comfortably on the top. then his eyes and mouth opened simultaneously into an "ahi!" of wonder, for close before him was one of the electrical fountains, shooting blue and crimson fires, and a little beyond shone the pulsating radiance of the dazzling forms grouped above the discoverer, the rearing horses, the winged shape in the bow of the boat. never before had anything so wonderful been seen by our little turk. the great basin twinkled with reflected lights, like a starry sky set upside down; overhead the statues glittered; a round silver moon hung above, and broad rays, like her own beams intensified and set into motion, wandered to and fro from the search-light opposite, darting now on a splendid façade, now on a towering dome, again on a bridge packed with people, whose expectant faces were all turned skyward, and, finally, on a great pink bird which was wheeling and turning in the water. there was a sudden small splash. "oh, oh!" shrieked a child's voice, in tones of distress, "my dolly's fallen in! mamma, mamma, that was my dolly that fell in. she'll be all drowned! oh, my dolly!" then the voice changed to one of amazement and joy: "oh, mamma, see that bird! he has got her!" coco had spied the doll as it fell, and, true to his early training, dived after it as a matter of course, and came up with the doll in his bill. "oh, you good birdie! you dear birdie!" cried the little one, stretching her arms over the parapet. "let me have dolly again, please, dear birdie!" coco understood only flamingo, and had no idea what the little girl was saying; but as a nibble or two had showed that the doll was not edible, he made no resistance when a gentleman reached over from the edge of a gondola and took it from his beak. it was handed back to its little owner amid a great clapping and laughing, and coco was given an albert biscuit instead, which he liked much better, and speedily disposed of. he knew that the applause was meant for him, and, puffed up with pride, sailed vain-gloriously to and fro, waiting another chance to distinguish himself. it came! there was another and much louder splash as a small red-capped figure toppled over into the water. it was hassan, who, leaning over to watch the wonderful bird, had lost his balance. no one laughed this time, and there was a general cry of "oh, it was a child! a child has fallen in! save him, some one!" people shouted for "a boat;" men pulled off their coats, making ready for a plunge; women began to cry; then, all at once, there was a general exclamation of astonishment and admiration. "the bird has got him" cried a hundred voices. it was again coco! to dive after hassan, to seize the drab skirt in his beak, and bring the child again to the surface of the water, was an easy feat to him; but to the excited multitudes upon the banks it seemed well-nigh a miracle. "never saw such a thing in my life!" declared a man on the bridge. "don't tell me that bird hasn't an intellect. no, sir! there ain't a man here could have done that better, nor so well as that there pelican. he is smart enough to vote, he is!" "too smart," remarked his next neighbor. "he'd never stick to the regular ticket; he'd have a mind of his own. that ain't the sort we want over here. we want voters that don't have independent ideas, but just do as the boss tells 'em." "that's pretty true, i reckon," replied the first man. meanwhile, hassan was safe on shore. it had been for only one moment that the flamingo had needed to support his burden; then it was lifted from him by a man in a boat, who took time to tell him that he was a "first-rate fellow, a famous fellow, and ought to have a medal from the humane society." "he _shall_ have one!" declared an enthusiastic lady in the crowd. "i will see to it myself." and the next morning she bought a souvenir half-dollar, had "for a brave bird" engraved upon it, and a hole bored in its rim, through which she ran a pink ribbon. this she carried over to the wooded island, and, with the assistance of two columbian guards, captured coco, and tied the ribbon firmly round his neck. he resisted strenuously, and spent much time in trying to peck the decoration off; but as time went on, and he became accustomed to it, and found that wherever he went it made him conspicuous, and that the other birds envied him the notice he attracted, he rather learned to like his "medal;" and he wore it to the very end of the columbian exposition. meanwhile, as fate willed it, the dripping hassan was handed ashore precisely at that point of the esplanade where stood his father and mother! they had not seen the accident, nor understood that it was a boy who had fallen in and been rescued by a bird; so when a wet little object was set to drip almost at their feet, and they recognized in it their own offspring, whom they supposed to be safely asleep at home, it will be easily imagined that their wrath and astonishment knew no bounds. "ahi! child of sin, contaminated by the unbeliever, is it indeed thou?" cried the irate mustapha. "what djinnee, what imp of eblis hath brought thee here?" "he hath been in the water, allah preserve us!" cried the more tender-hearted mother. "he might have been drowned." "in the water! nay, then; wherefore is he not in bed where we left him? we will see if this imp of evil be not taught to avoid the water in the future. on my head be it if he is not, inshallah!" so the weeping hassan was led home by his family, his garments leaving a trail of drip on the concrete all the way up the long distance; and in the seclusion of the temporary harem he was caused to see the error of his way. "thou shalt be made to remember," declared his irate parent in the pauses of discipline. "i will not have thee as the sons of these infidels who despise correction, saying 'i will' and 'i will not,' and are as a blemish and a darkening to the faces of their parents. the prophet rebuke me if i do! inshallah!" but coco, when the lights were put out and the great crowd streamed away, leaving the fair grounds to silence and loneliness, and the lagoons became again a soft land of shadows broken by reaches of moonlight, sailed back to his perch among the sedges with a calm and satisfied mind. he had a right to be pleased with himself. had he not saved two "people," one very small and hard, and the other very big and soft? nothing whispered of that dreadful half-dollar which was coming on the morrow to vex his spirit. no one said to _him_ "inshallah." he tucked his head under his wing and went to sleep, a peaceful and contented flamingo; and the moral is, "be virtuous and you will be happy." two pairs of eyes. did it ever occur to you what a difference there is in the way in which people use their eyes? i do not mean that some people squint, and some do not; that some have short sight, and some long sight. these are accidental differences; and the people who cannot see far, sometimes see more, and more truly, than do other people whose vision is as keen as the eagle's. no, the difference between people's eyes lies in the power and the habit of observation. did you ever hear of the famous conjurer robert houdin, whose wonderful tricks and feats of magic were the astonishment of europe a few years ago? he tells us, in his autobiography, that to see everything at a glance, while seeming to see nothing, is the first requisite in the education of a "magician," and that the faculty of noticing rapidly and exactly can be trained like any other faculty. when he was fitting his little son to follow the same profession, he used to take him past a shop-window, at a quick walk, and then ask him how many objects in the window he could remember and describe. at first, the child could only recollect three or four; but gradually he rose to ten, twelve, twenty, and, in the end, his eyes would note, and his memory retain, not less than forty articles, all caught in the few seconds which it took to pass the window at a rapid walk. it is so more or less with us all. few things are more surprising than the distinct picture which one mind will bring away from a place, and the vague and blurred one which another mind will bring. observation is one of the valuable faculties, and the lack of it a fault which people have to pay for, in various ways, all their lives. there were once two peasant boys in france, whose names were jean and louis cardilliac. they were cousins; their mothers were both widows, and they lived close to each other in a little village, near a great forest. they also looked much alike. both had dark, closely shaven hair, olive skins, and large, black eyes; but in spite of all their resemblances, jean was always spoken of as "lucky," and louis as "unlucky," for reasons which you will shortly see. if the two boys were out together, in the forest or the fields, they walked along quite differently. louis dawdled in a sort of loose-jointed trot, with his eyes fixed on whatever happened to be in his hand,--a sling, perhaps, or a stick, or one of those snappers with which birds are scared away from fruit. if it were the stick, he cracked it as he went, or he snapped the snapper, and he whistled, as he did so, in an absent-minded way. jean's black eyes, on the contrary, were always on the alert, and making discoveries. while louis stared and puckered his lips up over the snapper or the sling, jean would note, unconsciously but truly, the form of the clouds, the look of the sky in the rainy west, the wedge-shaped procession of the ducks through the air, and the way in which they used their wings, the bird-calls in the hedge. he was quick to mark a strange leaf, or an unaccustomed fungus by the path, or any small article which had been dropped by the way. once, he picked up a five-franc piece; once, a silver pencil-case which belonged to the _curé_, who was glad to get it again, and gave jean ten sous by way of reward. louis would have liked ten sous very much, but somehow he never found any pencil-cases; and it seemed hard and unjust when his mother upbraided him for the fact, which, to his thinking, was rather his misfortune than his fault. "how can i help it?" he asked. "the saints are kind to jean, and they are not kind to me,--_voilà tout_!" "the saints help those who help themselves," retorted his mother. "thou art a look-in-the-air. jean keeps his eyes open, he has wit, and he notices." but such reproaches did not help louis, or teach him anything. habit is so strong. "there!" cried his mother one day, when he came in to supper. "thy cousin--thy lucky cousin--has again been lucky. he has found a truffle-bed, and thy aunt has sold the truffles to the man from paris for a hundred francs. a hundred francs! it will be long before thy stupid fingers can earn the half of that!" "where did jean find the bed?" asked louis. "in the oak copse near the brook, where thou mightest have found them as easily as he," retorted his mother. "he was walking along with daudot, the wood cutter's dog--whose mother was a truffle-hunter--and daudot began to point and scratch; and jean suspected something, got a spade, dug, and crack! a hundred francs! ah, _his_ mother is to be envied!" "the oak copse! near the brook!" exclaimed louis, too much excited to note the reproach which concluded the sentence. "why, i was there but the other day with daudot, and i remember now, he scratched and whined a great deal, and tore at the ground. i didn't think anything about it at the time." "oh, thou little imbecile--thou stupid!" cried his mother, angrily. "there were the truffles, and the first chance was for thee. didn't think anything about it! thou never dost think, thou never wilt. out of my sight, and do not let me see thee again till bedtime." supperless and disconsolate poor louis slunk away. he called daudot, and went to the oak copse, resolved that if he saw any sign of excitement on the part of the dog, to fetch a spade and instantly begin to dig. but daudot trotted along quietly, as if there were not a truffle left in france, and the walk was fruitless. "if i had only," became a favorite sentence with louis, as time went on. "if i had only noticed this." "if i had only stopped then." but such phrases are apt to come into the mind after something has been missed by not noticing or not stopping, so they do little good to anybody. did it ever occur to you that what people call "lucky chances," though they seem to come suddenly, are in reality prepared for by a long unconscious process of making ready on the part of those who profit by them? such a chance came at last to both jean and louis,--to louis no less than to jean; but one was prepared for it, and the other was not. professor sylvestre, a famous naturalist from toulouse, came to the forest village where the two boys lived, one summer. he wanted a boy to guide him about the country, carry his plant-cases and herbals, and help in his search after rare flowers and birds, and he asked madame collot, the landlady of the inn, to recommend one. she named jean and louis; they were both good boys, she said. so the professor sent for them to come and talk with him. "do you know the forest well, and the paths?" he asked. yes, both of them knew the forest very well. "are there any woodpeckers of such and such a species?" he asked next. "have you the large lunar moth here? can you tell me where to look for _campanila rhomboidalis_?" and he rapidly described the variety. louis shook his head. he knew nothing of any of these things. but jean at once waked up with interest. he knew a great deal about woodpeckers,--not in a scientific way, but with the knowledge of one who has watched and studied bird habits. he had quite a collection of lunar and other moths of his own, and though he did not recognize the rare _campanila_ by its botanical title, he did as soon as the professor described the peculiarities of the leaf and blossom. so m. sylvestre engaged him to be his guide so long as he stayed in the region, and agreed to pay him ten francs a week. and mother cardilliac wrung her hands, and exclaimed more piteously than ever over her boy's "ill luck" and his cousin's superior good fortune. one can never tell how a "chance" may develop. professor sylvestre was well off, and kind of heart. he had no children of his own, and he was devoted, above all other things, to the interest of science. he saw the making of a first-rate naturalist in jean cardilliac, with his quick eyes, his close observation, his real interest in finding out and making sure. he grew to an interest in and liking for the boy, which ripened, as the time drew near for him to return to his university, into an offer to take jean with him, and provide for his education, on the condition that jean, in return, should render him a certain amount of assistance during his out-of-school hours. it was, in effect, a kind of adoption, which might lead to almost anything; and jean's mother was justified in declaring, as she did, that his fortune was made. "and for thee, thou canst stay at home, and dig potatoes for the rest of thy sorry life," lamented the mother of louis. "well, let people say what they will, this is an unjust world; and, what is worse, the saints look on, and do nothing to prevent it. heaven forgive me if it is blasphemous to speak so, but i cannot help it!" but it was neither "luck" nor "injustice." it was merely the difference between "eyes and no eyes,"--a difference which will always exist and always tell. the pony that kept the store. it was a shabby old store, built where two cross-roads and a lane met at the foot of a low hill, and left between them a small triangular space fringed with grass. on the hill stood a summer hotel, full of boarders from the neighboring city; for the place was cool and airy, and a wide expanse of sea and rocky islands, edged with beaches and wooded points, stretched away from the hill's foot. in years gone by, the shabby old store had driven quite a flourishing trade during the months of the year when the hotel was open. the boarders went there for their ink and tacks; their sewing-silk and shoe-buttons; for the orange marmalade and potted ham which they carried on picnics; for the liquid blacking, which saved the boot-boy at the hotel so much labor; the letter-paper, on which they wrote to their friends what a good time they were having; and all the thousand and one things of which people who have little to do with their time and money fancy themselves in want. but a year before the time at which the events i am about to relate took place, the owner of the store built himself a new and better one at a place a mile further on, where there was a still larger hotel and a group of cottages, and removed thither with his belongings. the old building had stood empty for some months, and at last was hired for a queer use,--namely, to serve as stable for a very small shetland pony, not much larger than a calf, or an extra large newfoundland dog. "cloud" was the pony's name. he belonged to ned cabot, who was nine years old, and was not only his pony, but his intimate friend as well. ned loved him only the better for a terrible accident which had befallen cloud a few months before. the cabots, who had been living on lake superior for a while, came back to the east with all their goods and chattels, and among the rest, their horses. it had been a question as to how little cloud should travel; and at last a box was built which could be set in a freight-car, and in which, it was hoped, he would make the journey in safety. but accidents sometimes happen even when the utmost care is taken, and, sad to relate, cloud arrived in boston with his tiny foreleg broken. horses' legs are hard to mend, you know; and generally when one breaks, it is thought the easiest and cheapest way out of the trouble to shoot the poor animal at once, and buy another to take his place. but the bare mention of such a thing threw ned into such paroxysms of grief, and he sobbed so dreadfully, that all his family made haste to assure him that under no circumstances should cloud be shot. instead, he was sent to a hospital,--not the massachusetts general, i think, but something almost as superior in its line, where animals are treated, and there the surgeons slung him up, and put his leg into plaster, exactly as if he had been a human being. had he been a large, heavy horse, i suppose they could hardly have done this; but being a little light pony, it was possible. and the result was that the poor fellow got well, and was not lamed in the least, which made his little master very happy. he loved cloud all the more for this great escape, and cloud fully returned ned's affection. he was a rather over-indulged and overfed pony; but with ned, he was always a pattern of gentleness and propriety. ned could lie flat on his back and read story books by the hour without the least fear that cloud would jump or shy or shake him off. far from it! cloud would graze quietly up and down, taking pains not to disturb the reading, only turning his head now and then to see if ned was comfortable, and when he found him so, giving a little satisfied whinny, which seemed to say, "here we are, and what a time we are having!" surely, no pony could be expected to do better than that. so now little cloud, with his foreleg quite mended and as strong as ever, was the sole occupant of the roomy old country store. a little stall had been partitioned off for him in a corner where there was a window, out of which he could see the buckboards and cut-unders drive by, and the daisies and long grass on the opposite slope blowing in the fresh sea wind. horses have curiosity, and like to look out of the window and watch what is going on as well as people do. there were things inside the store that were worth looking at as well as things outside. when mr. harrison, the storekeeper, moved away, he carried off most of his belongings, but a few articles he left behind, i suppose because he did not consider them worth taking away. there were two blue painted counters and some rough hanging shelves, a set of rusty old scales and weights, a row of glass jars with a little dab of something at the bottom of each,--rice, brown sugar, cream-of-tartar, cracker crumbs, and fragments of ginger-snaps. there was also a bottle half full of fermented olives, a paper parcel of musty corn flour, and, greatest of all, a big triangle of cheese, blue with mould, in a round red wooden box with wire sides, like an enormous mouse-trap. it was quite a stock-in-trade for a pony, and cloud had so much the air of being in possession, that the smallest of the children at the hotel always spoke of the place as his store. "i want to go down to cloud's store," they would say to their nurses. ned and his sister constance took a great deal of the care of the pony on themselves. a freckled little country lad named dick had been engaged to feed and clean him; but he so often ran away from his work that the children were never easy in their minds for fear lest cloud had been forgotten and was left supperless or with no bed to lie upon. almost always, and especially on sunday nights, when he of the freckles was most apt to absent himself, they would coax their mother to let them run down the last thing and make sure that all was right. if it were not, ned would turn to, and constance also, to feed and bed the pony; they were both strong and sturdy, and could do the work very well, only constance always wanted to braid his mane to make it kink, and ned would never let her; so they sometimes ended with quarrelling. one day in august it happened that ned's father and mother, his big brother, his two sisters, and, in fact, most of the grown people in the hotel, went off on a picnic to white gull island, which was about seven miles out to sea. they started at ten in the morning, with a good breeze, and a load of very attractive-looking lunch-baskets; but at noon the wind died down, and did not spring up again, and when ned's bedtime came, they had still not returned. their big sail could be seen far out beyond the islands. they were rowing the boat, mr. gale, the hotel-keeper, said; but unless the wind came up, he did not think they would be in much before midnight. ned had not gone with the others. he had hurt his foot a day or two before, and his mother thought climbing rocks would be bad for it. he had cried a little when constance and the rest sailed away, but had soon been consoled. mrs. cabot had arranged a series of treats for him, a row with nurse, a sea-bath, a new story-book, and had asked a little boy he liked to come over from the other hotel and spend the afternoon on the beach. there had been the surprise of a box of candy and two big peaches. altogether, the day had gone happily, and it was not till nurse had put ned to bed and gone off to a "praise meeting" in the methodist chapel, that it occurred to him to feel lonely. he lay looking out at sea, which was lit by the biggest and whitest moon ever seen. far away he could catch the shimmer of the idle sail, which seemed scarcely nearer than it had done at supper-time. "i wish mamma were here to kiss me for good-night," reflected ned, rather dismally. "i don't feel sleepy a bit, and it isn't nice to have them all gone." from the foot of the hill came a sound of small hoofs stamping impatiently. then a complaining whinny was heard. ned sat up in bed. something was wrong with cloud, he was sure. "it's that bad dick. he's gone off and forgotten to give cloud any supper," thought ned. then he called "mary! ma-ry!" several times, before he remembered that mary was gone to the praise meeting. "i don't care!" he said aloud. "i'm not going to let my cloudy starve for anybody." so he scrambled out of bed, found his shoes, and hastily put on some of the clothes which mary had just taken off and folded up. there was no one on the piazza to note the little figure as it sped down the slope. everybody was off enjoying the moonlight in some way or other. it was, indeed, as ned had suspected. dick of the freckles had gone fishing and forgotten cloud altogether. the moon shone full through the eastern windows of the store, making it almost as light as day, and ned had no trouble in finding the hay and the water-pail. he watched the pony as he hungrily champed and chewed the sweet-smelling heap and sucked up the water, then he brushed out his stall, and scattered straw, and then sat down "for a minute," as he told himself, to rest and watch cloud go to sleep. it was very pleasant in the old store, he thought. presently cloud lay down on the straw too, and cuddled close up to ned, who patted and stroked him. ned thought he was asleep, he lay so still. but after a little while cloud stirred and got up, first on his forelegs and then altogether. he stood a moment watching ned, who pretended to be sleeping, then he opened the slatted door of his stall, moved gently across the floor and went in behind the old blue counter. "what _is_ he going to do?" thought ned. "i never saw anything so funny. constance will never believe when i tell her about it." what cloud did was to take one of the glass jars from the shelf in his teeth, and set it on the counter. it was the one which held the gingersnap crumbs. cloud lifted off the lid. just then a clatter of hoofs was heard outside, and another horse came in. ned knew the horse in a minute. it was the yellow one which mr. gale drove in his buckboard. the yellow horse trotted up to the counter, and he and cloud talked together for a few minutes. it was in pony language, and ned could not understand what they said; but it had to do with the gingersnaps, apparently, for cloud poured part of them out on the counter, and the buckboard horse greedily licked them up. then he gave cloud something by way of payment. ned could not see what, but it seemed to be a nail out of his hind shoe, and then tiptoed out of the store and across the road to the field where the horses grazed, while cloud opened a drawer at the back of the counter and threw in the nail, if it was one. it _sounded_ like a nail. he had scarcely done so when more hoofs sounded, and two other horses came in. horse one was the bay which went with the yellow in the buckboard, the other mr. gale's sorrel colt, which he allowed no one to drive except himself. cloud seemed very glad to see them. and such a lively chorus went on across the counter of whinnies and snorts and splutters, accompanied with such emphatic stamps, that ned shrank into a dark corner, and did not dare to laugh aloud, though he longed to as he peeped between the bars. the sorrel colt seemed to want a great many things. he evidently had the shopping instinct. cloud lifted down all the jars, one by one, and the colt sampled their contents. the cream-of-tartar he did not like at all; but he ate all the brown sugar and the cracker crumbs, tasted an olive and let it drop with a disgusted neigh, and lastly took a bite of the mouldy cheese in the red trap, and expressed his opinion of it by what seemed to be a "swear-word." then he and the bay-horse and cloud went to the end of the store where a rusty old stove without any pipe stood, sat down on their haunches before it, put their forelegs on its top, and began, as it seemed, to discuss politics; at least, it sounded wonderfully like the conversation that had gone on in that very corner in mr. harrison's day, when the farmers collected to predict the defeat of the candidate on the other side, whoever he might be. they talked so long that ned grew very sleepy, and lay down again on the straw. he felt that he ought to go home and to bed, but he did not quite dare. the strange horses might take offence at his being there, he thought; still, he had a comfortable feeling that as cloud's friend they would not do him any real harm. even when, as it seemed, one of them came into the stall, took hold of his shoulder, and began to shake him violently, he was not really frightened. "don't!" he said sleepily. "i won't tell anybody. cloud knows me. i'm a friend of his." "ned! wake up! ned! wake up!" said some one. was it the red horse? no, it was his father. and there was mamma on the other side of him. and there was cloud lying on the straw close by, pretending to be asleep, but with one eye half open! "wake up!" said papa; "here it is, after eleven o'clock, and mamma half frightened to death at getting home and not finding you in your bed. how did you come down here, sir?" "cloud was crying for his supper, and i came down to feed him," explained ned. "and then i stayed to watch him keep store. oh, it was so funny, mamma! the other horses came and bought things, and cloud was just like a real storekeeper, and sold crackers to them, and sugar, and took the money--no, it was nails, i think." "my dear, you have been dreaming," said mrs. cabot. "don't let him talk any more, john. he is all excited now, and won't sleep if you do." so, though ned loudly protested that he had not been asleep at all, and so could not have dreamed, he was put to bed at once, and no one would listen to him. and next day it was just as bad, for all of them, constance as well as the rest, insisted that ned had fallen asleep in the pony's stall and dreamed the whole thing. even when he opened the drawer at the back of the counter and showed them the shoe-nail that cloud had dropped in, they would not believe. there was nothing remarkable in there being a nail there, they said; all sorts of things were put in the drawers of country stores. but ned and cloud knew very well that it was not a dream. pink and scarlet. "it's the most perfect beauty that ever was!" "pshaw! you always say that. it's not a bit prettier than mary's." "yes, it is." "no, indeed, it isn't." the subject of dispute was a parasol,--a dark blue one, trimmed with fringe, and with an ivory handle. the two little girls who were discussing it were alice hoare and her sister madge. it was madge's birthday, and the parasol was one of her presents. the dispute continued. "i wish you wouldn't always say that your things are better than any one else's," said alice. "it's ex-exaspering to talk like that, and mamma said when we exasperated it was almost as bad as telling lies." "she didn't say "exasperate." that wasn't the word at all; and this is the sweetest, dearest, most perfectly beautiful parasol in the world, a great deal prettier than your green one." "yes, so it is," confessed candid alice. "mine is quite old now. this is younger, and, besides, the top of mine is broken off. but yours isn't really any prettier than mary's." "it is too! it's a great deal more beautiful and a great deal more fascinating." "what is that which is so fascinating?" asked their sister mary, coming into the room. "the new parasol? my! that is strong language to use about a parasol. it should at least be an umbrella, i think. see, madge, here is another birthday gift." it was a gilt cage, with a pair of java sparrows. "oh, lovely! delicious!" cried madge, jumping up and down. "i think this is the best birthday that ever was! are they from you, mary, darling? thank you ever so much! they are the most perfectly beautiful things i ever saw." "the parasol was the most beautiful just now," observed alice. "oh, these are much beautifuller than that, because they are alive," replied madge, giving her oldest sister a rapturous squeeze. "i wish you'd make me a birthday present in return," said mary. "i wish you'd drop that bad habit of exaggerating everything you like, and everything you don't like. all your 'bads' are 'dreadfuls,'--all your pinks are scarlets." "i don't know what you mean," said madge, puzzled and offended. "it's only what mamma has often spoken to you about, dear madgie. it is saying more than is quite true, and more than you quite feel. i am sure you don't mean to be false, but people who are not used to you might think you so." "it's because i like things so much." "no, for when you don't like them, it's just as bad. i have heard you say fifty times, at least, 'it is the horridest thing i ever saw,' and you know there couldn't be fifty 'horridest' things." "but you all know what i mean." "well, we can guess, but you ought to be more exact. and, besides, papa says if we use up all our strong words about little every-day things, we sha'n't have any to use when we are talking about really great things. if you call a heavy muffin 'awful,' what are you going to say about an earthquake or tornado?" "we don't have any earthquakes in groton, and i don't ever mean to go to places where they do," retorted madge, triumphantly. "madge, how bad you are!" cried little alice. "you ought to promise mary right away, because it's your birthday." "well, i'll try," said madge. but she did not make the promise with much heart, and she soon forgot all about it. it seemed to her that mary was making a great fuss about a small thing. are there any small things? sometimes i am inclined to doubt it. a fever-germ can only be seen under the microscope, but think what a terrible work it can do. the avalanche, in its beginning, is only a few moving particles of snow; the tiny spring feeds the brook, which in turn feeds the river; the little evil, unchecked, grows into the habit which masters the strongest man. all great things begin in small things; and these small things which are to become we know not what, should be important in our eyes. madge hoare meant to be a truthful child; but little by little, and day by day, her perception of what truth really is, was being worn away by the habit of exaggeration. "perfectly beautiful," "perfectly horrible," "perfectly dreadful," "perfectly fascinating," such were the mild terms which she daily used to describe the most ordinary things,--apples, rice puddings, arithmetic lessons, gingham dresses, and, as we have seen, blue parasols! and the habit grew upon her, as habits will. when she needed stronger language than usual, things had to be "horrider" than horrid, and "beautifuller" than beautiful. and the worst of it was, that she was all the time half conscious of her own insincerity, and that, to use mary's favorite figure, she _meant_ pink, but she _said_ scarlet. the family fell so into the habit of making mental allowances and deductions for all madge's statements that sometimes they fell into the habit of not believing enough. "it is only madge!" they would say, and so dismiss the subject from their minds. this careless disbelief vexed and hurt madge very often, but it did not hurt enough to cure her. one day, however, it did lead to something which she could not help remembering. it was warm weather still, although september, and ernest, the little baby brother, whom madge loved best of all the children, was playing one morning in the yard by himself. madge was studying an "awful" arithmetic lesson upstairs at the window. she could not see ernest, who was making a sand-pie directly beneath her; but she did see an old woman peer over the fence, open the gate, and steal into the yard. "what a horrid-looking old woman!" thought madge. "the multiple of sixteen added to--oh, bother! what an awful sum this is!" she forgot the old woman for a few moments, then she again saw her going out of the yard, and carrying under her cloak what seemed to be a large bundle. the odd thing was, that the bundle seemed to have legs, and to kick; or was it the wind blowing the old woman's cloak about? madge watched the old woman out of sight with a puzzled and half-frightened feeling. "could she have stolen anything?" she asked herself; and at last she ran downstairs to see. nothing seemed missing from the hall, only ernie's straw hat lay in the middle of the gravel walk. "mamma!" cried madge, bursting into the library where her mother was talking to a visitor. "there has been the most perfectly horrible old woman in our yard that i ever saw. she was so awful-looking that i was afraid she had been stealing something. did you see her, mamma?" "my dear, all old women are awful in your eyes," said mrs. hoare, calmly. "this was old mrs. shephard, i presume. i told her to come for a bundle of washing. run away now, madge, i am busy." madge went, but she still did not feel satisfied. the more she thought about the old woman, the more she was sure that it was not old mrs. shephard. she went with her fears to mary. "she was just like a gypsy," she explained, "or a horrible old witch. her hair stuck out so, and she had the awfullest face! i am almost sure she stole something, and carried it away under her shawl, sister." "nonsense!" said mary, who was drawing, and not inclined to disturb herself for one of madge's "cock-and-bull" stories. "it was only one of mamma's old goodies, you may be sure. don't you recollect what a fright you gave us about the robber, who turned out to be a man selling apples; and that other time, when you were certain there was a bear in the garden, and it was nothing but mr. price's big newfoundland?" "but this was quite different; it really was. this old woman was really awful." "your old women always are," replied mary, unconcernedly, going on with her sketch. no one would attend to madge's story, no one sympathized with her alarm. she was like the boy who cried "wolf!" so often that, when the real wolf came, no one heeded his cries. but the family roused from their indifference, when, an hour later, nurse came to ask where master ernie could be, and search revealed the fact that he was nowhere about the premises. madge and her old woman were treated with greater respect then. papa set off for the constable, and jim drove rapidly in the direction which the old woman was taking when last seen. poor mrs. hoare was terribly anxious and distressed. "i blame myself for not attending at once to what madge said," she told mary. "but the fact is that she exaggerates so constantly that i have fallen into the habit of only half listening to her. if it had been alice, it would have been quite different." madge overheard mamma say this, and she crept away to her own room, and cried as if her heart would break. "if ernie is never found, it will all be my fault," she thought. "nobody believes a word that i say. but they would have believed if alice had said it, and mary would have run after that wicked old woman, and got dear baby away from her. oh dear, how miserable i am!" madge never forgot that long afternoon and that wretched night. mamma did not go to bed at all, and none of them slept much. it was not till ten o'clock the next morning that papa and jim came back, bringing--oh, joy!--little ernie with them, his pretty hair all tangled and his rosy cheeks glazed with crying, but otherwise unhurt. he had been found nearly ten miles away, locked in a miserable cottage by the old woman, who had taken off his nice clothes and dressed him in a ragged frock. she had left him there while she went out to beg, or perhaps to make arrangements for carrying him farther out of reach; but she had given him some bread and milk for supper and breakfast, and the little fellow was not much the worse for his adventure; and after a bath and a re-dressing, and after being nearly kissed to death by the whole family, he went to sleep in his own crib very comfortably. "papa," said madge that night, "i never mean to exaggerate any more as long as i live. i mean to say exactly what i think, only not so much, so that you shall all have confidence in me. and then, next time baby is stolen, you will all believe what i say." "i hope there will never be any 'next time,'" observed her mother; "but i shall have to be glad of what happened this time, if it really cures you of such a bad habit, my little madge." dolly's lesson. "what is presence of mind, any way?" demanded little dolly ware, as she sat, surrounded by her family, watching the sunset. the sunset hour is best of all the twenty-four in nantucket. at no other time is the sea so blue and silvery, or the streaks of purple and pale green which mark the place of the sand-spits and shallows that underlie the island waters so defined, or of such charming colors. the wind blows across softly from the south shore, and brings with it scents of heath and thyme, caught from the high upland moors above the town. the sun dips down, and sends a flash of glory to the zenith; and small pink clouds curl up about the rising moon, fondle her, as it were, and seem to love her. it is a delightful moment, and all nantucket dwellers learn to watch for it. it was the custom of the ware family, as soon as they had despatched their supper,--a very hearty supper, suited to young appetites sharpened by sea air;--of chowder, or hot lobster, or a newly caught blue-fish, with piles of brown bread and butter, and unlimited milk,--to rush out _en masse_ to the piazza of their little cottage, and "attend to the sunset," as though it were a family affair. it was the hour when jokes were cracked and questions asked, and when mamma, who was apt to be pretty busy during the daytime, had leisure to answer them. dolly was youngest of the family,--a thin, wiry child, tall for her years, with a brown bang lying like a thatch over a pair of bright inquisitive eyes, and a thick pig-tail braided down her back. phyllis, the next in age, was short and fat; then came harry, then erma, just sixteen (named after a german great-grandmother), and, last of all, jack, tallest and jolliest of the group, who had just "passed his preliminaries," and would enter college next year. mrs. ware might be excused for the little air of motherly pride with which she gazed at her five. they were fine children, all of them,--frank, affectionate, generous, with bright minds and healthy bodies. "presence of mind sometimes means absence of body," remarked jack, in answer to dolly's question. "i was speaking to mamma," said dolly, with dignity. "i wasn't asking you." "i am aware of the fact, but i overlooked the formality, for once. what makes you want to know, midget?" "there was a story in the paper about a girl who hid the kerosene can when the new cook came, and it said she showed true presence of mind," replied dolly. "oh, that was only fun! it didn't mean anything." "isn't there any such thing, then?" "why, of course there is. picking up a shell just before it bursts in a hospital tent, and throwing it out of the door, is presence of mind." "yes, and tying a string round the right place on your leg when you've cut an artery," added harry, eagerly. "swallowing a quart of whiskey when a rattlesnake bites you," suggested jack. "saving the silver, instead of the waste-paper basket, when the house is on fire," put in erma. dolly looked from one to the other. "what funny things!" she cried. "i don't believe you know anything about it. mamma, tell me what it really means." "i think," said mrs. ware, in those gentle tones to which her children always listened, "that presence of mind means keeping cool, and having your wits about you, at critical moments. our minds--our reasoning faculties, that is--are apt to be stunned or shocked when we are suddenly frightened or excited; they leave us, and go away, as it were, and it is only afterward that we pick ourselves up, and realize what we ought to have done. to act coolly and sensibly in the face of danger is a fine thing, and one to be proud of." "should you be proud of me if i showed presence of mind?" asked dolly, leaning her arms on her mother's lap. "very proud," replied mrs. ware, smiling as she stroked the brown head,--"very proud, indeed." "i mean to do it," said dolly, in a firm tone. there was a general laugh. "how will you go to work?" asked jack. "shall i step down to hussey's, and get a shell for you to practise on?" "she'll be setting the house on fire some night, to show what she can do," added harry, teasingly. "i shall do no such thing," protested dolly, indignantly. "how foolish you are! you don't understand a bit! i don't want to make things happen; but, if they do happen, i shall try to keep cool and have my wits about me, and perhaps i shall." "it would be lovely to be brave and do heroic things," remarked phyllis. "you could at least be brave enough to use your common sense," said her mother. "yours is a very good resolution, dolly dear, and i hope you'll keep to it." "i will," said dolly, and marched undauntedly off to bed. later, she found herself repeating, as if it were a lesson to be learned, "presence of mind means keeping cool, and having your wits about you;" and she said it over and over every morning and evening after that, as she braided her hair. phyllis overheard, and laughed at her a little; but dolly didn't mind being laughed at, and kept on rehearsing her sentence all the same. it is not given to all of us to test ourselves, and discover by actual experiment just how much a mental resolution has done for us. dolly, however, was to have the chance. the bathing-beach at nantucket is a particularly safe one, and the water through the summer months most warm and delicious. all the children who lived on the sandy bluff known as "the cliff" were in the habit of bathing; and the daily dip taken in company was the chief event of the day, in their opinion. the little wares all swam like ducks; and no one thought of being nervous or apprehensive if harry struck out boldly for the jetty, or if erma and phyllis were seen side by side at a point far beyond the depth of either of them, or little dolly took a "header" into deep water off an old boat. it happened, about two months after the talk on the piazza, that dolly was bathing with kitty allen, a small neighbor of her own age. kitty had just been learning to swim, and was very proud of her new accomplishment; but she was by no means so sure of herself or so much at home in the water as dolly, who had learned three years before, and practised continually. the two children had swam out for quite a distance; then, as they turned to go back, kitty suddenly realized her distance from the shore, and was seized with immediate and paralyzing terror. "oh, oh!" she gasped. "how far out we are! we shall never get back in the world! we shall be drowned! dolly ware, we shall certainly be drowned!" she made a vain clutch at dolly, and, with a wild scream, went down, and disappeared. dolly dived after her, only to be met by kitty coming up to the surface again, and frantically reaching out, as drowning persons do, for something to hold by. the first thing she touched was dolly's large pig-tail, and, grasping that tight, she sank again, dragging dolly down with her, backward. it was really a hazardous moment. many a good swimmer has lost his life under similar circumstances. nothing is more dangerous than to be caught and held by a person who cannot swim, or who is too much disabled by fear to use his powers. and now it was that dolly's carefully conned lesson about presence of mind came to her aid. "keep cool; have your wits about you," rang through her ears, as, held in kitty's desperate grasp, she was dragged down, down into the sea. a clear sense of what she ought to do flashed across her mind. she must escape from kitty and hold her up, but not give kitty any chance to drag her down again. as they rose, she pulled her hair away with a sudden motion, and seized kitty by the collar of her bathing-dress, behind. "float, and i'll hold you up," she gasped. "if you try to catch hold of me again, i'll just swim off, and leave you, and then you _will_ be drowned, kitty allen." kitty was too far gone to make any very serious struggle. then dolly, striking out strongly, and pushing kitty before her, sent one wild cry for help toward the beach. the cry was heard. it seemed to dolly a terribly long time before any answer came, but it was in reality less than five minutes before a boat was pushed into the water. dolly saw it rowing toward her, and held on bravely. "be cool; have your wits about you," she said to herself. and she kept firm grasp of her mind, and would not let the fright, of whose existence she was conscious, get possession of her. oh, how welcome was the dash of the oars close at hand, how gladly she relinquished kitty to the strong arms that lifted her into the boat! but when the men would have helped her in too, she refused. "no, thank you; i'll swim!" she said. it seemed nothing to get herself to shore, now that the responsibility of kitty and kitty's weight were taken from her. she swam pluckily along, the boat keeping near, lest her strength should give out, and reached the beach just as jack, that moment aware of the situation, was dashing into the water after her. she was very pale, but declared herself not tired at all, and she dressed and marched sturdily up the cliff, refusing all assistance. there was quite a little stir among the summer colony over the adventure, and mrs. ware had many compliments paid her for her child's behavior. mr. allen came over, and had much to say about the extraordinary presence of mind which dolly had shown. "it was really remarkable," he said. "if she had fought with kitty, or if she had tried to swim ashore and had not called for assistance, they might easily have both been drowned. it is extraordinary that a child of that age should keep her head, and show such coolness and decision." "it wasn't remarkable at all," dolly declared, as soon as he was gone. "it was just because you said that on the piazza that night." "said what?" "why, mamma, surely you haven't forgotten. it was that about presence of mind, you know. i taught it to myself, and have said it over and over ever since,--'keep cool; have your wits about you.' i said it in the water when kitty was pulling me under." "did you, really?" "indeed, i did. and then i seemed to know what to do." "well, it was a good lesson," said mrs. ware, with glistening eyes. "i am glad and thankful that you learned it when you did, dolly." "are you proud of me?" demanded dolly. "yes, i am proud of you." this capped the climax of dolly's contentment. mamma was proud of her; she was quite satisfied. a blessing in disguise. it was a dark day for patty flint when her father, with that curt severity of manner which men are apt to assume to mask an inward awkwardness, announced to her his intention of marrying for the second time. "tell the others after i am gone out," he concluded. "but, papa, do explain a little more to me before you go," protested patty. "who is this miss maskelyne? what kind of a person is she? must we call her mother?" "well--we'll leave that to be settled later on. miss maskelyne is a--a--well, a very nice person indeed, patty. she'll make us all very comfortable." "we always have been comfortable, i'm sure," said patty, in an injured tone. dr. flint instinctively cast a look around the room. it _was_ comfortable, certainly, so far as neatness and sufficient furniture and a hot fire in an air-tight stove can make a room comfortable. there was a distinct lack of anything to complain of, yet something seemed to him lacking. what was it? his thoughts involuntarily flew to a room which he had quitted only the day before, no larger, no sunnier, not so well furnished, and which yet, to his mind, seemed full of a refinement and homelikeness which he missed in his own, though, man-like, he could have in no wise explained what went to produce it. his rather stern face relaxed with a half-smile; his eyes seemed to seek out a picture far away. but patty was watching him,--an observant, decidedly aggrieved patty, who had done her best for him since her mother died, and a good best too, her age considered, and who was not inexcusable in disliking to be supplanted by a stranger. poor patty! but even for patty's sake it was better so, the father reflected, looking at the prim, opinionated little figure before him, and noting how all the childishness and girlishness seemed to have faded out of it during three years of responsibility. she certainly had managed wonderfully for a child of fifteen, and his voice was very kind as he said, "yes, my dear, so we have. you've been a good girl, patty, and done your best for us all; but you're young to have so much care, and when the new mother comes, she will relieve you of it, and leave you free to occupy and amuse yourself as other girls of your age do." he kissed patty as he finished speaking. kisses were not such every-day matters in the flint family as to be unimportant, and patty, with all her vexation, could not but be gratified. then he hurried away, and, after watching till his gig turned the corner, she went slowly upstairs to the room where the children were learning their sunday-school lessons. there were three besides herself,--susy and agnes, aged respectively twelve and ten; and hal, the only boy, who was not quite seven. this hour of study in the middle of saturday morning was deeply resented by them all; but patty's rules were like the laws of the medes and persians, which alter not, and they dared not resist. they had solaced the tedium of the occasion by a contraband game of checkers during her absence, but had pushed the board under the flounce of the sofa when they heard her steps, and flown back to their tasks. over-discipline often leads to little shuffles and deceptions like this, and patty, who loved authority for authority's sake, was not always wise in enforcing it. "when you have got through with your lessons, i have something to tell you," was her beginning. it was an indiscreet one; for of course the children at once protested that they were through! how could they be expected to interest themselves in the "whole duty of man," with a secret obviously in the air. "very well, then," said patty, indulgently,--for she was dying to tell her news,--"papa has just asked me to say to you that he is--is--going to be married to a lady in new bedford." "married!" cried agnes, with wide-open eyes. "how funny! i thought only people who are young got married. can we go to the wedding, do you suppose, patty?" "oh, perhaps we shall be bridesmaids! i'd like that," added susy. "and have black cake in little white boxes, just as many as we want. goody!" put in hal. "oh, children, how can you talk so?" cried patty, all her half-formed resolutions of keeping silence and not letting the others know how she felt about it flying to the winds. "do you really want a stepmother to come in and scold and interfere and spoil all our comfort? do you want some one else to tell you what to do, and make you mind, instead of me? you're too little to know about such things, but i know what stepmothers are. i read about them in a book once, and they're dreadful creatures, and always hate the children, and try to make their papas hate them too. it will be awful to have one, i think." patty was absolutely crying as she finished this outburst; and, emotion being contagious, the little ones began to cry also. "why does papa want to marry her, if she's so horrid?" sobbed agnes. "i'll never love her!" declared susy. "and i'll set my wooden dog on her!" added hal. "oh, hal," protested patty, alarmed at the effect of her own injudicious explosion, "don't talk like that! we mustn't be rude to her. papa wouldn't like it. of course, we needn't love her, or tell her things, or call her 'mother,' but we _must_ be polite to her." "i don't know what you mean exactly, but i'm not going to be it, anyway," said agnes. and, indeed, patty's notion of a politeness which was to include neither liking nor confidence nor respect _was_ rather a difficult one to comprehend. none of the children went to the wedding, which was a very quiet one. patty declared that she was glad; but in her heart i think she regretted the loss of the excitement, and the opportunity for criticism. a big loaf of thickly frosted sponge cake arrived for the children, with some bon-bons, and a kind little note from the bride; and these offerings might easily have placated the younger ones, had not patty diligently fanned the embers of discontent and kept them from dying out. and all the time she had no idea that she was doing wrong. she felt ill-treated and injured, and her imagination played all sorts of unhappy tricks. she made pictures of the future, in which she saw herself neglected and unloved, her little sisters and brother ill-treated, her father estranged, and the household under the rule of an enemy, unscrupulous, selfish, and cruel. over these purely imaginary pictures she shed many needless tears. "but there's one thing," she told herself,--"it can't last always. when girls are eighteen, they come of age, and can go away if they like; and i _shall_ go away! and i shall take the children with me. papa won't care for any of us by that time; so he will not object." so with this league, offensive and defensive, formed against her, the new mrs. flint came home. mary the cook and ann the housemaid joined in it to a degree. "to be sure, it's provoking enough that miss patty can be when she's a mind," observed mary; "a-laying down the law, and ordering me about, when she knows no more than the babe unborn how things should be done! still, i'd rather keep on wid her than be thrying my hand at a stranger. this'll prove a hard missis, mark my word for it, ann! see how the children is set against her from the first! that's a sign." everything was neat and in order on the afternoon when dr. and mrs. flint were expected. patty had worked hard to produce this result. "she shall see that i know how to keep house," she said to herself. all the rooms had received thorough sweeping, all the rugs had been beaten and the curtains shaken out, the chairs had their backs exactly to the wall, and every book on the centre table lay precisely at right angles with a second book underneath it. patty's ideas of decoration had not got beyond a stiff neatness. she had yet to learn how charming an easy disorder can be made. the children, in immaculate white aprons, waited with her in the parlor. they did not run out into the hall when the carriage stopped. the malcontent ann opened the door in silence. "where are the children?" were the first words that patty heard her stepmother say. the voice was sweet and bright, with a sort of assured tone in it, as of one used always to a welcome. she did not wait for the doctor, but walked into the room by herself, a tall, slender, graceful woman, with a face full of brilliant meanings, of tenderness, sense, and fun. one look out of her brown eyes did much toward the undoing of patty's work of prejudice with the little ones. "patty, dear child, where are you?" she said. and she kissed her warmly, not seeming to notice the averted eyes and the unresponding lips. then she turned to the little ones, and somehow, by what magic they could not tell, in a very few minutes they had forgotten to be afraid of her, forgotten that she was a stranger and a stepmother, and had begun to talk to her freely and at their ease. dr. flint's face brightened as he saw the group. "getting acquainted with the new mamma?" he said. "that's right." but this was a mistake. it reminded the children that she was new, and they drew back again into shyness. his wife gave him a rapid, humorous look of warning. "it always takes a little while for people to get acquainted," she said; "but these 'people' and i do not mean to wait long." she smiled as she spoke, and the children felt the fascination of her manner; only patty held aloof. the next few weeks went unhappily enough with her. she had to see her adherents desert her, one by one; to know that mary and ann chanted the praises of the new housekeeper to all their friends; to watch the little girls' growing fondness for the stranger; to notice that little hal petted and fondled her as he had never done his rather rigorous elder sister; and that her father looked younger and brighter and more content than she had ever seen him look before. she had also to witness the gradual demolishment of the stiff household arrangements which she had inherited traditionally from her mother, and sedulously observed and kept up. the new mrs. flint was a born homemaker. the little instinctive touches which she administered here and there presently changed the whole aspect of things. the chairs walked away from the walls; the sofa was wheeled into the best position for the light; plants, which patty had eschewed as making trouble and "slop," blossomed everywhere. books were "strewed," as patty in her secret thought expressed it, in all directions; fresh flowers filled the vases; the blinds were thrown back for the sunshine to stream in. the climax seemed to come when mrs. flint turned out the air-tight stove, opened the disused fireplace, routed a pair of andirons from the attic, and set up a wood fire. "it will snap all over the room. the ashes will dirty everything. the children will set fire to their aprons, and burn up!" objected patty. "there's a big wire fireguard coming to make the children safe," replied her stepmother, easily. "as for the snapping and the dirt, that's all fancy, patty. i've lived with a wood fire all my life, and it's no trouble at all, if properly managed. i'm sure you'll like it, dear, when you are used to it." and the worst was that patty _did_ like it. it was so with many of the new arrangements. she opposed them violently at first in her heart, not saying much,--for mrs. flint, with all her brightness and affectionate sweetness, had an air of experience and authority about her which it was not easy to dispute,--and later ended by confessing to herself that they were improvements. a gradual thaw was taking place in her frozen little nature. she fought against it; but as well might a winter-sealed pond resist the sweet influences of spring. against her will, almost without her knowledge, she was receiving the impress of a character wider and sweeter and riper than her own. insensibly, an admiration of her stepmother grew upon her. she saw her courted by strangers for her beauty and grace; she saw her become a sort of queen among the young people of the town; but she also saw--she could not help seeing--that no tinge of vanity ever marred her reception of this regard, and that no duty was ever left undone, no kindness ever neglected, because of the pressure of the pleasantness of life. and then--for a girl cannot but enjoy being made the most of--she gradually realized that mrs. flint, in spite of coldness and discouragement, cared for her rights, protected her pleasures, was ready to take pains that patty should have her share and her chance, should be and appear at her best. it was something she had missed always,--the supervision and loving watchfulness of a mother. now it was hers; and, though she fought against the conviction, it was sent to her. in less than a year patty had yielded unconditionally to the new _régime_. she was a generous child at heart, and, her opposition once conquered, she became fonder of her stepmother than all the rest put together. simply and thoroughly she gave herself up to be re-moulded into a new pattern. her standards changed; her narrow world of motives and ideas expanded and enlarged, till from its confines she saw the illimitable width of the whole universe. sunshine lightened all her dark places, and set her dormant capacities to growing. such is the result, at times, of one gracious, informing nature upon others. before her eighteenth birthday, the date which she had set in her first ignorant revolt of soul for escape from an imaginary tyranny, the stepmother she had so dreaded was become her best and most intimate friend. it was on that very day that she made for the first time a full confession of her foolishness. "what a goose!--what a silly, bad thing i was!" she said. "i hated the idea of you, mamma. i said i never would like you, whatever you did; and then i just went and fell in love with you!" "you hid the hatred tolerably well, but i am happy to say that you don't hide the love," said mrs. flint, with a smile. "hide it? i don't want to! i wonder what did make me behave so? oh, i know,--it was that absurd book! i wish people wouldn't write such things, mamma. when i'm quite grown up i mean to write a book myself, and just tell everybody how different it really is, and that the nicest, dearest, best things in the world, and the greatest blessings, are--stepmothers." "blessings in disguise," said mrs. flint. "well, patty, i am afraid i was pretty thoroughly disguised in the beginning; but if you consider me a blessing now, it's all right." "oh, it's all just as right as it can be!" said patty, fervently. a granted wish. this is a story about princesses and beggar-girls, hovels and palaces, sweet things and sad things, fullness and scarcity. it is a simple story enough, and mostly true. and as it touches so many and such different extremes of human condition and human experience, it ought by good rights to interest almost everybody; don't you think so? effie wallis's great wish was to have a doll of her own. this was not a very unreasonable wish for any little girl to feel, one would think, yet there seemed as little likelihood of its being granted as that the moon should come down out of the sky and offer itself to her as a plaything; for effie and her parents belonged to the very poorest of the london poor, and how deep a poverty that is, only london knows. we have poor people enough, and sin and suffering enough in our own large cities, but i don't think the poorest of them are quite so badly off as london's worst. effie and her father and mother and her little sister and her three brothers all lived in a single cellar-like room, in the most squalid quarter of st. giles. there was almost no furniture in the room; in winter it was often fireless, in summer hot always, and full of evil smells. food was scanty, and sometimes wanting altogether, for gin cost less than bread, and effie's father was continuously drunk, her mother not infrequently so. it was a miserable home and a wretched family. the parents fought, the children cried and quarrelled, and the parents beat them. as the boys grew bigger, they made haste to escape into the streets, where all manner of evil was taught them. jack, the eldest, who was but just twelve, had twice been arrested, and sentenced to a term of imprisonment for picking pockets. they were growing up to be little thieves, young ruffians, and what chance for better things was there in the squalid cellar and the comfortless life, and how little chance of a doll for effie, you will easily see. poor doll-less effie! she was only six years old, and really a sweet little child. the grime on her cheeks did not reach to her heart, which was as simple and ignorant and innocent as that of white-clad children, whose mothers kiss them, and whose faces are washed every day. in all her life effie had only seen one doll. it was a battered object, with one leg gone, and only half a nose, but, to effie's eyes, it was a beauty and a treasure. this doll was the property of a little girl to whom effie had never dared to speak, she seemed to her so happy and privileged, so far above herself, as she strutted up and down the alley with other children, bearing the one-legged doll in her arms. it was not the alley in which the wallises lived, but a somewhat wider one into which that opened. one of effie's few pleasures was to creep away when she could, and, crouched behind a post at the alley's foot, watch the children playing there. no one thought of or noticed her. once, when the owner of the doll threw her on the ground for a moment and ran away, effie ventured to steal out and touch the wonderful creature with her finger. it was only a touch, for the other children soon returned, and effie fled back to her hiding-place; but she never forgot it. oh, if only she could have a doll like that for her own, what happiness it would be, she thought; but she never dared to mention the doll to her mother, or to put the wish into words. if any one had come in just then and told effie that one day she was to own a doll far more beautiful than the shabby treasure she so coveted, and that the person to give it her would be the future queen of england,--why, first it would have been needful to explain to her what the words meant, and then she certainly wouldn't have believed them. what a wide, wide distance there seemed from the wretched alley where the little, half-clad child crouched behind the post, to the sunny palace where the fair princess, england's darling, sat surrounded by her bright-faced children,--a distance too wide to bridge, as it would appear; yet it was bridged, and there was a half-way point where both could meet, as you will see. that half-way point was called "the great ormond street child's hospital." for one day a very sad thing happened to effie. sent by her mother to buy a quartern of gin, she was coming back with the jug in her hand, when a half-tipsy man, reeling against her, threw her down just where a flight of steps led to a lower street. she was picked up and carried home, where for some days she lay in great pain, before a kind woman who went about to read the bible to the poor, found her out, and sent the dispensary doctor to see her. he shook his head gravely after he had examined her, and said her leg was badly broken, and ought to have been seen to long before, and that there was no use trying to cure her there, and she must be carried to the hospital. mrs. wallis made a great outcry over this, for mothers are mothers, even when they are poor and drunken and ignorant, and do not like to have their children taken away from them; but in the end the doctor prevailed. effie hardly knew when they moved her, for the doctor had given her something which made her sleep heavily and long. it was like a dream when she at last opened her eyes, and found herself in a place which she had never seen before,--a long, wide, airy room, with a double row of narrow, white beds like the one in which she herself was, and in most of the beds sick children lying. bright colored pictures and texts painted gaily in red and blue hung on the walls above the beds; some of the counterpanes had pretty verses printed on them. effie could not read, but she liked to look at the texts, they were so bright. there were flowers in pots and jars on the window-sills, and on some of the little tables that stood beside the beds, and tiny chairs with rockers, in which pale little boys and girls sat swinging to and fro. a great many of them were playing with toys, and they all looked happy. an air of fresh, cheerful neatness was over all the place, and altogether it was so pleasant that for a long time effie lay staring about her, and speaking not a word. at last, in a faint little voice, she half whispered, "where is this?" faint as was the voice, some one heard it, and came at once to the bedside. this somebody was a nice, sweet-faced, motherly looking woman, dressed in the uniform of miss nightingale's nurses. she smiled so kindly at effie that effie smiled feebly back. "where is this?" she asked again. "this is a nice place where they take care of little children who are ill, and make them well again," answered the nurse, brightly. "do you live here?" said effie, after a pause, during which her large eyes seemed to grow larger. "yes. my name is nurse johnstone, and i am _your_ nurse. you've had a long sleep, haven't you, dear? now you've waked up, would you like some nice milk to drink?" "y-es," replied effie, doubtfully. but when the milk came, she liked it very much, it was so cool and rich and sweet. it was brought in a little blue cup, and effie drank it through a glass tube, because she must not lift her head. there was a bit of white bread to eat besides, but effie did not care for that. she was drowsy still, and fell asleep as soon as the last mouthful of milk was swallowed. when she next waked, nurse johnstone was there again, with such a good little cupful of hot broth for effie to eat, and another slice of bread. effie's head was clearer now, and she felt much more like talking and questioning. the ward was dark and still, only a shaded lamp here and there showed the little ones asleep in their cots. "this is a nice place i think," said effie, as she slowly sipped the soup. "i'm glad you like it," said the nurse, "almost all children do." "i like you, too," said effie, with a contented sigh, "and _that_," pointing to the broth. she had not once asked after her mother; the nurse noticed, and she drew her own inferences. "now," she said, after she had smoothed the bed clothes and effie's hair, and given the pillow a touch or two to make it easier, "now, it would be nice if you would say one little bible verse for me, and then go to sleep again." "a verse?" said effie. "yes, a little bible verse." "bible?" repeated effie, in a puzzled tone. "yes, dear,--a bible verse. don't you know one?" "no." "but you've seen a bible, surely." effie shook her head. "i don't know what you mean," she said. "why, you poor lamb," cried nurse johnstone, "i do believe you haven't! well, and in a christian country, too! if that ain't too bad. i'll tell you a verse this minute, you poor little thing, and to-morrow we'll see if you can't learn it." then, very slowly and reverently, she repeated, "suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven." twice she repeated the text, effie listening attentively to the strange, beautiful words; then she kissed her for good-night, and moved away. effie lay awake awhile saying the verse over to herself. she had a good memory, and when she waked next morning she found that she was able to say it quite perfectly. that happened to be a thursday, and thursday was always a special day in great ormond street, because it was that on which the princess of wales made her weekly visit to the hospital. effie had never heard of a princess, and had no idea what all the happy bustle meant, as nurses and patients made ready for the coming guest. nothing could be cleaner than the ward in its every-day condition, but all little possible touches were given to make it look its very best. fresh flowers were put into the jars, the little ones able to sit up, were made very neat, each white bed was duly smoothed, and every face had a look as though something pleasant was going to happen. children easily catch the contagion of cheerfulness, and effie was insensibly cheered by seeing other people so. she lay on her pillow, observing everything, and faintly smiling, when the door opened, and in came a slender, beautiful lady, wrapped in soft silks and laces, with two or three children beside her. all the nurses began to courtesy, and the children to dimple and twinkle at the sight of her. she walked straight to the middle of the ward, then, lifting something up that all might see it, she said in a clear sweet voice: "isn't there some one of these little girls who can say a pretty bible verse for me? if there is, she shall have this." what do you think "this" was? no other than a doll! a large, beautiful creature of wax, with curly brown hair, blue eyes which could open and shut, the reddest lips and pinkest cheeks ever seen, and a place, somewhere about her middle, which, when pinched, made her utter a squeaky sound like "mama." this delightful doll had on a pretty blue dress with a scarlet sash, and a pair of brown kid boots with real buttons. she wore a little blue hat on top of her curly head, and sported an actual pocket-handkerchief, three inches square, or so, on which was written her name, "dolly varden." all the little ones stared at her with dazzled eyes, but for a moment no one spoke. i suppose they really were too surprised to speak, till suddenly a little hand went up, and a small voice was heard from the far corner. the voice came from effie, too, and it was effie herself who spoke. "i can say a verse," said the small voice. "can you? that is nice. say it, then," said the princess, turning toward her. then the small, piping voice repeated, very slowly and distinctly, this text: "suffer the little children to come unto--_nurse johnstone_--and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven!" what a laugh rang through the ward then! the nurses laughed, the little ones laughed too, though they did not distinctly understand at what. nurse johnstone cried as well as laughed, and the princess was almost as bad, for her eyes were dewy, though a smile was on her sweet lips as she stepped forward and laid the doll in effie's hands. nurse johnstone eagerly explained: "i said 'come unto me,' and she thought it meant _me_, poor little lamb, and it's a shame there should be such ignorance in a christian land!" all this time effie was hugging her dolly in a silent rapture. her wish was granted, and wasn't it strange that it should have been granted just _so_? [illustration: she stepped forward and laid the doll in effie's hands.--page .] do you want to know more about little effie? there isn't much more to tell. all the kindness and care which she received in great ormond street could not make her well again. she had no constitution, the doctors said, and no strength. she lived a good many weeks, however, and they were the happiest weeks of her life, i think. dolly varden was always beside her, and dolly was clasped tight in her arms when she finally fell asleep to waken up no more. nurse johnstone, who had learned to love the little girl dearly, wanted to lay the doll in the small coffin; but the other nurses said it would be a pity to do so. there are so few dolls and so many children in the world, you know; so in the end dolly varden was given to another little sick girl, who took as much pleasure in her as effie had done. so effie's wish was granted, though only for a little while. it is very often so with wishes which we make in this world. but i am very sure that effie doesn't miss the dolly or anything else in the happy world to which she has gone, and that the wishes granted there are granted fully and forever, and more freely and abundantly than we who stay behind can even guess. the end. susan coolidge's popular story books. susan coolidge has always possessed the affection of her young readers, for it seems as if she had the happy instinct of planning stories that each girl would like to act out in reality.--_the critic._ not even miss alcott apprehends child nature with finer sympathy, or pictures its nobler traits with more skill.--_boston daily advertiser._ =the new year's bargain.= a christmas story for children. with illustrations by addie ledyard. mo. $ . . =what katy did.= a story. with illustrations by addie ledyard. mo. $ . . =what katy did at school.= being more about "what katy did." with illustrations. mo. $ . . =mischief's thanksgiving=, and other stories. with illustrations by addie ledyard. mo. $ . . =nine little goslings.= with illustrations by j. a. mitchell. mo. $ . . =eyebright.= a story. with illustrations. mo. $ . . =cross patch.= with illustrations. mo. $ . . =a round dozen.= with illustrations. mo. $ . . =a little country girl.= with illustrations. mo. $ . . =what katy did next.= with illustrations. mo. $ . . =clover.= a sequel to the katy books. with illustrations by jessie mcdermott. mo. $ . . =just sixteen.= with illustrations. mo. $ . . =in the high valley.= with illustrations. mo. $ . . =a guernsey lily=; or, how the feud was healed. a story of the channel islands. profusely illustrated. mo. $ . . =the barberry bush=, and seven other stories about girls for girls. with illustrations by jessie mcdermott. mo. $ . . =not quite eighteen.= a volume of stories. with illustrations by jessie mcdermott. mo. $ . . _sold by all booksellers. mailed, post-paid, on receipt of price, by the publishers_, roberts brothers, boston [illustration] in the high valley. being the fifth and last volume of the "katy did series." with illustrations by jessie mcdermott. one volume, square mo, cloth. price, $ . . roberts brothers, publishers, boston. a guernsey lily; or, how the feud was healed a story for girls and boys. [illustration] by susan coolidge, author of "what katy did," "clover," "in the high valley," etc. new edition. square mo. illustrated. price, $ . . roberts brothers, boston. _messrs. roberts brothers' publications._ susan coolidge's popular books. [illustration] =the barberry bush.= and seven other stories about girls for girls. by susan coolidge. illustrated by jessie mcdermott. mo. cloth. uniform with "what katy did," etc. price, $ . . _for sale by all booksellers, and mailed, post-paid, on receipt of price by the publishers._ roberts brothers, boston, mass. transcriber's note: punctuation, spelling, hyphenation and language has been retained as it appears in the original publication except as follows: page the shoulder of his off horse _changed to_ the shoulder of his horse page a "a boat;" men pulled off _changed to_ "a boat;" men pulled off page it summer hot always, _changed to_ in summer hot always, page dolly was clasped tight in her arms _changed to_ dolly was clasped tight in her arms po-no-kah an indian tale of long ago by mary mapes dodge po-no-kah. an indian story of long ago. i. the hedden family. we who live in comfortable country homes, secure from every invader, find it difficult to conceive the trials that beset the hardy pioneers who settled our western country during the last century. in those days, and for many a year afterward, hostile indians swarmed in every direction, wherever the white man had made a clearing, or started a home for himself in the wilderness. sometimes the pioneer would be unmolested, but oftener his days were full of anxiety and danger. indeed, history tells of many a time when the settler, after leaving home in the morning in search of game for his happy household would return at night to find his family murdered or carried away and his cabin a mass of smoking ruins. only in the comparatively crowded settlements, where strength was in numbers, could the white inhabitants hope for security--though bought at the price of constant vigilance and precaution. in one of these settlements, where a few neatly whitewashed cabins, and rougher log huts, clustered on the banks of a bend in the ohio river, dwelt a man named hedden, with his wife and three children. his farm stretched further into the wilderness than his neighbors', for his had been one of the first cabins built there, and his axe, ringing merrily through the long days, had hewn down an opening in the forest, afterward famous in that locality as "neighbor hedden's clearing." here he had planted and gathered his crops year after year, and in spite of annoyances from the indians, who robbed his fields, and from bears, who sometimes visited his farm stock, his family had lived in security so long that, as the settlement grew, his wife sang at her work, and his little ones shouted at their play as merrily as though new york or boston were within a stone's throw. to be sure, the children were bidden never to stray far from home, especially at nightfall; and the crack of rifles ringing now and then through the forest paled their cheeks for an instant, as the thought of some shaggy bear, furious in his death agony, crossed their minds. sometimes, too, the children would whisper together of the fate of poor annie green, who, a few years before had been found killed in the forest; or their mother would tell them with pale lips of the night when their father and neighbor freeman encountered two painted indians near the cabin. the tomahawk of the indian who tried to kill their father was still hanging upon the cabin wall. but all this had happened twelve years earlier--before bessie, the oldest girl, was born--and seemed to the children's minds like a bit of ancient history--almost as far off as the exploits of hannibal or julius caesar appear to us. so, as i have said, the girls and boys of the settlement shouted joyously at their play, or ran in merry groups to the rough log hut, called "the school-house," little dreaming of the cares and anxieties of their elders. bessie hedden was a merry-hearted creature, and so pretty that, had she been an indian maiden, she would have been known as "wild rose," or "singing bird," or "water lily," or some such name. as it was, many of the villagers called her "little sunshine," for her joyous spirit could light up the darkest corner. she was faithful at school, affectionate and industrious at home, and joyous and honorable among her playmates. what wonder, then, that everybody loved her, or that she was happiest among the happy? her brother rudolph was much younger than she,--a rosy-checked, strong-armed little urchin of seven years; and kitty, the youngest of the hedden children, was but three years of age at the date at which my story opens. there was one other individual belonging to the family circle, larger even than bessie, stronger and saucier even than rudolph, and but little older than kitty. he had no hands, yet once did, as all admitted, the best day's work ever performed by any member of the family. this individual's name was bouncer, and he had a way of walking about on all-fours, and barking--probably in consequence of his having been created a dog. bouncer loved all the children dearly; but, stout-hearted fellow that he was, he loved the weakest one best; and, therefore, little kitty was never without a friend and protector. ever since a certain day in the summer, when she had fallen into the stream, and had been carried home insensible by bouncer, kitty had loved the huge mastiff dearly, and nightly added to her simple prayer, "please, god, bless dear bouncer, too!" and bouncer _was_ blessed beyond most dogs. gentle as a baby when kitty's arm was about his neck, he was fierce as a lion when fierceness was required. his great white teeth were a terror to evil-doers, and his bark in the dead of night would make venturesome bears sneak back into the forest like kittens. often would mrs. hedden say to her neighbors, that with "husband's rifle and bouncer's teeth, she felt that she lived in a fortress. as for the children," she would add, laughingly, "i scarcely ever feel any anxiety about them, when i know that bouncer has joined their little expeditions. he is a regiment in himself." ii. exploring the stream. one of the favorite holiday resorts of bessie and rudolph was a lovely spot in the forest, not a quarter of a mile from the house. shaded by giant oaks, whose gnarled roots lay like serpents, half hidden in the moss, ran a streamlet, covered with sunny speckles, where parted leaves admitted the sunshine. flowers grew along its banks in wild profusion, and it held its wayward course with many a rippling fall and fantastic turn, until it was lost in the shades of the forest. "where does it go to, i wonder?" the children often would say to each other, longing for permission to follow its windings farther than the limits prescribed by their parents would allow. "to the ocean, of course," rudolph would answer, triumphantly; while bessie, looking at its golden ripple, and listening to its musical song, half believed that it carried its wealth of sparkling jewels to fairyland itself. sometimes, when bouncer was with them, they lingered so long by the mysterious streamlet, sending chip boats adrift upon its surface, or trying to adjust troublesome little water-wheels under some of its tiny cascades, that mrs. hedden would blow the big horn as a signal for their return; and as they ran home, playing with bouncer by the way, or scolding him for shaking his wet sides under their very faces, they would inwardly resolve to coax father to take them up the stream on the very first pleasant saturday. accordingly, on one bright friday in june, as bessie and rudolph were returning from school together, they ran toward their father, who was working in the clearing. "father! father!" they shouted, "will you take us down the stream to-morrow?--we want to see where it goes to." "goes to?" laughed back the father. "why, it goes to the moon; didn't kitty say so last night?" "now, father," returned bessie, pouting just a little, "you _know_ we don't believe that. we want you so much to take us in the boat; it doesn't leak at all now--oh! do." and both children fairly capered in their excitement. mr. hedden smiled; but; after wiping his forehead with a red and yellow handkerchief, went on thoughtfully with his work without returning any answer. the children, looking wistfully at him a moment, turned toward the house, wondering among themselves, "what father meant to do about it." that evening, at the supper-table (where they didn't have napkin rings or silver salt-cellars, i can assure you), mr. hedden asked his wife whether tom hennessy was back from "up river" yet? "i think he came home yesterday," returned his wife. "why do you ask?" "because i thought, as to-morrow'll be a holiday, i'd get him to take the youngsters down the stream in the scow." "oh! husband," rejoined mrs. hedden, looking up anxiously, "do you think it's safe?" "why not, betsey?--the scow doesn't leak; and even if it did, the water isn't above tom's waist anywhere." "i don't mean anything of that kind," pursued the wife, smiling in spite of herself at the joyful faces of the young folks. "i--i mean the indians." "oh, never fear about them; i'll give tom every necessary caution," was the answer. "the boat won't be gone more than two hours altogether; and, to my mind, there wouldn't be the slightest danger in letting even little kitty join the party." "oh! tanky, poppy, tanky!" shouted kitty, clapping her chubby hands in great glee. every one at the table laughed heartily at her unexpected response. bright and early the next morning, the children stood in the door-way, eagerly looking out for tom. big tom, the village boys called him; and well they might, for he was a staunch, burly fellow, who looked as if he could crush an indian in each hand--not that he had ever had an opportunity to perform that remarkable feat, for tom hennessy had but recently arrived from a large town in the east; but he _looked_ as if he could do it; and, therefore, had credit for any amount of prowess and strength. after sundry directions given by mr. hedden to tom, and a command from their mother for the little folks to be home at dinner-time, they set forth amid shouts of laughter and merriment. kitty was there in all her glory, for, after what "poppy" had said, she had insisted upon joining the party. even bouncer, in spite of many a "go back, sir!" "call him, mother!" had quietly insinuated himself into the group, and neither threats nor coaxing could force him away. it was a glorious day; and, as they neared the stream, it seemed to sparkle into joyous welcome at their approach. soon, comfortably seated in the scow, they were pushed and rowed laboriously along by the good-natured tom, while bouncer panted along the bank, or dashed into the water, splashing the boat in fine style. in passing the accustomed "limits," the delight of the children knew no bounds. "now for it!" cried bessie, clapping her hands. "now we shall find out where the stream goes to!" and so they sailed along, following its graceful windings--sometimes touching bottom, and sometimes skimming smoothly over deep water, where kitty could no longer clutch for the tall, bright grass that here and there had reared itself above the surface. often big tom would sing out, "lie low!" as some great bough, hanging over the stream, seemed stretching out its arms to catch them; and often they were nearly checked in their course by a fallen trunk, or the shallowness of the water. at last, upon reaching a very troublesome spot, tom cried good-naturedly-- "now, youngsters, you must all get out while i turn the scow over this 'ere log, and then you can jump in again on t'other side." with merry shouts they leaped out, one after the other, tom holding kitty in his arms, as he stood knee-deep in the water. "what is the matter with bouncer?" cried bessie. there was no time for a reply. looking up, the frightened party saw three hideous faces peering at them over the bushes! "the indians! the indians!" screamed bessie. springing to the shore, and catching rudolph with one arm, while he held kitty tightly in the other, tom hennessy dashed into the forest, calling upon bessie to follow. poor bessie! what could she do? with a thrill of horror she saw two fierce savages bounding after them with fearful yells, while a third, with upraised club, and tomahawk and scalping-knife in his belt, was rushing toward her. uttering one long piercing scream, the poor girl knelt to await her doom. a prolonged roar of fury caused her to raise her head. bouncer, brave, noble bouncer, and the indian had fallen together in a deadly struggle! now was her time! with new energy and hope, she sprang to her feet, and darted through the forest, rending the air with cries for help, and unconscious of whither she was flying. "rudolph! kitty!" she cried, frantically. "god in heaven help us! oh! help us!" iii. where are the children? it was nearly dinner-time in the hedden cottage. farmer hedden sat in the doorway, equipped in his hunting dress--for he usually spent saturday afternoons in the forest; and it was only at his wife's solicitation that he had consented to wait and "take a bite of dinner" before starting, every now and then he raised his head from the almanac, over which he was bending, to listen to the whirr of his wife's spinning-wheel, and her merry song issuing from the cottage, or to cast an impatient glance in the direction of the streamlet. within, all was neatness and cheerfulness; the clean deal table was arranged with its row of yellow platters and shining pewter-mugs--even the stools were standing round it, ready for the hungry household that usually assembled at noon, eager for dinner. "father's" and "mother's" places were at either end of the table; rudolph's and kitty's at one side (kitty had a high chair made by "father" out of young oak branches); bessie's opposite; and, beside hers, the prettiest plate; and the brightest mug for big tom--for, of course, he must be asked to stay. everything was ready. far back in the open fireplace the fagots were blazing and snapping. hanging above them, the great iron pot threw forth a circle of noisy steam around the loosely fitted lid, while the potatoes within were in a high state of commotion--little ones tumbling pell-mell over big ones, and big ones rocking dolefully backward and forward in the boiling water as though they felt sure their end was approaching. "blow the horn again, john," called out mrs. hedden, as she cut another slice from the big brown loaf that had rapidly been growing less under her shining knife. "ha! ha! they can't help hearing _that_," she laughed, as her husband blew a blast even louder than usual. after waiting a moment, mr. hedden came in, throwing the almanac on a low wooden settee as he entered. "no use waiting any longer, wifey--let's sit by. i don't see a sign of the youngsters; though it did seem to me i heard some of 'em screaming and laughing in the distance a bit ago. 'twon't do, though," he continued, shaking his head; "we must make the crazy little cubs mind the horn closer. play's play, and all well enough in its way, but you must teach children regularity from the very outset, or they'll never be good for much." "that's true enough, john," answered his wife, as she "dished" some of the steaming potatoes--leaving a goodly number in the pot for the little folk--"that's true enough; but you know this is a day of extra frolic for the children. they're having such fun, likely, they've no notion how the time is passing. as for the horn, who could expect mortal ears to hear _that_--with bessie and big tom laughing and singing, and rudolph screaming with fun--as i know he is; and little kit, bless her! just frantic with delight; i think i can see them now, the merry madcaps!" ah! happy, unconscious mother, if you _could_ have seen them--if their cries of terror could but have reached your ears! finally, neighbor hedden arose, shoving back his stool on the sanded floor. "well, well, wifey, you're right enough, no doubt; but i tell you it isn't best to be too easy with youngsters, though ours are the best going, if i _do_ say it. a good trouncing all around, when they come in, wouldn't be a bit too much for them for being so late;" and, half in fun, half in earnest, he shook his head rather fiercely at his wife, and stalked out of the cottage. presently she laughed outright to hear the loud, impatient tones issuing from the great tin horn. "that'll fetch them, i reckon," said neighbor hedden, showing a smiling face at the window. as another hour passed away, the songs grew fewer and fainter upon the mother's lips--at first from vexation, and, finally, from weariness and a vague feeling of anxiety. "bessie should know better," she thought to herself, "than to stay so long. i wish i had not let kitty go with them." the next moment she smiled to think how hungry the children would be when they returned, and half wished that it would not be "spoiling" them to make them a good sugar-cake for their supper. not until the shadows grew longer upon the edge of the forest, and threatening clouds grew thicker overhead, did her heart quail or her cheek grow white with sudden fear. "oh! what _can_ keep them, i wonder! why didn't i ask john to go look for them?" she asked herself over and over again. but mrs. hedden was not one to sit weeping with folded hands while anything remained to be done. it was not long before their nearest neighbor, who was still at work, enjoying the coolness of the afternoon, leaned upon his spade to wonder what on earth neighbor hedden's wife was up to now. "why, look there! bob," he called out to his son, "if she ain't leaping over this way like a year-old colt!" in the mean time, neighbor hedden himself was having but sorry sport in the forest. he saw nothing worth even pointing his gun at, and felt altogether so ill at ease and so fidgety as he trudged along, stepping now upon the soft moss, and now upon fallen branches that crackled even under the stealthy tread of his hunting moccasins, that i doubt whether half the bears hidden in the depths of the forest were not in a livelier mood than he. not that he had anything to make him feel especially ill-humored, unless it was the disobedience of his children in having failed to appear at dinner-time--but it seemed to him that there was something going wrong in the world, some screw loose in his affairs that, unless he turned it tight in time, would cause his happiness and the prosperity of his home to fall in ruins about him. after awhile this feeling became so strong that he seated himself upon a stone to think. "i haven't been as neighborly as i might have been," he reflected: "there's many a turn been wanting by these new-comers, the morrises, that i might have tended to, if i hadn't been so wrapped up in my own affairs. come to think, almost the only kindness i've done for nearly a year past was in giving a bag of potatoes to that sick fellow, po-no-kah, who seemed to me to be a good fellow, as indians go. however, it ain't much kindness to give to those murderous red-skins when there's plenty of white men wanting help. well, if i'm not agoin' to shoot anything, i guess i'd better go home." with these last words, uttered half aloud, neighbor hedden arose, and walked a few steps in the direction of his home. presently he paused again, muttering to himself-- "it's blamed queer i haven't heard the youngsters coming down with the scow; i certainly should have heard them if they'd passed anywhere near--guess i'd best walk on a little way up stream." so saying, he turned, with a new anxiety upon his countenance, and moved with rapid strides toward the rivulet, that still ran rippling on, though the bright sparkles that lit its surface at noon had vanished. indeed, by this time the sunshine was, fast vanishing, too, for heavy clouds were gathering overhead, while those in the west were gilded on their lower edge. iv. the search. neighbor hedden, now intent upon his new thoughts, hurried along the bank of the stream. there were pretty tassel-flowers and jack-in-pulpits growing there, which at any other time he might have plucked, and carried home in his cap for kitty; but he did not heed them now. something in the distance had caught his eye, something that, showing darkly through the trees, from a bend in the streamlet, caused his breathing to grow thicker and his stride to change into a run--_it was the empty boat_! hastening toward it, in the vain hope that he would find his little ones playing somewhere near the spot, he clutched his ride more firmly, and gasped out their names one by one. where were they?--his sunny-hearted bessie, his manly little rudolph, and kitty, his bright-eyed darling? alas! the only answer to the father's call was the angry mutter of the thunder, or the quick lightning that flashed through the gathering gloom! in frantic haste he searched in every direction. "perhaps," thought he, "they have become frightened at the sound of bears, and hidden themselves in a thicket. they may even have got tired and gone to sleep. but where is tom hennessy?" again and again he returned to the boat, as though some clue might there be found to the missing ones; but as often he turned back in despair, trusting now only to the flashes of the lightning to aid him in his search. the sharp twigs and branches tore his face and hands as, bending low, he forced himself where the tangled undergrowth stood thickest. soon his hunting-cap was dragged from his head, as by some angry hand; he knew that it had caught upon the branches, and did not even try to find it in the darkness. the heavy drops of rain, falling upon his bare head, cooled him with a strange feeling of relief. next his gun, which he had leaned against a tree, while on hands and knees he had forced his way into some brush, was swallowed up in the darkness. in vain he peered around him at every flash that lit the forest--he could see nothing of it. suddenly a bright gleam, shooting across his pathway, revealed something that instantly caught his eye--it was a small bit of blue ribbon, such as bessie often wore. bending to pick it up, he started back in horror! the light had lasted but an instant, yet it had been long enough to show him that the ribbon was stained with blood, while near it the stones and leaves shone crimson! even the gnarled roots of a fallen tree were dabbled with a fearful stain. he could see it all distinctly. with upraised arms, he knelt and poured forth an agonized prayer-- "great god! where are my children? oh! have mercy! have mercy!" flash after flash lighted up the kneeling form. presently loud voices resounded through the forest: "what, ho!" "hedden! hedden!" "hennessy! tom!" "hallo!" hedden stood upright. the voices were familiar. he shouted back lustily, and hurried toward the approaching lanterns. alas! he came upon faces almost as pale and inquiring us his own--no news on either side! his neighbors had eagerly responded to the mother's appeal, but so far had searched the forest in vain. if bouncer only could be found; and, for almost the first time in years, hedden called, "bouncer! bouncer!" without seeing the great fellow leaping toward him. what wonder, though--even bouncer could scarcely have recognized that voice now! "hark!" cried one of the neighbors. they listened. there was certainly a panting sound from some spot not far away. "bouncer! bouncer!" cried the poor father. the panting again; they lowered their lanterns. what was that lying upon the ground--lying there close by bouncer? it was bessie! they rushed toward her. she was lying very still; bouncer was breathing heavily. they raised her from the ground. "bessie! bessie! my darling, speak to me!" cried the father. her eyes opened slowly; for an instant she did not know who held her. "bessie, child, it's father--speak to me!" she looked at him an instant, then with a pitiful cry buried her face in his bosom. bouncer staggered forward, and now, by the light of the lanterns, they could see a broad gash upon his shoulder, and another upon his head. he looked up at bessie with a mournful whine. "oh, bouncer, dear bouncer! can't _you_ tell me where they are?" cried bessie, turning suddenly, and gazing upon him with streaming eyes. the brave fellow tried to wag his tail, but his strength was failing fast. "he came to me only a little while ago," sobbed bessie. "oh! i was so thankful! but he came so slowly i knew he was hurt. i put out my hand and felt him all hot and wet--i can't remember anything since then. oh! father, don't let poor bouncer die--see! he is falling! dear old bouncer!" and she threw herself down beside him. the poor fellow turned his head, and tried to lick her hand; then started up, growling with something like his old savageness, and fell over. they tried to lift him; they called his name. even bessie attempted to arouse him with a cheerful call. there was no movement;--bouncer was dead! it seemed hard to leave the body of the faithful creature lying exposed in the forest, but this was no time to bury him. all that they could gather from bessie's confused account of the surprise by the indians, and her own escape, served to make the party feel that further effort was almost hopeless--still they would not despair. it was decided that one of their number should take the rescued girl back to her mother, while the rest should proceed in their search. the fury of the storm had passed by this time, though the rain fell in great splashing drops, and the wind muttered angrily among the trees in answer to the distant rumbling of the thunder. drenched to her skin, and shivering with excitement, bessie begged that she might go with her father. "we will find them soon," she pleaded; "i'm sure we will, and then we can all go home together. it will frighten mother so dreadfully to see me coming alone, without rudolph and kittie, and bouncer!" the man whose lantern had gleamed upon her shaded the light with his great rough hand from the spot where bouncer lay, and in a voice as tender as a woman's, urged her to go with him at once, "go, bessie," said her father hurriedly, on seeing that she still resisted, "we are losing time." this was enough. "good-night, dear father!" she sobbed, as she was led away; "don't tell rudolph about bouncer until he gets home, father--it will almost break his heart." a voice that even bessie could scarcely recognize called back through the darkness: "good-night, my child. go easy, joe, and keep a sharp look-out." "ay! ay!" answered the man in a suppressed voice, as he grasped more firmly the little hand in his, and hurried on. after a wearisome tramp, they at last reached the edge of the forest. bessie started to see a tall, white figure rushing with outstretched arms toward them. "it's the mother," said joe, pityingly, raising the lantern as he spoke. "oh, joe!" screamed the poor woman, "have you found them?--tell me, quick!" "well--no, mrs. hedden," he shouted in reply, "not exactly that--but we've got the gal safe an' sound--not a scratch on her." in another moment bessie was in her mother's arms. "only me, mother!" she sobbed; "only me; but father's looking for them and, oh! mother, bouncer is dead!" the next day brought no better tidings. at noon the men returned from their search, jaded and dispirited. after the first explanations were over, mr. hedden called one of the party aside and whispered, huskily-- "give her this, dennis--i can't; and tell her it was the only trace we could find." the mother's quick eye caught sight of the object before her husband had fairly drawn it from beneath his hunting-jacket. "it's kitty's hood," she cried, stretching forth her hand as she fell senseless to the floor. that evening, and for many a day afterward, the search was continued but without success; no trace could be found of either tom hennessy, rudolph, or little kitty. v. the captives. and what had befallen tom and the children, on the fearful day of their sail up the beautiful stream? bessie's eyes had not deceived her when, in one agonized glance, she had seen tom dash into the forest bearing rudolph and kitty in his arms, followed by yelling savages. the chase, however, was a short one; before tom had advanced many steps his pursuers closed upon him, and tearing the children from his embrace, bound his arms close to his body with deerskin thongs. the children, screaming with terror, struggled in the arms of the indians and called frantically upon tom for help; but he, poor fellow, could only turn his pitying eyes upon them and beg them to remain quiet. "it'll save you from worse things," he groaned. by this time several savages, darting from near hiding-places, had surrounded them and tom abandoned all hope of escape. bessie's screams had died away, and he felt sure that she had been killed by the indian who had first rushed upon her. after holding a moment's council the indians began a rapid march, hurrying tom along with them, and almost dragging the terrified children--who, each with a tiny hand in the grip of a painted warrior, ran panting by their sides. hurrying on, faster and faster, until even tom was nearly out of breath, the savages, without exchanging a word among themselves, continued their flight (for such it seemed), carefully avoiding even the breaking of a twig, or anything that could furnish a clue to those who might come in pursuit. soon kitty, who could run no more, was snatched angrily from the ground and carried, like a bundle, under the great muscular arm of one of the savages. but when rudolph showed evident signs of exhaustion, the indians paused, evidently consulting together whether they should not tomahawk the children at once. tom could stand it no longer. he declared that he would not go another step if the children were injured a hair. "let me carry them," he cried. "i am strong enough to bear a dozen youngsters--unbind me, i say, and hand 'em over." some of the red men knew enough of english to understand his meaning. with a contemptuous sneer one of them tossed rudolph on tom's back; then set one of his arms free, and drove him onward with many a brutal stroke. it was hard work for tom, shackled as he was, to bear the frightened boy, who at times clung to his throat so tightly as to almost strangle him. "hold on, rudolph, boy," he whispered; "lower down--there, that way. now don't cry; you're father's little man, you know." "oh, tom," sobbed the poor boy, "they'll kill us, i'm sure, as they killed little annie green. see, now, how they carry kitty--how they scrape her face against the bushes; oh! oh!" and rudolph hid his eyes in tom's hair, crying as if his little heart would break. "hush!" muttered tom, sternly, "or i'll put you down." in an instant one of the red men whose look, though grim and fearful enough, showed less savageness than his companions, gruffly took kitty from the indian who was carrying her with such cruel carelessness. the change comforted the child, and in a few moments the exhausted little creature was sleeping soundly upon his shoulder, never waking even through the thunder-storm that ere long seemed to rend the forest. in this way the indians hurried on, pausing once to change their captive's bands, so as to leave his right arm free instead of his left. now and then tom would put rudolph upon the ground for awhile, and when the little fellow flagged he would lift him up to his shoulder again. at nightfall the party halted and made a large fire of brush, by which they cooked some venison and hominy, which had been carried by them during the march. after partaking of their meal, and giving their prisoners a liberal supply, they disposed themselves for the night, first taking care to fasten tom's hands and feet securely, and even to bandage the children's ankles so that they could not stand. in vain tom peered about him for a chance of escape for himself and his charges--for he would on no account have left them behind--but there was no hope. his knife had been taken away from him, and all night long he was watched by two indians, who remained near him in a sitting posture. even when their dusky faces were lost in the darkness, he could see the gleam of their piercing eyes as the fire-light flashed and faded. once, when the pain from his fastenings became insupportable, he complained to one of the watchers and begged to be unbound for a moment, while a wild hope rushed through his heart that he might then, quick as a flash, seize rudolph and kitty and fly through the darkness out of the reach of his pursuers. vain hope! no opportunity came, though the indian readily complied with his request. almost every warrior raised himself upon his elbow in an instant, and he felt the glare of a dozen eyes upon him at the slightest motion he made. after the indian had loosened the fastenings somewhat, and given tom a drink of pure spring water, he even offered him some parched corn, and in no unfriendly way motioned to him to try and sleep; but all this show of kindness did not reassure tom. he had heard enough of indian warfare to feel that any consideration they might show their prisoners at first was often but a proof that they were reserving them for the greatest cruelties afterward. long before daylight the next morning, the march was resumed, in the same manner as on the previous day; and, indeed, for three or four days it was continued over a country dense with cedar thicket, and becoming rougher and more rocky as they journeyed on. at last, after traveling westward for a distance of ever a hundred miles--as nearly as tom could estimate--they saw, afar, rising from the lowlands, the smoke of an indian encampment. some one evidently had been on the look-out for them. before they reached the spot, they were welcomed with loud whoops and yells. presently the entire community, as it seemed, turned out to receive them--hundreds of savages, men, women, and children--who, when they saw the prisoners, pierced the air with wild shouts of joy. the men were painted in every conceivable way, with hideous daubs of color upon their limbs and faces, or tattooed so as to look more fearful still; their heads were closely shaved, leaving only a lock on the crown, called the scalp-lock, which was twisted up so as to hold tufts of brilliant feathers. the women, scarcely less hideous than the men (excepting here and there a young maiden, the joy of her tribe, standing apart from the rest), crowded fiercely about, and the children, naked and dirty, whooped and yelled like so many imps. the scene was certainly not likely to inspire the prisoners with any keen sense of security. indeed, tom expected instant death at their hands. as for rudolph and kitty, the poor little creatures were stupefied with terror, and clung to tom in a way that seemed to make the indian children half mad with delight. suddenly all the warriors arranged themselves into two long lines, facing each other--and, brandishing their tomahawks, switches, and clubs, called upon tom to run the gauntlet! one of the savages proceeded to set free the limbs of the captive, at the same time explaining to him, in broken english, the nature of the ceremony about to be enacted. this was nothing less than for tom to run between the lines, along their entire length, with the chance of receiving a blow from each indian as he passed. "run like deer!" said the indian, as he jerked off the last strip of hide from the captive's arm, "then he get more few knock." casting one despairing look about him, and seeing not a possible chance of escape, even if he were not bound to the spot by the presence of rudolph and kitty, poor tom entered upon the dread ordeal. his weariness was forgotten as, in very desperation, he flew between the lines so rapidly that for a short distance the blows fell but lightly upon him. soon a crushing stroke from the back of a tomahawk fell heavily upon his shoulder, but he did not falter; the yells and blows of the savages lent wings to his feet--until, at last, when the end was nearly reached, a huge chief struck him a blow, with his club, that felled him to the ground. springing up instantly, tom dashed forward again, and staggered on to the end of the line where he sank to the ground, unable to rise. up to the last moment he could hear the shrieks of rudolph rising above the din. the poor child had been forced to witness tom's suffering from the first. as soon as tom opened his eyes he saw the pale, tearful faces of rudolph and kitty. "don't cry, youngsters," he gasped; "be good, and we may get home again yet." "oh, come _now_," urged kitty; "come tell mammy--mammy'll whip'em for hurtin' 'oo; naughty injins!" rudolph, forgetting his misery for an instant, laughed outright at kitty's words. the next instant he shook his head solemnly--at her--"no, kitty, mother couldn't whip 'em. but oh, i wish we were home! i wish we were home!" he cried, giving vent to his terrors again, as he saw a group of red men moving hastily towards them. after dashing water over tom's wounds and laying him upon a bed of deer-skins, the savages seated themselves in a ring, and held a council to decide the fate of the prisoners. the warriors sat in silence while a great war-club was passed around the circle. those who were in favor of burning them alive struck the ground heavily with the weapon before handing it to the next warrior; while those who objected to putting them to death in that manner merely passed it on in silence. tom saw all this from where he lay, and he knew its meaning well. with a sinking heart he heard the heavy thump of the club as each warrior gave his cruel vote, until at last one chief, holding the club in the air, pointed with a meaning gesture--first at tom, then at rudolph and kitty. the chiefs responded with a grunt of assent to his inquiry concerning the latter, but shook their heads when their attention was directed to tom. then the noble fellow knew that not his fate, but that of the children was being decided; while they, unconscious little creatures, looked on half amused at what seemed to them some singular game. "hi!" whispered rudolph to kitty, "didn't that fellow hit hard, though?--he'll beat i guess." a moment more and the council was ended. one of the indians approached the children and daubed their faces with black; it was a fatal sign, for it proved that the vote had been against them--rudolph and kitty were to be put to death! vi. ka-te-qua. all that night, and for many days afterward, tom lay in a burning fever, quite unconscious of what was passing around him. meanwhile, strange to say, rudolph and kitty were treated almost with kindness. they were well fed, and were given the softest deer-skins to lie upon at night. finding themselves unharmed as the hours went on, the little creatures became more confident, and finally resumed their natural playfulness. kitty was never weary of the bright beads and ornaments of the indian maidens, and rudolph found great delight in shooting with the bows and arrows of the _papooses_ or children, who, in turn, were wonderfully amused at the bad shots of the little pale-face. now and then, to be sure, the vicious child of some chieftain would amuse itself by pricking kitty's tender skin with a thorn, and hearing her scream in consequence; or, having seen the black-and-blue marks upon her delicate arms, caused by the rough handling of her captors, they would pinch her flesh and watch for the change of color with intense interest. one day they tried it while rudolph was standing by, holding the hand of the squaw who had him in charge. no sooner did the usual scream escape kitty's lips than, quick as thought, the boy broke from the woman's grasp, and, rushing upon his sister's tormentor, laid the little savage in the dust and pummeled him well. instead of resenting this, the indians seemed to admire the pluck of the young pale-face, and he rose in their favor at once. especially did the old squaw, as indian women are called, applaud him. she was a strange old creature, named ka-te-qua (_female eagle_), and, being half crazy, was looked upon by the indians as one inspired by manitou, or the great spirit. besides, her brother had been a famous medicine-man[ ] of the tribe; and her two sons, who had been slain in battle, were celebrated braves or warriors, each owning long chains of scalps, which they had taken from their enemies. so, of course, when she wagged her head in approbation of rudolph's conduct, all the women near her wagged their heads also. indeed, had tom remained ill a few weeks longer, the black marks on the children's faces would have worn off without any further injury being done them. but as he grew better, and, finally, was able to sit upright on his deer-skin couch, the malice of his captors was renewed. they resolved not only to carry out the sentence upon the children, but to put the sick pale-face to new tortures as soon as he was strong enough to afford them the requisite amount of sport on the occasion. accordingly on the fourth day after rudolph had punished the little "red-skin," preparations were begun. heaps of fagots were industriously piled against an oak tree, which stood apart. tom, with feet shackled, and his arms tightly secured to his sides, was led out to witness the fearful scene. rudolph and kitty were seized, and, in spite of their struggles, bound side by side to the tree. already the wild dance of the indians had begun. frightful yells and whoops filled the air, and even women and little dusky children clapped their hands and shouted with excitement and delight. they brought armfuls of brush and laid it close to the pile. nothing was needed to complete the deed but to apply the fatal torches, now sending forth hot, fierce gleams into the pale air, and brandished by a dozen yelling savages. at a signal from an aged chief, the brush was lighted. the fire cracked and snapped; soon its snake-like wreaths curled about the pile, sending thick smoke around the screaming victims, when, suddenly, old ka-te-qua--she who had taken charge of the children--rushed from the neighboring forest. tearing through the crowd, she flew to the pile of fagots, and with vigorous strokes scattered the blazing wood in every direction. then, turning toward the astonished savages, who had retreated a few paces to escape the burning brands, she addressed them passionately in the indian tongue: "the great spirit," she cried, "scowls upon you--the very flames hiss in the wet grass. the sons of ka-te-qua are gone to the happy hunting grounds of the dead. her wigwam is dark. the young pale-faces are to her like the water-lilies of the stream. why, when she was in the forest gathering herbs for the sick of her tribe, did ye steal them from her lodge like dogs? "is the tongue of ka-te-qua forked? has she not said that no warrior need hunt the deer for the young pale-faces? with her they shall grow like hickory saplings, towering with strength. the deer shall not be more fleet than they, nor the songs of the birds more glad. the sun shall paint their white skins. the love of the red man shall enter their hearts: they shall be as the young of our tribe. unbind them! give them to ka-te-qua, or by the next moon a burning fever shall fall upon you. like panthers will you bite the dust. all the waters of the great cataract cannot quench your thirst, and your mightiest hunters will be as women." she paused. a fine-looking chieftain arose and spoke: "the sister of the great medicine-man has spoken well. she dwells alone in her wigwam her arm is strong. her eye is keen, like the hawk's. the deer fall before her, and her arrow can find the heart of the grizzly bear. her corn stands higher than the grass of the prairie. she can feed the young pale-faces. the great spirit gives them to her. let it be so." a council was held at once. this time more than half the chieftains passed the club on in silence, for ka-te-qua, as i have said, was respected among them; she had great powers of healing, and many of the indians regarded her with a superstitious reverence. the children were unbound and borne in state to the old squaw's wigwam. from that hour, though they were closely watched and guarded, their lives were safe. [footnote : mystery-man or indian prophet.] vii. big tom. from the conduct of the indians towards tom, it was evident that his time for torture had not yet arrived. he therefore had tact enough to remain "weak" as long as possible, tottering languidly about the grounds whenever they allowed him the liberty of exercising his limbs, and drinking the mixtures and decoctions of ka-te-qua with the patience of a martyr. in the meantime, the shrewd fellow took care to win the good-will of the tribe by taking apparent interest in their games, and showing a great amount of admiration at their feats of strength and agility. he amused them too by the display of numerous accomplishments peculiar to himself, such as whistling in close imitation of the songs of various birds, and performing feats of jugglery that he had long ago learned in his native town. he could bark like a dog and howl like a wolf; imitate the distant tramping of horses' feet, and give the sound of a whizzing arrow so perfectly that the oldest chiefs would turn their head quickly in the direction of the sound. neither at this, however, nor at any other of tom's performances, would they show the slightest change of countenance, for an indian never allows himself to exhibit feelings of surprise, considering it quite beneath the dignity of his race to do so. even when, by some dexterous trick, tom would show them two or three acorns under a leaf where their reason told them there could be none, and then as mysteriously cause the same acorns to disappear, the stony faces looking on never changed a muscle though at heart they were probably quite as astounded as the welsh monster was supposed to be when jack the giant-killer, performed such wonderful feats with hasty-pudding. by degrees, as tom deemed it prudent to appear stronger, he would dance the sailors' hornpipe for them, or sing wild, rollicksome songs, or make beautiful rustic seats and bowers for the squaws. he was a capital marksman, too, and soon won respect by showing that he could handle a musket with the best of them. the few indians who owned guns had become very expert in their use; and tom, whenever they had trials of their skill, took care to shoot just well enough to prove himself a good marksman, without provoking their anger by excelling too often. after awhile, in his desire to win their confidence, he even went so far as to signify to the indians that he would like to become one of them; that their mode of life suited him well, and he would be glad to hunt and fish with them and be a pale-face no more. alas! poor fellow, he did not know what he was saying, or how soon he would find out that even in cases of great temptation no one can tell a lie without suffering unhappy consequences. the savages took him at his word. they held a council. after it was over, while most of them were still smoking their long, richly ornamented pipes with great deliberation, two or three of the indians seized him and gravely commenced plucking out his hair by the roots.[ ] soon tom twitched from head to foot, and water stood in his eyes; but the red men still kept on with their work, dipping their fingers in ashes occasionally to enable them to take a better hold. before long his head was completely bald, with the exception of one long tuft upon his crown, called the scalp-lock. this was immediately stiffened and plaited, so as to stand upright and hold a variety of ornaments, which his glum hairdresser fastened upon it. then two old indians pierced his nose and ears and hung big rings in the smarting holes. they then took off his clothing and painted his body with every variety of color. next they hung a gaily embroidered cloth about his loins, put a wampum[ ] chain about his neck and fastened silver bands on his right arm. when this was done the whole party gave three shrill whoops, and men, women, and children crowded around him, making the most frantic gestures, and uttering the most horrid sounds that ever a poor fibbing white man heard. next the maidens of the tribe rushed upon him, and, hurrying him to a stream that ran near by, dragged him into the water until it reached his waist, and tried to force his head under. this of course, aroused all his spirit of resistance; but, when one of the girls, named she-de-ah (wild sage), cried into his ear. "no kill! no kill!" he concluded to submit. after this he was ducked and held under most unmercifully, until, believing by this time that "the white blood must be all washed out of him," they led him up the shore, all shivering and dripping, and presented him to their principal chief. the next performance was to dress him in an indian shirt ornamented with feathers and beads and bits of porcupine quill. they put leggins on his legs and moccasins on his feet, and, seating him upon a bear-skin, gave him flint and steel to strike a light with; then a pouch, a tomahawk, some tobacco, and a long pipe. then the chiefs seated themselves beside him, and smoked in silence. tom knew well enough that he was expected to smoke too, and filled and lit his pipe accordingly, never dreaming of the consequences. old as he was, nearly twenty, this was his "first smoke," and very soon the poor fellow found himself growing deadly sick. he could feel the cold chills creeping one after another into his very face. finally, something within him seemed to turn somersaults, when, yielding to a sudden impulse, he flung the pipe upon the ground, and rushed into the recesses of the wigwam, where he usually slept. this the indians, who attach an almost sacred importance to the pipe, took as a great affront; and only when tom afterward, by the most earnest gestures, explained to them the real cause of his conduct, did they allow their injured feelings to be pacified; though it cut him sorely to notice the expressions of contempt, and ridicule that were soon lavished upon him. whether this proof of what seemed in indian opinion a want of manliness had anything to do with their conduct or not, i cannot say, but certain it is that no further ceremonies towards making him a red-man were performed though he was allowed to wear his indian costume. neither did they allow him to hunt with them, as he had hoped. whenever they went forth to shoot the bison or deer, or to trap the beavers, or wage war with hostile tribes, they always left him with the squaws, the old men, and the warriors who remained at home to take charge of the settlement. rudolph and kitty were sorely frightened when they first saw the strange figure, "half indian, half tom," as rudolph afterward described him, stalk into ka-te-qua's wigwam. his bald head and painted body struck poor kitty with dismay. when he spoke soothingly to her, and gave her a handful of bright feathers, she ventured to approach him, though she cried pitifully all the time for tom, dear, big tom, who knew papa and mamma, and bessie and bouncer. neither kitty nor rudolph had forgotten the brave dog through all these days of absence, and they loved to hold long conversations with tom about him; though the little creatures oftener talked of their parents and bessie, as they lay at night upon their beds of dried grass. [footnote : see american adventure by land and sea. harper bros. .] [footnote : _wampum_. beads made of shells, used by north american indians as money, the shells run on strings, and are wrought into belts and ornaments.] viii. bouncer's work. there was another person in the settlement besides the captives, who was not likely to forget bouncer very soon. this was an indian who, wounded and exhausted, had reached the settlement four days after the arrival of the prisoners. he had an ugly mark upon his throat, and another on his chest, and he sulked aside from the rest of his tribe as though he felt that his wounds were ignoble, and a dishonor to his indian birth. it was his blood that farmer hedden had seen on that fearful night; and when more than once the agonized father had listened to what seemed to be the tread of some skulking wolf, he had heard this very indian, who, half dead with pain and loss of blood, was dragging himself slowly through the depths of the forest. this discomfited warrior had looked upon tom and the two little pale-faces with dislike, from the hour when he first saw them as prisoners in the encampment. they were constant reminders to him of his mortifying struggle with the dog. he felt it all the more because, though his jacket and leggings were trimmed with the scalps of his enemies, he had lately been forced to receive charity from the white man's hand, this was when, starving and nearly frozen, he had fallen helpless in the forest, after an unlucky trapping excursion; a settler had found him there, given him food and drink and sent him on his way with a bountiful supply of provisions. big tom saw the dark looks of this indian, and regarded him with suspicion; but little kitty was quite unconscious of the resentful feelings of "the sick man," as she called him. in fact, as soon as she grew more familiar with the indians, she often sought him in preference to the rest, and loved to sit upon the ground beside him, and trace with her tiny fingers the patterns worked upon his leggings and moccasins. at first the grim warrior repulsed these familiarities; but when, as he began to mingle with his tribe, he heard her sweet voice calling him by name, and saw her day after day display her store of beads and feathers at his feet, his feelings gradually softened. before long he ceased to scowl upon her when she lifted her sunny face to his, and, on rare occasions, he even allowed her to count his arrows. once, when rudolph had shot a wild turkey, he rushed to ka-te-qua's wigwam with his prize, for he had learned to love the strange old squaw, though he feared her, too, sometimes. kitty clapped her hands with delight at her brother's skill, and begged him to go with her and show the dead bird to her favorite indian. "come, rudolph; come show 'nokah,'" she pleaded, pulling the young hunter by the arm. "come twick! he goin' away." rudolph suffered himself to be led. they found po-no-kah standing alone by a tree, fully equipped for the hunt. he looked at the turkey and gave a grunt, not particularly flattering to rudolph's vanity. "i've shot three!" said the boy, holding up three fingers to make his meaning clearer. "ugh!" grunted the savage again. "paleface no shoot much." "but i'm growing," persisted rudolph. "when i'm big, i'm going to shoot bears and bison. did you kill the bears to get all these claws?" he added, pointing up to po-no-kah's necklace, which was formed entirely of huge bear-claws, strung through the thickest end. "ugh," replied the indian, nodding his plumed head, "me shoot him." "and these scalps," said rudolph, shuddering as he pointed to the fringe of human hair hanging from the buckskin leggings; "did _you_ get all these?" "ugh," he answered grimly, nodding the plumes again. "you are bad, then," exclaimed rudolph, looking fearlessly into po-no-kah's eyes. "i know _you_," he added suddenly, after gazing at him intently for an instant. "father brought you into our kitchen last winter, and i ran behind the door. mother gave you meat and hot drink, and father warmed you and gave you a bag of potatoes. oh!" he continued, clasping po-no-kah's knee, "_you_ know where our home is. nearly every night i dream that mother is calling us. show me the way, please do. ka-te-qua says there are dreadful things in the forest that will eat me up, but i am not afraid. oh, do tell us the way home!" the indian gave a sharp look at the sobbing boy, and seemed in part to understand his words. stooping, he whispered in a stern tone: "no speak; no tell ka-te-qua;"--and without one glance of encouragement, he stalked away to the spot where the other indians had assembled, preparing for the hunt. the children saw him no more for weeks. rudolph remembered his parting words, and though he could not fully understand po-no-kah's motive, he faithfully obeyed his command. not even to tom did he relate what had occurred. ix. indian life. rudolph and kitty learned many things from the indians that they never would have studied in the rough school-house near their pretty home; and they soon became familiar with many singular customs that at first filled them with wonder. for instance: when they, or any of the little papooses, were naughty or disobedient, they were put under what might be called the water-cure treatment. instead of being whipped or locked up in a dark pantry--as was, i am sorry to say, the custom among some white people--they were simply "ducked" under water until they became manageable. winter or summer, it was all the same. a bad child would very soon become a wet child, if there were any water within a mile. there are bright sides, as well as dark, to the indian character; and in considering their cruelties and inhuman practices, we must remember that the white man has not always been just to him or set a good example to his uncivilized brother, or been careful not to provoke him to deeds of resentment and wrong. an indian rarely forgets a kindness, and he never tells a lie. he is heroic, and deems it beneath a man's dignity to exhibit the slightest sign of pain under any circumstances. among the sioux tribe of that time, the boys were trained from the first to bear as much hardship as possible. they had a ceremony called the straw dance, in which children were forced to maintain a stately and measured step, while bunches of loose straws tied to their naked bodies were lighted and allowed to burn slowly away. any poor little creature who flinched or "broke step" was sorely punished and held in disgrace. there were certain dances among the indians performed by the warriors, before going either to battle or to the hunt. if to battle, they spent hours, and often whole days and nights together, in the fearful war-dance, accompanied by clashing on their drumlike instruments, and whoops that rang long and loud amid the echoing hills. if to the hunt, the bear-dance or the buffalo-dance was kept up nights and days before starting, in order to propitiate the bear spirit or buffalo spirit, whichever it might be. they had a funeral dance also, which was very solemn and impressive. and if a chieftain was to be buried, either in the river, or, as among the mandans, on a rough platform erected on poles high up from the ground, the warriors danced before his wigwam, and assigned to a few of their number the duty of seeing that his widow and children, if he left any, should never be without food and shelter. kitty and rudolph often looked on with, mingled feelings of terror and delight, while some of these strange ceremonies were being enacted. it was curious to see the stalwart warriors, with bent backs and glum faces, and many a grunt or whoop, stamp through the measured dance. often kitty would clutch her brother's arm in terror, when, in strange concert, the savages would suddenly halt, and with fiendish look and stealthy gesture, seem to be listening to the approach of an enemy. sometimes, too, the women danced, but always apart from the men. even in their games the warriors and squaws never played together. among the crow indians, famous for their long black hair, it was not uncommon for a thousand young men to play in one game of ball for three or four consecutive days without interruption. as soon as one player retired, exhausted, another took his place. often hundreds of women played together, and they were generally as expert as the men in throwing and catching the ball. another strange feature among indian customs, was the importance attached to the _medicine-bag_. every warrior had one, and would no sooner hunt, or go to battle, or appear among his tribe without it, than he would neglect to wear his bow or his scalping-knife. not that the bag contained any medicine, such as we understand by the word--for it was nothing but a small piece of skin sewed like a bag, curiously ornamented, and stuffed with straw or leaves--but because he regarded it as a _charm_. with him, "medicine" meant some mysterious power that would protect and guide him, and propitiate the unseen powers in his favor. when about to obtain his medicine, the young indian went alone to some solitary river or lake in the depths of the forest, or mounted to some lonely peak. here he fasted, and remained until, sleeping, he dreamed. the first animal he dreamed about, whether it were a bear, buffalo, deer, weasel, or bird or reptile of any kind, became his "medicine" forever. he at once hunted until he found one, and obtained its skin for a bag. rudolph and kitty looked with awe upon many of the rare medicine-bags of the tribe, though they were never on any account allowed to touch them. indeed, kitty had managed to make a rough little one for rudolph, dotted with clumps of beads, and he wore it next his heart with secret pride. the little fellow had once, while tramping through the forest with katequa, seen a number of deer gathered around a spring, or salt-lick, as it is called, and had quivered with frightened delight to see the finest one fall wounded by her arrow. when the large eyes of the wounded creature had turned plaintively toward him, he had tried not to feel sorry, but his heart ached in spite of his efforts, "i shall be a mighty hunter one of these days," he said to kitty on his return; "but i won't shoot deer, for they look at you just as if they wanted to speak. i'll get bears though, lots of 'em, and buffalo; and i'll have a fine trap when i get home, and catch badgers and foxes, just as the indians do." tom and rudolph saw with indignation that, throughout the village, the labor and drudgery were forced upon the squaws, while the warriors stretched themselves lazily upon the ground, or smoked their pipes under the spreading trees. as for kitty, she was too busy watching the women cook, dig, chop, and carry, to make any moral reflections. she loved, also, to sit beside them when they prepared the skins brought in from the hunt, or while they were busy with their curious sewing, so different from that with which she had seen her mother occupied. bright-colored rags, feathers, beads, porcupine-quills, and even scraps of tin, were the ornaments upon which the squaws relied to make the toilets of their tribe "stylish" and beautiful; and kitty--tiny little woman that she was--soon grew to agree with them perfectly in matters of taste. to be sure, the indian women never did anything quite so barbarous as to put their little girls' feet into narrow shoes with high heels, nor fasten tight belts about their waists, so that the god-given machinery within could hardly work. but they did many preposterous things, for all that. they painted their bodies and tattooed their skins, by pricking figures on the flesh and rubbing in some staining juice when the blood appeared. they even pierced their noses so that bright rings could dangle from them. many, too, hung bits of metal from their ears in a similar way--but that may not strike my civilized readers as being a very barbarous custom. x. ka-te-qua's "good night." thus weeks and months passed away, not so wearily to the prisoners, as to the poor, sorrowing hearts that mourned for them at home. tom's brain was always busy in planning some mode of escape for himself and his little charges. but, as he was still closely guarded, never being left alone for an instant, night or day, and as the children slept in the wigwam of ka-te-qua, whose eyes seemed never intended to close, he concluded to wait patiently rather than to risk the lives of all three by an unsuccessful attempt. meantime, ka-te-qua's strong arms grew feeble, her arrow became less fatal in its aim, and her strange fits of moodiness filled rudolph and kitty with dread. for hours she would sit at the entrance of her wigwam, chanting mournfully in the indian tongue. at such times she would compel the children to remain within,--becoming frantic with crazy rage should they attempt to force past her into the pleasant sunshine; and they would sit together in the shadow, hoping that by some whim she would walk away, or that the long, long chant would cease. one afternoon she kept them waiting in this way for hours. the sun sank lower and lower into the distant prairie, and the crimson clouds faded to a dull gray. rudolph and kitty sat listening to the wailing tones of ka-te-qua's voice until, as the evening grew dark and chilly, they found for themselves a scanty supper of parched corn, and after whispering their simple prayer, groped their way to bed. the strange old creature ceased singing after a while, and entered the wigwam. they could distinguish her form as she slowly moved about, before throwing herself down near the entrance to indulge in her usual cat-like sleep. afraid to speak to her, for they were not quite sure in what mood she might be, they watched her movements as well as they could, and at last felt sure that she was tottering slowly toward them. kitty clasped rudolph's neck more tightly, and broke into a frightened sob. in an instant, they felt her hand steal very gently over their tumbled curls. "night! night!" she whispered softly. "good-night, ka-te-qua," they answered in a breath, for their fear was all gone now. "night, night," repeated the voice, as kindly as their own mother could have said it, and after giving each a caressing stroke, their old friend moved softly away. very early the next morning the children were awakened by a buzzing of many voices. ka-te-qua had been found lying stiff and cold at the entrance of her wigwam. not a trace of injury of any kind was upon her. the indians, crowding round, shook their heads gravely. ka-te-qua was wise, they said, but manitou had sent for her. she had gone to the happy hunting grounds of her fathers. xi. fire-water becomes master. after a long absence, the hunting party returned. as soon as po-no-kah's stalwart form appeared in sight, rudolph and kitty rushed, with a cry of joy, to meet him; but, to their great dismay, he pushed them away with a frown and a grunt that told them plainly that they were to be familiar with him no more. poor children!--ka-te-qua gone, po-no-kah changed, and tom scarcely heeding them,--they felt friendless indeed. kind words they never heard now, and kind looks rarely, except when tom threw them a hasty glance that warmed their hearts, though they scarcely knew why. they did not know how his feelings yearned towards them, nor how eagerly he would have joined in all their simple pursuits, had he dared to do so; but the poor fellow had discovered that any notice he took of the children aroused suspicion, and he therefore concluded to pursue a prudent course. in the meantime the children had one great joy. their love for each other was always the same. kitty trusted in the belief that "mammy" would send for them; but rudolph looked ever up to the great love that he knew was watching over them and the dear ones at home. "if it's _right_, kitty," he would whisper, "i _know_ we'll go home one of these days. don't be afraid. god will take care of us." "but dod took te-qua away," kitty would sometimes say. "yes, i know he did, kitty," and rudolph's eyes would look sadly up to the blue sky, "i know he did, but then i think she was tired and wanted to go." summer, autumn, and winter had passed away, and now came the season when the indians carried their largest supply of furs and skins to sell in the city far over the prairies. often, after their hunts, they had met with traders, and exchanged the skins they had taken for such articles as the white man had to give--guns, blankets, knives, powder, pipes, and fire-water;[ ] but this was the grand trading excursion of the year. when the party returned, after a few weeks' absence, they brought with them among other things, a keg of whisky. after the first welcome was over, the savages held a council. it was soon evident that a fearful scene was to be enacted. the prisoners had seen something of the kind before, but never on so large a scale as this. the indians had decided to hold a revel, in which nearly all the men were to drink fire-water until they could take no more. even these savages knew the horrible consequences of parting with their wits in this manner. before the drinking commenced, they appointed a few able-bodied indians who were to remain sober and take care of the rest. they then deprived themselves of all their dangerous weapons--tomahawks, clubs, guns, arrows, and knives, and prepared for their fearful riot. the scene that followed need not be described. soon the confusion became fearful. the few sober chiefs were constantly risking their lives in their efforts to prevent mischief. squaws were screaming, and frightened children were hiding in every direction. tom, who was half forgotten in the general excitement, saw po-no-kah whisper hurriedly to one of the women. in a moment she caught rudolph and kitty by their hands and stole cautiously with them into the forest. tom's suspicions were aroused. he started up only to feel a strong arm force him back to the log upon which he had been seated. "no move!" muttered a voice, close by his ear. "soon come.--be very drunk." in a few moments, while the tumult and uproar were at their height, tom saw po-no-kah reeling toward the forest. wondering what the fellow meant to do, yet filled with a wild hope, tom watched his chance, staggered past the rioters, and managed to follow the warrior by another path, without creating any suspicion. when, at last, they met, po-no-kah had rudolph and kitty in his arms, and, staggering no more, was hurrying through the forest, armed with bow, quiver, and traveling pouch. the astonished prisoner, after taking kitty from his companion's arms, followed him in silence. not for hours did po-no-kah look back or speak, and then it was but to say a few broken words: "po-no-kah was hungry. the father of the little pale-faces fed him. po-no-kah no snake--he remember--po-no-kah take 'em home." [footnote : brandy, rum, and all alcoholic liquors.] xii. showing how the bag of potatoes came back again. farmer hedden was busily at work in the fields, looking ten years older than on that sunny day, nearly a year before, when he had shouted a laughing "good-bye" to tom and the little ones. bessie was trudging alone from school, wondering why the birds sang less sweetly than they did the may before, and wishing that the noble dog that bounded by her side looked a little more like the first bouncer. mrs. hedden sat with her brother in the lonely cottage, talking on the old, old theme; the memory of that terrible night had never left her heart. "no, no, robert," she said at length, in reply to some appeal from her brother, "we must not go. i know it would be better for us to sell out and go to philadelphia. but it cannot be; we must never leave this spot." "surely, betsy," urged her brother, "you cannot be so wild as to suppose--" "no!" she interrupted, "i never dare even hope for that now. i know my lost darlings are not in this world, and yet--and yet why not hope? why not think that perhaps--" a shadow fell upon the threshold. what wonder that the mother sprang forward with a cry of joy! what wonder that farmer hedden, looking from the field, came bounding toward the house! po-no-kah was there--po-no-kah and little kitty! laughing,--crying,--clasping her dear kitty frantically to her heart, then gazing at her at arms' length, mrs. hedden raised her eyes to the indian, and gasped faintly-- "rudolph? the boy--is he--" she could say no more. "yes--boy all good," answered po-no-kah, eagerly, "white man say break heart see two--he here." just then farmer hedden, tom hennessy, and rudolph rushed in. oh, what a meeting that was! and bessie, too, was there before they knew it. such laughter--such tears--such shouts of rejoicing had never been known in the hedden cottage before! soon the barking of a dog was heard. rudolph sprang from his father's arms: "oh, it's bouncer!" he cried; "let me see him. here, bouncer!" bouncer indeed came leaping in at the call, but it was not _the_ bouncer, though it was a great, shaggy fellow, worthy of the name. rudolph started back; the dog, too, eyed him with a suspicious look. "that isn't bouncer! where is he, mother?" exclaimed the poor boy, looking up with a bewildered glance. po-no-kah slunk aside. "do tell me where bouncer is," he repeated, "we are all here but him. here, bouncer! bouncer!" and he ran to the door. bessie wound her arms about his neck. "rudolph, darling," she sobbed, "don't cry. bouncer was killed on _that_ day. he saved my life, rudolph--" "bouncer dead!" screamed the boy. just then the new dog, seeing bessie and her brother so close together, felt that he had a right there, too. with many a frantic leap and bound he endeavored to draw rudolph's attention, until, finally, the tearful eyes of the boy were turned upon him. then, if ever a dog tried to do his best, that fellow did. he sprang into the air, barked, tumbled, leaped, whined, wagged his tail till it almost spun, and, finally, licked rudolph in the face until the chubby cheeks shook with laughter. all this time tom's indian dress had scarcely been noticed. at last mrs. hedden, grasping both his hands, exclaimed: "why, what in the world have you been doing with yourself? i knew you, though, the moment you came in. oh, tom, how you have suffered!" tom tried to answer her; but somehow his great faithful heart was overflowing, and he could only look at her with a tearful smile. "that's nothing," he said at length. "it's all ended well, anyhow. but a fellow can't help thinking of his own folks, dead and gone, when he sees such a meeting as this." mr. hedden, who had been talking with po-no-kah, walked over to tom and placed his hand upon his shoulder. "_we_ are your folks now, my faithful fellow. god bless you! i can never repay what i owe you. remember, our home is yours from this hour. i shall take no denial." "good!" exclaimed bessie, clapping her hands; "now i shall have two brothers!" mrs. hedden, who had listened to po-no-kah's broken words, kissed and hugged tom in her motherly way. "dear me," she exclaimed, "how can we make you look like a white man again; and to think you have had chances to escape and would not leave the children," and then she hugged him again. "ugh!" grunted the indian, nodding his head and holding up three fingers--to signify that tom had had three chances. "pooh!" said the brave fellow, blushing through all the red paint, "i didn't have any at all until a month or so ago, and i'd got kind o' used to staying then." soon the red man turned to go. in vain the grateful parents tried to force their gifts upon him, and to persuade him to at least partake of some refreshment after his long journey. he pointed to his hunting-pouch and his bow, as if to say that they would furnish all the the food he required, and nodded westward to show that he must be far on his way before sundown. as tom gave him a hearty hand-shake and the rest crowded about him, all, even to little kitty, thanking him over and over again, he waved them off with dignity. "no thank," he said; "po-no-kah was cold and hungry; the father of the young pale-faces gave him food. he come tell white man indian no forget." tom expressed anxiety lest their deliverer should suffer for his act when he returned to his tribe. "po-no-kah no fraid" answered the indian grimly with almost a smile upon his face. and, nodding a farewell to little kitty, he strode majestically away. * * * * * a year later, the heddens settled on a fine farm near philadelphia. rudolph and kitty doubtless walked many a time by the old hall where our declaration of independence was signed. bessie hedden's sons when they grew up became pioneers themselves; and their names were hennessy; so you see the maiden probably, in the course of time, changed her mind about having tom for a brother. violet: a fairy story. boston: phillips, sampson, and company. . entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by phillips, sampson, and company, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. stereotyped at the boston stereotype foundry. publishers' advertisement. in the absence of any preface by the author, the publishers desire to call special attention to this most exquisite little story. it breathes such a love of nature in all her forms, inculcates such excellent principles, and is so full of beauty and simplicity, that it will delight not only children, but all readers of unsophisticated tastes. the author seems to teach the gentle creed which coleridge has imbodied in those familiar lines,-- "he prayeth well who loveth well both man, and bird, and beast." violet: a fairy story. chapter i. violet's home. once there was a gardener who lived in an old hut of a house, with one table inside, and some rough stools, and a large box that served for a bed, all of which he had made himself. there was one window; but when it stormed the rain beat in so that the old lady, his wife, had to pin her shawl against it, and then the whole house was dark as night. every body thought these people poor except themselves; but they had one treasure which seemed to them better than a whole mountain of gold and all the splendid houses and gay carriages in the world. this was their little daughter violet, whose presence in their home made it beautiful and stately, and whose absence, they thought, would have made a palace dull. violet was not as beautiful as some children. she was pale and slender, and her soft, light hair did not curl in ringlets, but floated over her shoulders like a golden veil. but o, she had such beautiful eyes! they were large, and so bright and clear, and such a deep, deep blue! sometimes they made you think of a brook in the shady wood when gleams of sunshine have found their way to it; sometimes they were like nothing so much as the violets that grew beside the doorway of her own father's hut. the old man had, besides his daughter, a garden, which was dear to him; and well it might be, for in summer it did one's eyes good to look at the blossoms all tangled together, and sprinkled over with great drops of pearly dew. roses there were, and lilies, and fox-gloves, and mignonette, and a great many other flowers that had long names, which violet could not remember. then there were long, neatly-kept beds of vegetables and sweet herbs, which reuben--for that was the gardener's name--carried to market. now, while reuben was digging his vegetables, his wife and violet would gather the prettiest flowers and buds, and tie them into bouquets with so much taste that soon the old gardener became famous for his flowers, and many rich people sought him out, promising to buy all he would bring to their houses. flowers only grow in summer time; and all the year round people must eat, and drink, and wear clothes; and then reuben had to pay rent for his garden; so, notwithstanding their industry, violet's friends were poor. but they were happier than a great many rich people, and certainly loved violet as well as though she had been a queen. they were so kind to her that sometimes the little girl thought, if there were such beings as fairies, they must look into her heart every day, find out her wishes, and tell them to her good parents. between you and me, there _were_ two fairies--one named love and the other contentment--that lived all the time in reuben's hut; and though violet had never seen their faces, and did not even know their names, they were always doing something for her. it was because these excellent friends had touched her coarse garments that they looked fine and soft as velvet to her eyes; it was because they never left the old black hut that it looked so clean and sunny--cheerful as a palace. you may wonder, if these fairies were so powerful, why they didn't have a palace of their own; but you must remember directly they enter a place it becomes a palace; and besides, violet possessed a charm so powerful that even the fairies could not fly away unless she gave them leave; and yet--wasn't it queer?--she did not know this herself. chapter ii. strange playfellows. violet's birthday was very near; but she had forgotten all about it, birthdays came so far apart in her happy life. from morning until evening seemed long enough for a year to her; she found so much work to do, and such beautiful walks to take, and had so many playfellows, to say nothing of the two good fairies that always watched over and followed her. perhaps you wonder how the little girl found friends, living as she did away out in a lonesome field among the mountains. she could have described her pets to you better than i can, because the fairy love dressed them up for her in jewels and rainbows, while to others they were only toads, and snakes, and flies, and trees, and brooks, and clouds. funny playfellows, you will think. there was one good thing about them--they never quarrelled or used bad words; and then it was sport for violet, after her work was finished, to scamper away with them. but if she ran ever so fast, the fairy love always kept up with her; and it is well she did; for if she had staid at home, or fallen into a pit on the way, all violet's dear playfellows would have changed in an instant--have grown ugly and coarse, and, what is worse, she would have trodden on them and crushed their wings--by mistake, i hope, for she never had been so wicked; and violet herself would have changed into a little peevish girl, with a sickly face and loose yellow hair, and wearing a dress so coarse and rough you would not give it to a beggar child. but violet kept the charm locked safe in her heart, and therefore, wander wherever she would, the fairies had to follow. they were up with her early in summer mornings, for she loved dearly to watch the sun rise. she would climb a hill, at the foot of which reuben's hut was built, and all alone up there, close, she thought, to the soft, rosy sky, would wait and watch, and at last clap her little hands for joy when the great golden sun came in sight above the woods. she would stand on tiptoe, and laugh aloud when she saw the shadows fly away, like frightened birds, before the sunshine, which flooded all the valley now, and which lay upon the beautiful wreaths of mist that went curling up to meet it from the ponds and brooks, brightening them to dazzling whiteness--so like the clouds in heaven that violet half believed the earth about her was beautiful as that far-off blue sky. so it would be if every little girl and boy kept two good fairies, like love and contentment, flying about with them. how the grass glittered with dew! how the slender wild flowers were bowed down with its weight!--pearl and diamond beads strung all along the stems, and edging every petal. children who keep in bed until eight o'clock know very little about the beauty of summer mornings. perhaps, even if they did arise in time, they would be afraid of wetting their shoes in the grass; but violet was very poor, you know, and never wore a shoe in her life, and lived out of doors so much that she was not in the least delicate. as soon as the sunshine had crept near their nests among the green boughs of the wood, all the wild birds began to flutter about and sing such loud, clear, sweet songs that violet could not help joining the chorus; and any one else would have known that fairies love and contentment were singing loudest of all. violet heard their music, but supposed it came from the birds. how she wanted to fly away with them, up among the beautiful rosy clouds! but love whispered in her ear,-- "won't your mother want you, little girl, at home? cannot you help her there?" and just then a bird fluttered away from a dew-wet bough, dashing a whole shower of drops in violet's face. instead of being angry, she laughed, and shouted,-- "do it again, bird. if i can't fly away with you, you may wash my face before you go. do it again." but the bird was soon out of sight among the clouds, and violet, with these pearly dewdrops clustering in her golden hair, went dancing down the hill. chapter iii. the mountain brook. close beside the pathway ran a little murmuring brook, foaming and sparkling over its rocky bed, gliding just as merrily through the dark shadows as when its course lay open to the sun. it seemed as if fairy contentment must have bathed in it, or planted some of the flowers along its brink; never was there a merrier little stream. "i know what you're singing about," said violet; "i know, mr. brook; you're trying to make me think you can run down the hill faster than any one else. let us see;" and away she flew, and away the brook went after her, and by her side flew the fairies, and over her head the birds--all singing, "success to violet!" while the leaves "clapped their little hands" in favor of their friend the brook, and the young birds looked over the edge of their nests to find out what in the world this stir could be about. nobody ever knew which won the race. up in the clouds the birds sang, "good, good, good; it was violet, violet!" while the leaves whispered, "no, no, no, no; it was the brook!" but violet and the brook were as good friends as were the birds and trees; so they all laughed together, instead of quarrelling. when violet reached home her breakfast was ready, and she sat down on the doorstep with her tin porringer of bread and milk. she was so hungry that it tasted better than a great many nicer breakfasts which have been eaten from silver cups; but, hungry as she was, she did not forget her kitten, who came, saying, plainly as she could purr, "leave a little for me." violet had found out that it makes one quite as happy to be generous as to eat a good breakfast, and kitty had her share. then she washed her porringer, hung it up in the sun to dry, and ran out in the garden, where her mother was picking flowers, whole baskets full of them, for the market, and told violet to look among the thickly-clustering leaves of her namesakes, and gather all the blossoms she could find. she found a whole apron full, white and blue violets, single and double ones; these she tied in bunches, with a few bright green leaves around each bouquet. the whole garden was scented with their fragrance, and violet thought them the prettiest flowers in the world, as well as the sweetest, and wished in her heart that she could, just once, have one of these whole bunches for her own. while she knelt on the ground admiring her lovely flowers, and wishing they need not all be sent away and sold, the fairy love flew to her mother's side, and whispered in her ear all that violet was thinking about. then her mother remembered that to-morrow would be violet's birthday, and on that occasion she never forgot to give her a present. but about this i must tell in another chapter. chapter iv. toady. violet passed such long, long, busy days, talking all the time to her mother, her kitten, her toads, or the birds that alighted now and then upon a bush, and sang to her while she worked; for violet's mother, though she gave her plenty of time to play, had taught her little girl to sew and read. she might have forgotten to do this amid all her own hard work; but fairy contentment whispered in her ear that, unless violet became useful and industrious, _she_ must fly away, never to return; and love, close by, sang, "see--i have brought her these books; and i'll make the learning easy." i told you that some of violet's playfellows were toads--the same ugly brown toads you have seen hopping about your own garden walks. you must not think they were ugly to her; for, soon as they came in sight, it always happened that the shadow of love's purple wings would fall upon them, and then their brown backs changed to crimson and violet, and the poisonous-looking spots became jewelled studs; and i will not say they were very graceful pets even then; but violet loved them, and they loved her. this is the way their acquaintance began: it was a hot day--blazing hot; so light too--not a shadow to be seen. violet had been in the garden at work, and, as she hastened homeward through the scorching sun, almost fell over a great toad, that had been crossing the path, but was so dusty she had mistaken him for a stone or a ball of earth. she stooped to see if she had injured him, and patting the toad's back, said,-- "you poor little dirty fellow, don't you know enough to keep out of the sun and dust?" toady looked up at her as if he would answer if he did but know how to talk; he only opened and shut, opened and shut, his great wide mouth; but violet understood very well what he meant by this; for the fairy love teaches a language that is not set down in books or studied in colleges. i have known of great scholars, who could talk in twenty or thirty different tongues, and who yet knew less about this language of love, which is the very best in the whole wide world, than our poor little barefooted violet. "you're thirsty, are you, toady?" said she; "stand still, and i'll give you a drink." the toad opened his mouth again, and violet poured over him a few drops she had left in her watering pot. she was half afraid he would not be very well pleased with such a showering; but there he stood, stock still, blinking his round red eyes, and opening his mouth at her as if he would say, "more--more!" "well, wait," she said, laughing; "i'll go to the brook and bring you more water in welcome, just for the sake of seeing your face clean once." away she ran, and toady not only waited for her, but, when she came back, there, one on each side of him, were two smaller toads--the three ranged in a row, looking so sober and funny that violet laughed louder than ever. she sprinkled the poor dusty toads all over with cool, bright water from the mountain brook; and when they had enough, they began to shake their heads and hop away, without even saying, "thank you," and hid themselves in the grass. chapter v. love's charm. but the next day, (and this is a true story,) when it had grown so warm that violet could not work any longer in the garden, and was going home with her hoe and watering pot, there stood the three toads again in the walk, just as they were the day before, with toady, as she called him, between the two smaller ones. all three gave a little hop when violet came in sight, and then stood still again. this was their way of saying, "good morning; we hope you haven't forgotten us." and long afterwards, whenever violet passed through the garden walk, especially if the day was warm, she was pretty sure of meeting her new acquaintances. they even grew so tame that they would follow her about the garden; and often she would walk up and down the same path for half an hour at a time, just for the sake of seeing how soberly her droll little pets would hop along after her, turning whenever she turned, and waiting for her whenever she stopped. violet thought them the wisest and most loving toads that ever hopped. she did not know that love, directly their mistress entered the garden, fastened them to her by a delicate silken cord, just the color of love's own purple wings, and they could not very well help following her; though, if violet had treated them unkindly, in an instant the purple cord would have lost all its strength, and grown slender as the slenderest thread in a spider web. now, my dear readers, though i hope with all my heart that you will try to be as good and loving as violet, i don't want you to _do_ every thing she did. all toads are not as fond of a sprinkling as toady and his young brothers were; so you mustn't drown the poor things in water every time you meet one. what you need is, to persuade the fairies love and contentment to live in your home, and trust to your keeping a charm like the one they had placed in violet's heart. then, every morning of your lives, they will tell something which you can do, and no one else can do as well, to make others happy--kind deeds that will lighten misfortune, and loving words that may enter like music, and dwell in some lonely, sorrowing heart. believe always this one thing--that every kind deed you do for others will make _you_ happier then and always, and every unkind deed will make you feel ashamed and sorry so long as you remember it. no matter to whom the kindness or unkindness may be done--a king or a butterfly, your own dear mother or a little toad in the garden walk. i have known children who could not bear to see even a lily broken down by rain, its beautiful white flowers all lying in the dirt. i have watched them prop it up with sticks, and gently wash the earth away from its delicate petals, and have said to myself, "ah, little one, the fairy love is nestling in your heart." and i have seen the fairy contentment start from her nest among the lilies, and follow the little one as she ran off to play. chapter vi. how fairies look. do you want to know how contentment looks? some people think she is the most beautiful among all the fairies; (and there are hosts of them, and some of the bad ones, even, have handsome faces.) her cheeks are not quite as rosy as love's, and her mild eyes do not sparkle and glitter as brilliantly; but she has a smile even brighter than love's own; this sheds a peaceful light about contentment wherever she goes; and wherever it falls, beautiful flowers will blossom, and the air grow clear and fragrant. she wears a wreath of starbeams, braided into a delicate but brilliant crown; and there is no place so dark but this will light a path through it. her pure white wings look like two lily petals, and though always clean and fresh themselves, i suppose they have dusted away more heaps of care, and though so delicate, have lifted people safely over wider seas of trouble, than all the strong arms in the world--all the railroads and steamships put together. she always carries in her hand an urn, from which a sweet and delicate odor arises like incense. perhaps you will be surprised when i tell where she found this urn. it was the largest and most perfect blossom on a branch of lilies of the valley. did you ever notice what lovely little vases they form when you turn them stem side down? i never saw one half as pretty made of parian; but, then, of course nothing _could_ be as beautiful as a flower; they are god's vases, and his work is always the most perfect. the lily never faded; nothing _can_ fade in the light of contentment's smile; and the modest little flower that might only have shed fragrance about its own green leaves, borne by the fairy, has sprinkled its incense odor through every land. love is more splendid than contentment, but not any more beautiful; _her_ wings are larger, richer, and more delicate. they are like petals of the fleur-de-lis, or iris, perhaps you call it--the splendid, feathery, purple flower, with leaves like long ribbon streamers. they are transparent too; and wherever love goes, the light, shining through these wings, casts a rich purple glow about her--dyed, as you may have seen the sunshine in falling through the great stained window of some church. love's crown is a broad band of golden sunshine, and she scatters roses and violets about every where. chapter vii. the birthday present. but i must tell you what happened to poor toady one day, and see if you wonder that violet felt badly. she was sitting on the doorstep sewing, with kitty in her lap, sound asleep, and the three toads watching her from the walk--as happy a little girl as ever breathed. it was her birthday; and when she awoke that morning, the first thing her eyes rested upon was the largest bunch of sweet violets she had ever seen in her life. they were set in a beautiful white cup, with violet printed in gold letters on the front. she hardly stopped to look twice at them, but, in her nightgown, ran to the door to find and thank her good, kind parents. they were not in the field or the garden; and then violet remembered that this was market day, and they must have gone to the town, and might not be home again until afternoon. it was an hour before violet could dress herself. she looked at and smelt of the flowers a hundred times--set them in every corner and on every ledge to see where they would look prettiest--talked to them, and danced around them, and even pinched her finger to see if she could be awake. all these beautiful, fragrant blossoms her own for a whole day--for a week--as long as they did not fade! then she went to the brook for water, and setting her basin on the bank, knelt down among the dewy flowers to wash her face and smooth her long, soft, golden hair, and as she went home, sang her morning hymn; for violet knew that every morning the birds poured forth their songs, and the flowers their odors, and the brook its vapor wreaths, in gratitude to heaven; and she had no idea of being the only ungrateful thing on earth. she met kitty, and taking her in her arms, hurried into the house, thinking how surprised and delighted puss would be with the violets. but kitty was thinking of something else; she only sneezed when violet put her nose among the wet flowers, and struggled to get away. "well, there--go," said violet, a little hurt. puss had no thought of going; she purred louder than ever, and rubbed her white face against violet's dress, and looked up at her wistfully. "o, you greedy kit!" said violet, at last; "you're thinking about breakfast, and not my flowers. i'll eat it right away, so as to leave you some." but, for joy, she could hardly eat a spoonful; and however kitty slighted what was in the gilded cup, it was plain enough that she enjoyed the contents of the old tin porringer. while puss was eating, violet brought her flowers to the door again, and began to look about for the toads. pretty soon out they hopped from the wet grass, half drowned themselves in dew, and hop, hop, hop they came towards violet. you may think she was very silly; but you must remember she was all alone out in the fields, and had no other playmates; so she made the most of these. the toads stood still when they came to the cup of violets, and looked up at her, winking their round, lazy eyes, until she felt sure they were trying to congratulate her and praise her flowers. then kitty came along, gaping, for she had eaten more breakfast than usual; and love reminded violet that she had work to do, although it was her birthday; so she took kitty in her lap, left the toads staring at her flowers, and seated herself on the doorstep to sew. chapter viii. violet's troubles. just then she heard a light, rolling sound, which came nearer and nearer, till at last she saw a carriage, drawn by two white horses. this entered the green field, and, to violet's surprise, stopped before old reuben's little hut. in the carriage were two children not much older than violet, and their father, a tall, stately gentleman; besides, there were two footmen and a driver. the carriage was painted in gay colors, and gilded so that it fairly glittered in the sun; and the little girl inside was so gayly dressed, in silks, and ribbons, and artificial flowers, that violet thought it must be one of the dolls she had seen in a milliner's window. but the doll, if it was one, spoke, tossing back her curls, and beckoning with her gloved hand to violet, while the gentleman, placing a purse in his daughter's outstretched hand, said,-- "buy as many flowers as you want, narcissa. meantime i will climb the hill yonder, which must overlook a fine prospect, it seems to me. what do _you_ say, alfred? will you accompany me?" now, when the carriage stopped, the boy, narcissa's brother, had taken a book from his pocket, and was reading it attentively; he appeared so unwilling to leave it, although he arose to follow his father, that the indulgent parent said,-- "well, never mind; you can read on." "little girl," exclaimed narcissa, "run quickly into the house and call your mother or father, or somebody; i want them." "we are the only bodies here," said violet, looking at her pets. "well, then, go and pick me all the violets in your garden; i shall pay for them." "they were sent to market this morning," said violet, stroking kitty's back, and not feeling very sorry at narcissa's disappointment, for the little girl in the carriage did not seem to her well bred. "but you must, you _shall_, find me some, girl," said narcissa, in a rage. "don't you know that i'm going to a fancy ball to-night, and my maid must have fifteen bunches of violets to dress me with, and we have only found twelve so far? i know you're not telling the truth, for there in the grass is a whole bunch of beautiful ones. bring them to me," turning to the footman, "and kill those dirty toads in the path; i hate the sight of them." violet rushed to the rescue of her pets. "o, no, no! they are mine--my own--my best friends--_my_ toads and violets!" she screamed. but in vain. the footman stepped on poor toady, kicked him across and across the path, till, all bruised and bleeding, he lay still, and, violet thought, dead, while narcissa clapped her hands and laughed at violet's sorrow. "_your_ toads and violets!" she said; "i should think you were crazy. but i don't want to hurt your feelings, girl. go and bring me two more large handfuls of violets, and i will forgive all your impudence and wrong stories. why don't you go? what are you staring at?" chapter ix. fairies again. it had just come into violet's head that this proud and imperious little mortal in the carriage must be a queen, such as her story books told about, and had a right to every body's service and every body's goods. what strengthened this belief was the fact that, fluttering about narcissa's head, she saw (and though her face was wet with tears, she stared at it) the queerest little fairy; now, too, she saw another fairy perched on alfred's arm as he read, and turning over the leaves of his book; while all about the carriage flew a third, the largest and most splendid of all; he trod upon the servant's heads, right over the crown of their hats; he would sit down to rest on the necks of the beautiful white horses, as they pawed the ground; he whirled round and round narcissa, even daring to pull her own fairy's hair, while he patted alfred's fairy on the back quite condescendingly. this little imp was named pride. he looked, as he flew, like a great scarlet cactus blossom, in his long rich cloak, with heavy tassels, that swept the ground, and left wherever they trailed a very fine dust of gold. in this dust the tassels were dipped continually--powdered over with it, finer than the yellow pollen you may have seen on the stamens of a lily. the flower pollen is good for something, but not so pride's gold dust. he only scatters it because it is so expensive, and common people cannot do the same. i have known persons who sold comfortable homes, cheerful hearts, and good consciences, all for a little gold, which they ground into this silly powder, and threw away. i think pride makes people a little insane; you must take care that none of his gold dust gets into _your_ eyes. the good thing about pride--and there is something good about every body--was his affection for alfred's fairy, ambition. i cannot describe this being, he is so dazzlingly bright. he is the best and the worst fairy i know, for he is at times like each one, and often like all together. it is ambition that makes men good as angels; and every one knows it is ambition that makes satan so bad. this fairy is useful; but he cannot be trusted for a moment; he may serve you faithfully through a long life, and at the end plunge you into some pitfall, just for mischief. he will whisper sweet words in your ear, and build you a glittering boat, and promise to row you down the pleasantest river to paradise itself. perhaps he will do all he promises; perhaps he will only land you in a madhouse or a jail. ambition had taken a fancy to alfred, and never left his side. he would urge him away from his companions and sports, to work over books,--always to work and study,--and promised to make him a great and useful man. there is one strange thing about these fairy people; beautiful and rich as they are, and free and powerful, they will follow and make their home with the poorest little child, and shelter him with their splendid wings, and light up his pathway with their gleaming crowns; but only on one condition--that the child follow wherever they lead, and is true to the fairies as they are true to him; which is but fair, you know. who wants to give advice that is not followed? we all, though at the time we do not know it, choose our own fairies, and, once chosen, they love us and make us love them so well that it is no easy matter to escape from them, or to avoid obeying their advice. so, when you see any one--and grown-up men and women have fairies as well as children--who is led about by a wicked fairy, you must pity instead of blaming the sufferer; and if he offend you, you must take care that _his_ fairy doesn't fly into your heart and frighten away your own, or make you forget, and give unkind answers back. be very sure no one _wants_ to be bad; only if a spiteful little spirit perched on your shoulder, and whispered evil thoughts and angry words into _your_ ear, don't you suppose that sometimes you would obey him and believe what he said? whenever you feel these wicked spirits near, call loud for violet's fairy, love. she will be sure to come; and they know very well they cannot live in her presence; for the light of her starry crown puts out their eyes, and the incense from contentment's urn will take away their breath. if love come, content will be sure to follow; so only keep these fairies near, and you are safe. chapter x. the strangers. but we were talking about violet and poor toady, who lay on the ground all bruised and bleeding, one of his legs so broken that it dragged along after him when he tried to hop, and one of his eyes torn out and hanging by the skin; while the poor thing quivered all over with pain, and looked up at violet with his one eye, as if he would say, "_do_ help me, violet. why didn't you keep them away?" she lifted him into the grass, smoothing it first into something like a nest; then she poured some water from her violet cup to wash away the dust and blood, and stroked his back gently, while toady looked up at her, and shut and opened his one eye, and tried to hop, which was his way of thanking her, you know. when she found how stiff and sore he was, violet burst into tears again, and wondered if the little queen in the carriage was any happier for doing all this mischief. let us see. having taken care of her pet, the little girl looked to see if the carriage had gone; and though she was almost as blind as toady, her eyes were so full of tears, she knew plainly enough by the sound that it was waiting still; for alfred had thrown his book aside, and he and narcissa were talking angrily. "you're an ugly, envious thing," said alfred. "that poor little girl had nothing on earth but those few flowers and a miserable toad; and you, who have every thing you want, could not rest till you had stolen these. if i were king, i'd send you to state's prison." "and if you were a queen, what would _you_ do to the girl in the carriage?" asked narcissa's father of violet; for the gentleman had returned from his walk, and coming quietly behind, had been watching her as she wept and watched over toady, who seemed to be fast asleep. "o, i would send her away to the end of the world, so i might never see her again. _do_ take her away," she pleaded. "but she _has_ done wrong; she had no more right to hurt your toad than you have to hurt my horses in the carriage there. shall i not punish her?" "it wouldn't do me any good," said violet, mournfully. "tell her she may have the flowers in welcome _now_. i don't care about them or any thing else if toady must die." "and why do you care about toady?" "about _him_?" asked violet, shaking away the golden hair as she looked up wonderingly with her beautiful blue eyes,--"care about _him_? why, did you ever see such a handsome toad? and then i have known him so long, and he hops about after me and lets me feed him; and now, now, when i come here in the morning, how lonesome i shall be, for he can't come hopping out from the grass any more, all wet with dew, and winking his round eyes, as if he'd say, 'good morning.'" the gentleman laughed, and then looked very sober, as he said,-- "i can't see much beauty in your pet; but i like you, little girl, for loving him so well; and here is money to pay for the harm my daughter has done." "why," said violet, who had never seen any coin before, "i thought money was made to buy flour and meal with." "so it is," replied the gentleman, "and to buy cake, and fine clothes, and artificial flowers like those in narcissa's bonnet." "i shouldn't want to look like _her_. i am not a queen," said violet, "and i can find a great deal prettier flowers on the mountain than she wears, and prettier-looking stones than these;" and she looked at the silver carelessly; then, brightening up all at once, she asked,-- "will they cure toady's leg? o, if they will, i'll give you my flowers and the new cup both for them." the gentleman shook his head. "then take them away. i don't want any thing." chapter xi. the doctor doctored. if narcissa's father had looked then, he would have seen the fairy love bending over violet till the sunny crown she wore brightened up her face, and made it look beautiful as an angel's, and contentment, too, pouring perfume out of her lily urn. but the gentleman had a great deal of pride's gold dust in his eyes, and therefore he could not see very clearly. he _did_ see the beautiful love violet had for her ugly little pet, and felt how much better it was to be contented, like violet, with so little, than to have almost every thing, like narcissa, and be always wishing for more. and what do you think the fairies did? they looked out of violet's eyes, right through them, into his; and whenever she spoke they flew into his heart with the words, till the proud man, who had not wept since narcissa's mother died, long and long ago, felt great tears gathering in his eyes; and as these fell into the grass, contentment took care to wash away all the pride dust with her own white wings. "the money will not cure your toad," said he; "but _i_ can mend his leg, for i am a physician, and know all about broken bones." so he made the servant bring a case from the carriage, and taking a sharp little knife from it, he cut away the eye, which was too much crushed to be of any use, and then bound up the leg. but toady kicked, and struggled, and made such a time about it, and seemed in such pain, that violet begged him to unfasten the bandage. "well, you are right," he said; "the limb cannot be cured, and if i cut it off it will be out of his way, at least." he had no sooner done _this_ than toady hopped right out of his grassy nest, and looking at violet, winked so drolly with his one eye that she laughed and cried at once, and thanked the doctor over and over again. "you needn't thank _me_," he said; "for it seems you knew better what would suit him than i did, little girl. i wonder who taught you." then love and contentment looked at each other and smiled; _they_ knew very well who had taught violet, and they knew besides that violet was teaching the proud, rich, learned man a lesson better than he could find in all his books or buy with all his money; for the sweet smile of contentment and the beautiful words of love, which had come to him through the lips of the little berry girl, violet, would be remembered for long years, and prompt him to perform kind deeds, and thus to forget his pride and his cares, and be sometimes light-hearted as a little child. chapter xii. who are happiest. do you know, dear children, that as soon as people have grown up they begin to wish they were young again, and had not troublesome servants to manage, and great houses to take care of, and purses full of money to spend or to save, and, worst of all, whole troops of wicked fairies? _they_ call them habits; but fairies they are, for all that. these spirits lead into so much mischief that there are very few men and women who don't sometimes fold their hands and say, "o, dear! if i could go back and be a little child once more!" ask your mother if she wouldn't give all her jewels away in exchange for as pure a heart as children have. ask your father whether he wouldn't give all his bonds and railroad stocks if that would make him as merry and free from care as you are when you climb upon his knee to ask the question. and if they say "no," ask them which fairy they would rather _you_ took for a friend--pride or truth. now, here you are, children still; and if i were you, i'd enjoy being young while it lasts. i'd make friends with as many good fairies, and scare away as many bad ones, as i could find. scare them away! i wouldn't wait to look at them or hear them talk; for some have pretty faces and sweet words, but they are dreadful cheats. i would find out ever so many things,--and there's no end to the number there _are_,--ever so many things which are right, and good, and beautiful. i wouldn't look for any thing else, but would be so happy among these that other people would notice it, and look after them too; and then i would give them as many as they wanted of my treasures, and teach them where to find more; for fairy love takes care that the more we give the more we shall have; and even if we didn't, who wants to be a miser? think how much god has given us!--this whole great world, all the sky over your head, and the air, and sunshine, and woods, and gardens full of flowers, and fathers and mothers to love and take care of us, and a million other things. and what do we give god? every thing that we give away at all we give to him just as much as if we laid it in his hand. don't you know that christ called the poor and ignorant god's little children, and declared he loved them all _better_ than your mother and father love you? and not only this, god cares when even a bird falls to the ground with his wing broken, and is watching to see how much you are willing to do for his creature. chapter xiii. violet berrying. i called violet a little berry girl, and i'll tell you why. on the great hill above their hut, all over one side of it, were blackberry vines; and in autumn, when the berries were ripe, violet and her mother would spend hours and hours picking them. the sun would be scorching hot sometimes, and the thorny vines would tangle into violet's dress and tear her arms, and mosquitos would buzz around her, until she was ready to cry or to declare she _could_ not pick any more. poor violet! _you_ think, perhaps, that it is hard to walk to school under your parasol these sunny days; and she had, day after day, to stand out there among the vines, picking, and picking, and picking, till the two great water pails were full of berries. but when she grew tired, love would point to her poor old mother working so patiently, and looking so tired and warm; and when the fairy whispered, "will you leave her here to finish the work _alone_?" violet would forget in a minute her own weariness, and sing and laugh so merrily, and tell so often how fast her pail was filling up, that the mother would forget _her_ weariness too, and only think how fortunate and how rich she was to have such a good, bright child. when she found a place where the berries grew thick and large, violet would call her mother to pick there; and old mary, reuben's wife, said that "somehow she never could find such splendid places as violet did." so, leaving her there, the little girl would move on; and no matter how low she found the bushes, or how thinly covered with fruit, fairy contentment, hovering over her head, would sing, "who cares? the fewer, the sweeter." what with contentment's singing, and that of violet, and the crickets and locusts, and the bees and bobolinks, there was music enough in the blackberry pasture; and it all chimed together just like the instruments in an orchestra. chapter xiv. the birds' harvest time. but i was telling you about violet's birthday; so let us go back to the doorstep of her father's little hut. narcissa called impatiently that she was tired of waiting; so her father, bidding good by to his new acquaintance, sprang into the carriage, and it rolled lightly through the green field once more. violet sat watching until it was out of sight, and she could no longer see narcissa's feathers and flowers fluttering in the wind. some how she never thought of her afterwards, except as a whole bunch of lace and finery, with a little girl inside of it. then she looked around for her violets; they were gone, and in their place lay the stranger's money. but toady hopped in sight just then, looking so brisk, and getting about so well on his three legs, she thought her flowers were little enough to pay for so much good as he had received. so, happy as ever, violet took her pail and went towards the blackberry hill. it seemed to her the berries were never so thick and large; she soon had enough, and setting them in a shady place, she went to the brook to wash her hands. there were long, deep scratches on her arms. how they smarted when the water touched them! but violet only thought how much worse toady's scratches and bruises were; and then she loved to be clean, for she had watched how the birds wash in the brook a dozen times a day, and how smooth the squirrels keep their fur, and how the flowers and leaves bathe their faces every morning in dew. she didn't want the leaves and birds to be ashamed of her. the little girl strolled on towards the wood, singing and laughing, and talking to every thing she met, but most of all to kitty, who followed after her; while whole troops of grasshoppers and little yellow butterflies flew before, and settled in advance of violet, and when she came up, flew a little farther, as if they wanted to lead her on. then there were flocks and flocks of birds; the ground seemed alive with them, for it was harvest time, and they came for the ripe grain which had fallen when the farmers cut their crops, and was scattered all over the fields. the thistle seeds were ripe too; and the birds, and butterflies, and bees seemed to love this best of all. violet stood watching them eat, and laughed as she told puss that must be where she learned to be so greedy. the bees went buzzing down into the very heart of the purple flowers, and took such long, deep honey draughts, and went back again and again, as if they could never have enough, and hurried away to their hives, for the sake of hurrying back for more. the birds were not much better. they would hover an instant over the whole thistle bed, and then, selecting a good large flower, they would fly at it, fanning away with their fluttering wings till they were lost in a cloud of down, and tear out the rich, ripe seeds, swallowing them so fast it seemed as if they were eating for all winter. violet was never tired of watching, for she loved to see every creature happy, and knew, besides, that the birds and bees only have so good a chance to eat once in the year; and therefore, though she laughed at it, she couldn't blame them for their greediness. there were such handsome yellow birds, with black spots and stripes over their bright breasts and wings. they buried their black and golden heads away in among the thistle down, while they clung to the stem with claws and wings, and were so busy eating that they did not see how near violet crept to them. then a beautiful great butterfly, its rich brown wings spotted with blue and orange, settled upon a flower, and sipped daintily, and fluttered away again to take another sip somewhere else, and then went sailing off into the sunshine. so she skipped along after it, kitty running close behind her, until they came to a bank covered with white everlasting flowers--so many it looked a little way off like snow; and violet, whose mother had told her that in heaven flowers did not fade, but were _all_ everlasting, wondered if the door of heaven had not been left ajar, some day, long enough for a whole shower of seed to blow down towards this hill, and planting itself, come up in these pearl-white flowers. ah, violet! the commonest seeds sprang up into heavenly flowers if they fell in _your_ pathway. chapter xv. where the squirrel led violet. while violet stood wondering thus, she saw a squirrel on the fence, nibbling upon a nut. as soon as she stirred, he darted along a rail or two, and then, waiting till she came up with him, went nibbling again. "you needn't feel so grand with your spry legs. i guess i can run as well as you," said violet. the squirrel tucked the nut under one arm, and with a whisk of his bushy tail, darted like lightning along the rails, leaving violet so far behind she thought he had gone into the wood; but when she had reached far enough herself, there he sat, quietly nibbling at his nut again, and soon as he saw her, whisked up into a tree, and from among the high boughs called, "cheep, cheep, chip! which beat, little girl?" violet could not see him, he went so fast and far; and as she looked up among the leafy boughs, he dropped the nut right into her face, and ran round and round the limb, and called "cheep, cheep, chip!" again, as if he were laughing at her. violet laughed too, and threw the nut back at him, looking first to see how clean he had eaten out the meat. away darted squirrel, without waiting to chip this time, and violet called, as he ran,-- "it's all very fine to whisk along so fast, mister; but i should like to know how much good your travelling does. i know you can't _see_ a thing, any more than they can in the rail cars i've heard about. you're welcome to your legs so long as you leave the brook, and the flowers, and birds for puss and me." but he only answered by dropping another nut from directly over her head, and she followed him into the wood--the beautiful, cool, still wood. violet left off singing as she entered it; for she loved to hear the rustle of the ripe leaves, and to watch the tiny fibres falling lightly from the pines, and hear the nuts and acorns rattle down, and to see the spider webs and insects glitter wherever a gleam of sunshine had stolen through the boughs. her hands were full of flowers, which she had gathered on the way; for she did not mean her new cup should be empty when the good parents came home. so she had picked such a splendid bunch!--bright red cardinal flowers from the swamp; and along by the brook side, where it was sunniest, she found beautiful blue fringed gentians; and farther on branches of golden rod, that looked like little elm trees changed to gold; and on farther still, by the edge of the wood, where, as they waved, they seemed beckoning her, she found plenty of asters, white as snow, with little yellow eyes twinkling out among the petals, or else rich purple with deep gold inside; and she had some of the everlasting flowers too, like bunches of pure pearls. violet crept under the deep shade of the boughs, where the brook was gurgling over its mossy stones, and laid the stems of her flowers there to keep them fresh, making a wall of pebbles around them, so that the water, which tripped along so fast, should not carry them away. for once, when she forgot to do this, she had no sooner placed her flowers in the brook than off they sailed down stream, and scattered so fast and far she couldn't think of finding them all again. violet laughed when she remembered that day, and how the brook, full of its mischief, had run away with her treasures, and scattered them any and every where along its banks, setting some upright, as if they were growing again, and wedging some under the stones, and tangling some under the fence, and floating some down the hill and through the sunny field, so fast they seemed chasing the little fish that made their home in the brook. even away down by reuben's house a few had strayed, and reached home so much before violet that she began to think the waves had, after all, as spry feet as her own. chapter xvi. alone in the wood. her flowers safe in the water, the little girl seated herself on a stone that seemed made purposely for her, it was cushioned so softly with moss; and overhead the boughs of the great trees bent towards her, and rustled and waved like so many fans, and shut her in so closely from the rest of the wood that you might have passed close by, and never guessed she was there. the kitten went fast asleep in her lap, and violet, folding her hands, looked up among the leaves, and across where the boughs parted a little into the wood, and down at her feet, where the grass grew so long and fine, and was sprinkled over with such pretty little leaves--as tiny, some of them, as violet's finger nails, and yet as beautifully scolloped or pointed, and as perfectly finished, as the stoutest laurel or broadest oak leaf in the wood; and, noticing this, violet wondered if god, who had taken as much pains in making little leaves as big ones, had not taken as much pains with, and didn't care as much for, little _people_ as big ones. who knew but he loved her, in her ragged dress, just as well as narcissa in all her finery, or even the tall, rich doctor, who tried to mend toady's leg? then she listened, and felt how still it was there alone with the trees; and the sweet, low sounds that came through this stillness were beautiful as music. far off she could hear the cool, sparkling brook foaming and hurrying over its stony bed; and then the air came breathing through the trees, as if they sighed for joy; and each leaf trembled, and seemed rising to meet the air and fly away with it, and then, falling back again, nestled closer to its neighbor leaves, and whispered softly, as if it were making love to them. but there came a louder rustling among the boughs, and a flutter of wings, and then burst forth a clear, wild song, so near that violet held her breath; for a golden oriole had alighted close beside her, and chirped, and twittered, and trilled, as if he meant to say aloud what the leaves and the brook had been whispering. when he paused, the leaves all clapped their hands for more; and oriole understood them, for he gave another and another song, waiting between each to wet his bill in some bunch of bright, juicy berries. violet did not suspect that the reason the sunshine looked so bright, and the shadows so cool and refreshing, and the leaves and brook so wide awake and so musical, was because the good fairies love and contentment were watching over her; and the beautiful purple light from love's wings, and from contentment's starry crown, and the fragrance from her lily urn, would make any, the dullest place, bright. but as the bird flew away, fairy love whispered inside of violet's heart, "the bird has gone to her nest. isn't it time for violet to be thinking about _her_ nest, and the good mother, who will be there first if she does not make haste and run home?" love's voice was lower than the whisper of the leaves or the far-off murmur of the brook; but the little girl heard and obeyed it for all that. chapter xvii. the kitten's bath. violet had picked a whole apron full of leaves, reaching up in the trees for the largest and handsomest, and then, kneeling where they grew close to the ground, had collected the lovely, delicate ones that were so small you would not notice unless you were looking for them--broad, shining oak leaves, long, graceful chestnut leaves, and some from the fluttering poplar, and some from the hemlocks and pines, tall ferns, and maiden's-hair, and grass, clover, sorrel, ground pine, and hundreds more. violet had been counting how many kinds there were; and as i have forgotten, the first time you go into the woods you must try yourself, and lay them side by side, as she did, to see which is prettiest. but away flew all the leaves, as, directly she heard love's voice, the little girl sprang to her feet, waking puss out of her nap so suddenly that she spit, and put up her back, and her hair stood all on end with fright. then you might have heard violet's laughter ringing merrily enough through the silent wood. such an unusual noise startled a whole flock of crows, where, hid in a tall pine tree, they had, like pussy, been taking a nap, and scolded well because they were awakened. violet wondered if it would help the matter to make such a noise about it with their hoarse voices, which sounded as if they were made on purpose to scold--so grating and shrill. she went to the brook for her flowers, while the kitten followed, gaping such great gapes that violet told her she'd better take care, or she wouldn't be able to close her mouth again. and looking back among the trees, as she climbed the stone wall and was going out into the sunshine again, violet wondered if god _could_ have made that beautiful place for no one but her; no one else entered it, she knew. "i guess god thinks it's no matter how small i am, so long as i'm large enough to love it all," she thought; and i don't believe violet was wrong. as they went home, a great cricket flew from under the kitten's feet and frightened her again, for she was hardly awake. away she sprang to catch it, and away sprang the cricket, while violet had to run fast to keep up with them, laughing to see how puzzled puss would be when the cricket hid under the long grass; and while she was pawing, and purring, and looking up to violet as if she'd ask, "where is he?" out he'd spring again, directly past her nose, and in among the grass would hide, and peep at her, while she looked every where but in the right place. at last, in her eagerness, the kitten jumped rather too far, and went into the brook; and in her fright i don't know what would have happened next if violet had not seized her just as, mewing and trembling, the water was washing her down stream. she lapped violet's face and purred as the little girl tried to dry her fur and warm her again in her bosom; but she was a wilful puss, and preferred creeping along in the sunshine, shaking each of her four paws at every step in the drollest fashion. but she didn't chase any more crickets _that_ day. this affair of the kitten's, and waiting to look for her berries, which violet had hid among the bushes so safely she could not find them herself at first, delayed her so long that she almost flew the rest of the way; for when the old people went to market with their goods, they always came home tired and hungry, and were very glad of a cup of warm tea. so she did not stop flying until a fire was made and the table set; and just then she heard voices at the door. chapter xviii. the price of toady's leg. reuben and mary had come; and glad enough violet was to see them; but this, like all her days, had been so long that she forgot to say a word about her flowers and the gilded cup; she could not remember back to the morning, until her mother asked if she knew whose birthday this was; and then it all came back, and she gave more thanks and kisses than there had been flowers in the cup. "but why is it empty?" asked reuben. and violet told about the carriage, and narcissa, and toady's misfortune, and the kind doctor, who had waited to mend the mischief his daughter had done, and how he took her violets, leaving money in their stead. you should have seen the old people hold up their hands when violet showed them the coin she had only looked upon as so many bright stones. their marketing had not sold as well as usual, and the winter was to be a hard one for poor people, every one said; and they had been telling each other, as they came home, that if providence had not taken care of them so well thus far, they should certainly expect to starve now. and here stood violet with six silver dollars! they could hardly believe their eyes. some fairy must have given it to the child. true enough, old reuben--the fairy love! the rich doctor might have given six times as much, and never have felt the loss enough to remember it. but i cannot tell you how many comforts his money procured for the poor old people. mary had a new warm gown, and reuben a pair of rubbers and some flannel, and violet a blanket shawl, and what was left they spent in tea, rice, flour, and molasses. every afternoon, when the old lady sat down to sew that winter, feeling warmer than she had for many a cold month, and seeing so beautifully, too, from the light that came in at a new window they had bought for the hut where they lived, mary would bless the rich man, and the good child god had given her. and every time reuben waded through the snow towards town, and did not wet his feet, nor come home with rheumatism, as he used to the winter before, he, too, would think of the rich man, and thank god for his little daughter, and wonder if ever _any_ one had so many blessings as he. violet too, with her thick, warm shawl, could go to the district school; and very soon she learned more out of books than reuben and mary had known in all their lives. chapter xix. going to school. violet's years were like her days--busy and joyous; for they were spent in making all about her happy, and in finding new wonder and beauty in the world. winter evenings she would sit on her cricket at the old people's feet, and amuse them by telling her adventures on the way to and from school, or the wonderful things she had learned there. perhaps it had stormed, and she would describe how beautiful it was to see every thing folded in a mantle of white snow, and to run through the pearly dust, and scatter it far and wide, and to see it gathering like a world of blossoms in the branches of the dark pine trees. then she would tell how, when it cleared away, every thing shone, and glittered, and stood so still in the cold, blue air, and she could not hear her own footsteps any more than those of the squirrels that darted along the stone wall, and how she had sung, and shouted, and clapped her hands for company. or she had found a half-frozen bird, and, picking it up with her own half-frozen hands, had warmed it to life, while she felt its little frightened heart beating beneath her shawl--that heart and her own the only moving things in the wide, white silence. and then how glad it made her feel when her bird sprang forth into the sky again, and she watched his shadow circling round and round her, until he alighted in a tree just as she passed underneath, and, with his fluttering wings sent down a shower of snow flakes all over her. this, she supposed, was the only way he had of telling how well and strong he felt, and how he loved her for what she had done to him. but violet could hardly make the old folks believe what she heard at school about far-off countries and strange animals--snakes large enough to crush a horse and rider in their folds, and fishes so huge that half a dozen people could sit inside of them. every child knows these things now, and has pictures of them in his books; but when reuben and mary were young there were few schools; and they, poor people, had to work instead of study. on summer mornings, after her work was done, violet would bring home roots from her favorite wood, and plant them about the house, until you would hardly know it, it was so buried in beautiful green vines. you could not have made violet think there was a pleasanter home on earth than hers, when the clematis was starred all over with white blossoms, and the honeysuckle she had trained over the door was full of bright yellow flowers, and the hop vine hung full of its beautiful cones, and among all shone the bright pink wild roses, and the whole air was sweet with her own favorite violets. birds built nests within the vine, and hatched their young, and sang loudly and sweetly to their friends in the hut as often as they cared to hear. chapter xx. old reuben dead. nothing pleased reuben half as much as to sit in the shadow of the vines, watch the flowers grow, and feel that all this beauty was violet's work; for the old gardener loved flowers dearly; and when he had grown too old to work himself, he was so glad to feel that his garden pets need not be smothered up in weeds, and die. so there he sat in the sun day after day, while he grew thinner and more feeble; and one pleasant afternoon, when violet thought he had taken too long a nap, she went to waken him for fear he might take cold. but she paused to look at the good old man as he sat there with his hands folded on his bosom, and such a beautiful smile on the wrinkled face, and the wind stirring the gray locks, while his head rested among the fresh summer leaves. reuben never awoke; he was dead. violet burst into tears, and wished for a moment that she could die herself; but she thought of the mother who was too infirm to take care of herself, and who had lived with reuben longer and would feel his loss more than she. just then a bird flew from his nest in the vine, and soaring slowly, sang low at first, and sweetly, and then louder and louder, till he was lost among the clouds. and violet remembered what her father had said so often, that one of these days he should shake off the old aching body, and soar as lightly as any bird, and live as happily, up in that calm heaven. they buried reuben under a great elm tree in sight of his own garden, and where he had often rested after his work, and watched the orioles building their nests or teaching their young to sing. lonely and sad enough it was in the hut when violet and her mother went home and saw the old man's empty chair, and his garden tools hanging on the wall. "it won't be long before i shall follow him," said old mary, "and then god will take care of our child." "but i will take care of my mother first, for a great many years," said violet, drawing closer, and putting her arms around mary protectingly; for violet, though still young, was no longer a little child, as when we knew her first. the blue eyes, though, were just as bright and as full of love and tenderness; and the light hair, which was folded now in wavy bands over a calm white forehead, when the light touched it, had the same golden look as of old. she had grown tall too, and healthy, and was graceful as a bird, and had a low, musical voice like the brook, and a smile like sunshine, and, in short, was beautiful as a fairy herself. while she sat there, with her low, sweet voice, trying to console her mother, and now and then her own sunny smile breaking through even her tears, the door opened, and their landlord entered. he had sold the pasture and the whole blackberry hill to a rich man who would build there immediately; and they must move this very night, for the hut stood in his way. chapter xxi. a new home and old friends. trouble seemed to come all at once; they had no money and no place to store their humble furniture; but violet always hoped for the best, and only smiled when they began to move the rough chairs and table her father had nailed together. "there's one comfort," she said; "our things are not so fine that a little dew will hurt them. we may leave them here till we find a better place." but it did make her heart ache to see the men tear away her vines, even from above old reuben's seat, and then, with a few axe strokes, batter down the wall, till nothing was left of the dear old home but a little pile of boards. "we had better go to this rich man and tell our story," said her mother, as they walked sadly out of the pasture for, as they thought, the last time. "he was boarding," the landlord said, "at a hotel in the village where reuben had carried his marketing, only three or four miles thence." so, leaning on violet's arm, old mary crept along the dusty road, farther than she had walked for many a day, and was tired enough when they reached the hotel door. not so violet, who was full of hope, and had in her head more plans than one for finding a new home. they asked for the stranger, dr. story, were led to his parlor, and told their simple tale. he was interested at once, and very angry that they had been treated so badly on his account, and offered to give them money, while he hardly took his eyes from violet's face. "no," she said, smiling; "we did not come to beg, but thought, as we had lost our home through you, you might be willing to help us find another." "and how shall i do that?" asked the doctor. then violet told him that she had studied evenings so long it seemed to her she could teach in the village school; but she was poor, and had no friends to speak a good word for her with the committee. "what is your name?" asked the gentleman, suddenly. "violet." "i thought so; and what has become of toady?" it was the doctor who had mended toady's leg so many years ago, and the young man who sat reading on the sofa was no other than alfred, his son, with the fairy ambition still keeping him hard at work, and making him care for little else but books. he looked up though, and listened to violet's story, and, as he watched her, actually closed his book, and always afterwards closed it if she entered the room; for fairy love was stronger than ambition, and he could no more see in the purple light which fell from her wings than an owl could in broad noonday. "but where is narcissa?" asked violet. the father's face grew sad as he told how, the very day they were at the hut, in riding home the carriage was overturned, and narcissa not only lamed for life, but thrown against a tree, one of whose branches entered her eye and put it out. when violet heard of this her eyes filled with tears, and forgetting all the unkindness she had received from this girl, she only remembered how handsome narcissa was, and how happy she seemed as they drove away. and the fairy love shed such a beautiful light around the poor berry girl, that ambition hid in a corner, and alfred didn't think of his books again that day. chapter xxii. the new old home. the doctor lent them money enough to hire a pleasant, sunny room in the village street, where her mother could sit and watch the passers by when she was tired of knitting and reading, for she was alone now almost all the day, and violet was mistress of the village school. one morning, as mary sat in her comfortable chair, and was wishing old reuben could see what a beautiful home she had, a carriage drove to the door below, and then came a knock at her own door, and dr. story entered. "i have come to give you a ride this pleasant day," he said. "we will call for violet. wouldn't you like to see how i have improved the old blackberry field?" mary was delighted. she had never ridden in a carriage in her life; and to go in that splendid one of the doctor's, with velvet cushions, and footmen behind! she sat very straight, you may be sure, and kept tucking in her gown; for though it was new, she was afraid it might harm the seats, and her wrinkled face was shining all over with smiles. they met violet on her way home from school, and she was almost as much pleased as the old lady with her ride. but what was their surprise to find, instead of the little footpath, a broad avenue through the pasture, with young trees on each side, and the hill where the blackberry vines had been, covered with waving oats, and in front of violet's own beloved wood a beautiful great house large as a palace! "but now look on the other side," said dr. story. where the old hut had stood was the prettiest little cottage you ever saw, with the very clematis, and honeysuckle, and wild roses violet had planted trained over it; and there was reuben's garden all in order, just as they had left it; and under the great elm tree there was his grave, with a new white stone at the head, and the old man's name and age cut in it. they alighted at the cottage door, and violet noticed how the air was perfumed with her own favorite flowers. while alfred stooped to gather some of these for violet, his father said,-- "do you remember, mary, whose birthday this is?" "sure enough, it's violet's!" exclaimed the old woman. "and this," said the doctor, "is violet's birthday present--this house and garden, and these beds of flowers." but before they could thank him, he added,-- "in return, you are to give up your school, and teach my own children. will you do it, violet? they are so young it will be easy at first, and meantime you shall have teachers yourself." pleased as violet and mary were, i don't think they were half as glad as alfred, who threw his book down into the grass so suddenly at his father's speech, i should not be surprised if it broke fairy ambition's head. chapter xxiii. alfred. the cottage was all furnished, and had even a foot stove for the old lady, and a soft, stuffed easy chair in the parlor, while on the woodshed wall hung reuben's tools; and what do you think hopped up from under a board as violet stood looking at these? toady, on his three legs, who winked his one round eye at her, as if he would say, "isn't all this fine?" then there was a school room, where violet's pupils came every morning, and learned to love her as if she were their own sister. after school she would tell them stories about the birds, and squirrels, and flowers, among which she had lived so long, or take them to walk in the old pleasant places. they told their sister narcissa, who, like violet, was grown to a young lady now, so much about the new teacher, that one pleasant day she went to the cottage with them. violet was grieved to see how the handsome face was scarred and spoiled; but narcissa said,-- "it was the best thing that ever happened to me, violet--that accident; it cured me of pride and selfishness." and it had, truly. narcissa was so gentle and patient, you would not have known her for the same person. she grew as fond of violet as the children were; and when they were busy in the school room, studying, she would often sit and read to the old lady in the sunny little room where she slept and spent almost all her time. this room looked out towards the violet beds, and over it the vines grew most luxuriantly; their blossoms looked in at her window, and their shadows flickered over the bright-red carpet; while old mary sat in her easy chair thinking of reuben, who was dead and gone, and rejoicing that she could live and die where every thing reminded her of him, and be buried by his side. by his side she _was_ buried, under the great elm tree, but not until she had lived many years in the cottage with violet--the happiest years of her life. then violet's friends at the great house said she had better go and live with them, it was so lonely in the old place now; and about this time alfred came home from india, where he had lived long enough to grow very sickly and very rich. he told violet that he had been earning money to take care of her, and now, if she would be his wife, they might still live in the cottage and be happy all their days. but alfred's father was proud and ambitious, and would not be satisfied to have his son marry a poor berry girl. this violet knew well enough; so she never told alfred that she loved him, but only said "no" to his offers, at which he felt so badly he threatened to shoot himself. but instead of this, he concluded afterwards to marry some one else--a lady, rich, and accomplished, and gay, who made the great house merrier than it had ever been before she went to it. there were balls, and parties, and concerts, strangers coming and going constantly; there was no such thing as quiet. violet was unwilling to exchange for this her pleasant, sunny little cottage; the vines and the elm tree and crowded garden beds had grown so dear to her, and the very birds and squirrels seemed to know and love violet, and sing and chip to her, "_do_ stay." how could she refuse? who would take care of poor toady if she went? and who would feed the old faded cat lying now on the doorstep half asleep, opening half an eye sometimes to watch her kittens play, and then going off into a doze again like a worn-out grandmother, as she had become. who will believe it?--she was the same kitten that followed violet into the wood about the time our story began, and wasn't old enough then to catch a cricket or keep from drowning in the brook. chapter xxiv. narcissa. while violet sat on the doorstep wondering whether to please alfred and his father by going to live with them or to stay with her favorites in the cottage, narcissa came in sight. she was limping along with her crutches through the grass, and looked very pale and tired; for the walk from the wood to the cottage, which was nothing to violet, was a great undertaking to the lame girl. she never walked as far in any other direction; but some how the path to violet's seemed the smoothest and easiest. shall i tell you why? because the fairy love went before her, picking up every rough stone and bur or brier, and when the sun was hottest, shaded the invalid with her delicate purple wings. violet, too, had taught narcissa how many pleasant things there are in the world even for one who is sick. so, instead of fretting because the way was dusty and the sunshine hot, narcissa looked up at the cool green leaves which were fanning her, and watched along all the way to see what beautiful flowers the heat and light were opening. she, too, had learned to love the cool song of the brook; to be glad--though she could not follow them herself, poor cripple!--that the butterflies could flutter about and drink honey from all the flowers, and the squirrels could dart away with their nuts, and the birds go sailing and singing up into the far blue sky. her old fairy, envy, was banished forever from narcissa's heart, and in its place dwelt violet's fairy, love, and contentment, love's unfailing friend. the moment these fairies came, her heart began to grow larger and purer; for it only takes a small soul to hold such a miserable little sprite as envy, who is so mean and poor that he makes every place poor into which he enters, though he looks fine enough in his cloak streaked with purple, gold, and red, like the gaudiest of tulips. no wonder narcissa was glad to make the exchange of friends; for love soon taught her that the way to be happy is to forget all about ourselves, and be glad whenever another is glad, no matter how humble a thing. so when she watched the sunshine creep towards a flower that had been waiting for it in the shade, or when she saw a young bird fly for the first time, or, in frosty mornings that made her sick frame shiver, when she heard the nuts rattle down, and knew the frost had opened their burs, and that the children would be glad, narcissa's heart would be so full of sympathy that i am not sure but she was the happiest of all. chapter xxv. new plans. violet saw narcissa's white dress among the trees,--for the young elms in the avenue had grown so high as to meet now overhead,--and ran out to welcome her. she helped the invalid into her house, brought her mother's easy chair out to the porch, and a footstool and fan, and last of all a little table, upon which she placed fresh flowers and a new book that had been given her, and then hurried away to mix a cooling drink, of which narcissa was very fond. "how good you are, violet," said narcissa when she came back, "and how little i deserve so much from you! a toad just hopped over the step--the queerest old fellow--looked as if he had been through a dozen wars, with his one eye and a missing leg. i could have laughed, we were so much alike; and yet i couldn't, for he made me think of that first day we came to your father's house, and----" "o, yes," interrupted violet; "and only think how much good has come to _us_ from that first visit--how comfortably we have lived ever since!--your father was so kind." "but _i_ wasn't kind," said narcissa, looking very sorrowful; "i did you nothing but harm; and think what you have done for me." "brought you a chair and a fan," laughed violet; "wonderful deeds!" "you may laugh if you will," answered the lady; "but i would not give what i have gained from you in exchange for a hundred times what i ever had before. my beauty only made me vexed if i was not admired; my health and strength made me restless, kept me always in search of what i could not find nor buy. beauty, and health, and money are good for nothing by themselves. o violet, you have given health and beauty to my _heart_, and now i am rich and happy because no living thing can be glad but i grow richer by sharing its joy--those cool cloud shadows flickering over the grass--this sweetness the air has caught from your violet beds; and look how that humming bird enjoys the dew and honey he is drinking out of the roses, hanging among them by his long, slim bill; i can almost taste it with him as clearly as i smell the odor he shakes from the roses with his glittering wings; and i feel, too, the coolness the shadows must bring to the heated grass. for all of this, my friend, i thank you constantly." violet was not fond of hearing herself praised; she thought it pleasure enough to help any one; so she changed the subject by offering narcissa some more of the refreshing drink. she answered,-- "not now, i thank you; but pray where do you buy this cordial?--it is so much pleasanter to me than the rich wines we have at home, which always make me sick." when violet told how she had made the cordial herself from wild raspberries of her own picking, had pressed the juice out with her own white hands, and that the same hands had made the light biscuit she brought with it, and arranged the tasteful bouquet, and nailed up the luxuriant rosebushes, narcissa was quite enchanted, and wished she could live as independently herself. "o," she said, "i am so tired of the noise and confusion at home, and so many new faces, such rich food. if i could live here, violet, with you!" "why not make me a visit? and if you are contented with my simple fare, i shall be very glad to have you stay as long as you will. we might have beautiful times together." "are you in earnest?" asked narcissa, eagerly. "i shall be so happy and so independent here! and i won't be in the way either, for you shall teach me to work, and i can paint, and draw, and play on the piano, and read ever so many languages. all these i will teach you." she smiled, and violet asked why. "i was thinking that the accomplishment of which i was proudest once must be taught by some one else." "why?" "every one praised my dancing; but how in the world could i teach you with my wooden leg? i will learn of you to work, to help others, to find out the best things in books, and the most beautiful things every where. why, we shall be like two fairy queens in our little cottage palace." narcissa's father, instead of objecting to this plan, was very much pleased with it--said the change would be better than any medicine for the invalid. chapter xxvi. spring at the cottage. love and contentment waved their bright wings now; for the two friends became so fond of each other they were not contented apart. narcissa even grew beautiful again, there was such a peaceful smile upon her face, and such an earnest, loving look within her eyes. it was a real pleasure for violet to comfort and amuse this friend, from whom she was constantly learning some new thing. narcissa painted beautifully, and violet would bring her the freshest and loveliest flowers to copy; so there was hardly a blossom or a green leaf in the neighborhood, from april to november, but you could find it almost living again in their portfolio. they would watch the birds too, find out all their names, and their different notes, and how they fed and taught their young; and violet worked in her garden more than ever now, because narcissa's maid took care of the cottage, and kept it as neat as even its mistress wished. she had the lawn before the house enclosed in a border shaped like the half of a great ring, and this was planted full of snowdrops, which blossom quite early, you know, and are very delicate and beautiful. it was like a ring of living pearls; and when these wilted, odors began to steal towards the cottage door, which tempted violet to look under another border thick with green leaves, and there would be more violets than you could count; so the pearl ring changed to one of emerald and amethyst. meantime the sweetbrier by the doorway would begin to have pale green buds on its brown stems, and the honeysuckle and bitter-sweet came forth in fresh green shoots, until there were so many new, tender, fragrant leaves, and buds, and blossoms that the birds were sure to select it as the place for their nests. narcissa loved to watch them while violet was busy with her work. a flock of robins would settle upon the plum tree in the garden, peck at the gum, and dig insect eggs out from the bark, and then fly away towards the wood, singing all together; but soon two would steal back to the plum tree, and chirp and twitter to each other, and look at the cottage, and then at the wood, and then at the thickest boughs of the plum. presently both would fly together towards the house, one settling on the sweetbrier, and one on the roof, and then on the chimney, and then hop along the porch, and then back both would go to have another talk in the plum tree, and then fly off to find their brothers and sisters in the wood. but sure as another morning came, back would come the birds too, looking with their little bright eyes all about the cottage, and always settling at last on that one sweetbrier branch. then they would begin to bring straws and hair, which they wove together into a soft little nest, working away as busy and happy as birds could be, now and then going back to the plum tree, as if from a distance to admire their tiny home. before very long, looking out of the cottage window, you might find the nest full of little cunning eggs; but you could not see these often, for the birds kept them almost constantly sheltered with their own warm breasts, waiting until the little things within should grow strong enough to break and creep out of their shells. all this time the father bird would bring the mother food--bring her ripe cherries, seeds, buds, and worms; and sometimes he would take her place, letting her fly away for a look at the woods, or a drink from the sparkling brook. but some bright morning you would hear the old birds twittering so joyfully, you might know something had come to pass; and the first time they flew away, if you looked from the window again, there would be, instead of the eggs, a little heap of the homeliest things in the world, with great eyes, and great legs and claws, and long red necks, and mouths half as large as the bodies, gaping at you--not a feather to be seen except a little down, like whiskers, about their ears. birds grow very fast; you would be surprised to find how soon they began to fill, and more than fill, the nest, until some morning one after another would hop out among the sweetbrier stems, and show you their glossy backs and speckled breasts, while the old birds watched so proud and happy, and began teaching them to fly and to sing. one morning towards the last of may, when violet was in the garden transplanting her forget-me-nots, and narcissa, in the porch, sat watching her, enjoying the cool, fresh air, the new life that budded forth from every thing, and the freedom and joy of the golden orioles as they flashed in and out among the elm boughs, and twittered forth their wild and plaintive melodies, her attention was caught by a stir and fluttering in the sweetbrier, and then a song from the larch tree opposite. these sounds came from two yellow birds, a mother and her little one. the young one would go, "twe-te-twee," timidly and sweetly, with such a tired tremble at the end; then forth poured the old bird a clear, connected strain, half repeated it, and then paused; and the little sweet voice came again, "pee-te-wee--pee-te-wee--twee-te-wee." it was too cunning, and the old bird took up the trembling, broken strain so clearly, with such ease, "twitter, witter, witter--wee-te-twee-te-twee--twitter, witter, witter"--"wee-te-twee," ended the young one, with that same little tremble in the midst, the same baby sweetness, just such as in a child would make you snatch it up and kiss it--"twee-te-wee." narcissa wondered if there could have been more exquisite music in paradise. chapter xxvii. violet's scholars. violet still had her little school of narcissa's brothers and sisters; but she was so gentle and patient that study was never very hard to them, though the lessons might be long; and then at recess time the boys would go out and pick cherries, or apples, or plums, from the garden, bring them in on fresh green leaves, and they would all sit in the porch and have a little feast together. saturday afternoons they would take a walk in the woods; and violet taught them how to weave oak leaves into crowns, and to make necklaces out of dandelion stems and lilac flowers, and baskets of rushes. they always took something home to narcissa, who could not enjoy long walks because of her lameness. one would pick up a pocket full of checkerberries, and one a handful of the young, spicy leaves; and the prettiest branch of hawthorn, the longest-stemmed violets, the largest-leaved bough of oak, were sure to go home for her. when it grew late in the year, they had such sport gathering chestnuts, hazelnuts, and shagbarks; the boys climbed the trees, and shook or beat them with long poles, and down the nuts would come rattling by baskets full. these were stored away in the cottage; for they all knew that what violet kept for them was safe. when they came near the cottage again after one of these excursions, looking so bright, with their rosy cheeks, and flying hair, and laughing faces, narcissa's smiling face was always at the window watching, and quickly appeared at the door to welcome them. sometimes they all went home crowned with autumn leaves, sometimes with woodbine or ground pine, and early in spring with bloodroots, violets, or anemones. but the prettiest crown, and the rarest flower, and the juiciest bunch of berries were always for narcissa. in stormy days, or when the ground was covered with snow, violet still made the holidays pleasant for her scholars; they would play games and sing in the afternoon. she would teach the girls how to dress their dolls, and the boys how to make pasteboard boxes and kites, and how to put puzzles together. then at evening they would gather around the fireplace, with narcissa's great chair in the midst of the circle, and she or violet would tell stories for hours together. one of these stories narcissa liked so much that she wrote it down, and after violet was dead,--for, like the snowdrops and wild roses, our violet died at last,--she read it to me. i will try and remember it for you; but first i must tell what sorrow there was in the great house on the hill, and not there only, but among all the poor in the neighborhood, when violet went to heaven. under the elm tree they buried her, beside mary and reuben; and the orioles she loved to watch still hatch their young and sing sweet songs above her grave. alfred wanted to build a great marble monument over her; for he said the whole world did not contain a better or lovelier woman. but narcissa said,-- "no; she has built her own monument of good deeds, which will last after marble has mouldered away. let us cover her grave with her own sweet violets, that whenever we pass we may think of _our_ violet." long afterwards, even to this day, when any who knew her witness a kind action, or meet one with a cheerful, hopeful spirit, and a sunny smile, they say, "it is just like violet." so, dear children, let us try to make friends with her fairies, love and contentment, and let us remember that whenever the thought of her urges _us_ to be cheerful, contented, and loving, we, too, shall plant a flower on violet's grave. violet's story. chapter i. it was a snowy night, and the children, as we gathered around the fire, began to ask for stories. i told them a queer dream of my own, and then they insisted that violet should give one of her fairy tales. while she was puzzling her brain for a new one, my little sister mabel, who had climbed upon the sofa and was nestling close to her, asked,-- "what makes you love violets so much? here even in winter time you have some in your bosom. aren't you sweeter than these little homely things?" "narcissa," she answered, "has told a dream, and now i will tell one. it's a kind of fairy story besides, and partly true. you must not ask any questions about the little girl, or make any guesses. her name happened to be just like yours, mabel." "little girl! i thought 'twas a _dream_," said mabel. [illustration: mabel's dream.] "listen, then: a little girl went out one day in search of strawberries. she went into a wide green field that was starred all over with dandelions, and clusters of wild lilies hanging like bells around their stems, and violets, and blue-eyed grass. "there was not a living being in this place except the birds, and little fishes in the brook; for through the long grass all around the field ran a stream of clearest water over a dark-brown, pebbly bed. "rising on every side, so as to shut the field in by itself, were hills closely covered with trees and vines. here birds sang all day long, and flowers bloomed, and nuts and berries ripened; the ground was in some places slippery with fallen pine leaves, and in others soft with a carpet of fresh moss. "it was shady in these woods, but in the field the sun shone, opened the lilies, ripened the strawberries, and made the little girl feel bright and glad, although it was so warm. "strawberries are tiny things to pick; the little girl thought it would take a million to fill her pail; and often she longed to leave them and gather flowers, or play with the fish in the brook, or rest in the cool wood. "but she had always loved violets, just as i love them; and a gardener's wife had promised mabel that the first time she brought a pail full of strawberries to her, she should have in return a whole bunch of these fragrant flowers. "so, stooping among the lilies, which were almost as tall as herself, and picking one by one, one by one, the bright sun pouring its heat down upon her, after a great while her pail was heaped with berries. almost as fragrant as violets they were, too, and looked, upon their long green stems, like little drops of coral. "mabel's work was not over now; she climbed half way up the hill, found a beautiful shady place, where the grass was long, and the roots of a great tree had coiled themselves into a seat, which was cushioned over with moss. "she threw aside her sun bonnet, and began to pick off the green hulls from her fruit, while the broad oak leaves overhead kept fanning her, and lifting the matted curls from her warm forehead. "but then came a great mosquito, and then another, and another; they would whirl around her head, buzzing and buzzing, and fly from her forehead to her nose, and from nose to hand, and hand to shoulder, and then creep into the curly hair, and buzz so close to her ear it frightened her. "twenty times she had a mind to throw her berries into the brook and run home; but then she thought of the violets--how splendid it would be to have them all to herself; she should not give away one flower, not one, she had worked so hard for them. "throwing the stems away lowered the contents of her pail so much that mabel had to go out in the hot field and pick again, and then back to the wood where the mosquitoes were, and work another hour. she never had such a long, hard task before. "but the little girl travelled home at last with her pail brimful in one hand, and a splendid great bunch of lilies in the other. this last served as a parasol till she reached the gardener's gate. "then, taking her violets, mabel hurried home. there were more of them, and they were larger and sweeter, than she had even hoped. she hardly took her eyes from them until she reached her mother's door. "while she was placing her flowers in water, a woman came up the hot, dusty road, with a young child in her arms. she looked tired and warm, and said she had eaten nothing all day long. mabel looked in the closet; there was plenty of bread, but she dared not give it without her mother's leave. she looked in all the rooms; but her mother was not to be found; and when the poor woman had rested a little, mabel watched her creep out into the blazing sun again, dragging the little child after her. she could not bear to think that while she had every thing to make her happy, others must go hungry and tired; and 'suppose it were my mother,' mabel thought; 'i _must_ do something for her; yet i have nothing in the world to give.' "'except the violets,' whispered something inside of mabel's heart. snatching them from the table, she ran after the beggar, and said,-- "'there, i gave a whole pail of strawberries for these; perhaps you can sell them for a loaf of bread.'" the poor woman looked so pleased, and thanked mabel so heartily, that she felt the violets could never have caused her so much joy as it had done to give them away. chapter ii. "not many days after these events, mabel went again to the field where the lilies and strawberries grew, played about in the sun until she was tired, and then seated herself under a shady tree to rest, and hear the birds and rustling leaves, and watch the brook glide through the grass. "the grass about her was long, and fine, and soft as any bed; it was cool too, and mabel, listening to the quiet murmur of the brook, fell fast asleep; but all the while she thought herself wide awake, and wondered why the sound of the rippling of water changed to something like the tread of tiny feet; and then there came the sweetest, most delicate music; and all at once--could it be?--she saw a multitude of little beings marching through the very pathway her footsteps had made in the grass, and approaching her. they were hardly taller than a grasshopper would be if he could stand up like a man, and had formed themselves into the drollest little procession. "first came the musicians; there were flute players, using each a joint of grass stem for instrument, bell ringers, jingling lilies of the valley, and trumpeters tooting through white lilac blossoms. then came the guards, dressed in uniform, and bearing each a fern leaf for banner at once and parasol. with these leaves they shaded a group of little women, who marched along as dignified as nuns until they came to a bunch of fennel leaves that grew near mabel's resting-place. towards this they flew, for the tiny people had wings; they climbed the stems and clung to the feathery leaves, and then all at once, espying mabel, trooped towards her, and ranged themselves upon a platform of plantain leaves. "they were funny little women--tall, and prim, and slim, wearing green mantles and such big purple hoods. they were more polite than some larger people, and did nothing but bow, and courtesy, and smile to mabel, who asked them who they were and whence they came. "they shook their heads, and laughed, while the air was filled with sweetest odor. at last one said,-- "'we are flower spirits. every year we come to earth and live in some blossom, which we fill with beauty and fragrance; but when it withers we go back to fairyland until another spring. we have, besides our fairy queen, a queen whom we choose every year among mortals, and serve her faithfully. we have just returned from working in her service.' "'are you not hungry?' asked mabel. 'i have brought luncheon. won't you eat some of my gingerbread?' "the fairies laughed again. 'we live,' they said, 'upon flower dust and dewdrops; we should not relish mortal food.' "then they called from the attendants who lingered among the fennel leaves their steward and butler; and it was mabel's turn to laugh when she saw how queerly they ate. "some blossoms from the elder bush, little ivory urns, served them for goblets. these were set upon a mushroom, and some red clover blossoms were rolled around the table for seats. the little men had tried in vain to break these blossoms off; so they caught a caterpillar, whipped him along with grass blades, and made him use his teeth for a knife. then they had caught a toad, and heaped his round back with the blossoms, which rolled off as fast as they could be picked up again; and by the time they reached their mistresses, the fairy servants were warm and red in the face as any hay makers. "the fairies grew so hungry with waiting that they even tasted a crumb of mabel's gingerbread; but not liking this very well, they took out from among the provisions that were packed in a wild rose, the petals nicely fastened together with cobweb threads, some poppy and caraway seeds, upon which they began to gnaw with their little white teeth. "'you must have lived in violets,' said mabel. 'every time you shake your bonnets and laugh, the air is full of their odor. can't you smell it?' "'yes, for we were violets once ourselves, and all blossomed in the same garden; some of us grew from the same root, and a queer life we have led in the last few days. one hot day this very week the gardener's wife picked us in the greatest haste, and tied us together so tightly we were all but smothered for a while. the woman gave us to a little girl, who was just putting our stems in some cool water, and we half dead with thirst, when she must needs give us away to a beggar woman.' "'why,' exclaimed mabel, 'were you _my_ violets?' "the fairies only laughed. "'the woman held us in her hot hands until we were all but wilted, and she gave one or two of my sisters to the poor tired child that followed her through the dust.' "'what is the matter?' asked mabel; 'your eyes are full of tears.' "'i am thinking of my sisters, whom we shall never meet again;' and the tears ran down the fairy's little cheeks. 'the child was overtired, and so warm that when they came to a resting-place, and she lay down to sleep, she never awoke again. a lady who had taken pity upon her laid the little body out for burial, and finding those few violets still clinched in the dead hand, would not remove them; so my sisters were buried in her grave, and must remain there no one knows how long; for while we live on earth we must take care of these bodies, frail flowers though they be. if we omit this, all our happiness and usefulness are gone. the kind lady who buried the beggar child bought us from the woman, all wilted as we were. in her shady parlor we soon grew refreshed, lifted our heads again, and in gratitude breathed forth odors, till the room was all perfumed. a lovely girl came to visit the lady, and said so much about our sweetness, that, to our joy, we were divided with her. she took us to her home, a splendid place, all light, and gilding, and flowers, curtains, and cushions, and velvet carpets, and marble stands. upon one of these last we were placed, in a white parian cup, but hardly had time to regain our breath when one of the maiden's lovers came, selected me from among the rest, and twirled me around his finger as he talked, until my stem was broken, and i all but dead. in a lucky hour he let me fall, and, lame as i was, i caught by the leg of a great fly, who whizzed me out of the window in a second, buzzing so all the while that he almost stunned me. i have just found my friends here, and have not had time to ask about their adventures.' "the little woman, tired with talking so long, sank into her seat on the plantain leaf, and taking a caraway seed from her pocket, began nibbling, while her companions finished the story. "'we have had less trouble,' they said. 'the benevolent lady took us to a dismal prison, to be sure, and we were shut up for a while with a man who had murdered another, and was waiting to be hung. he had forgotten his own mother and his early home; but when he looked at us, the past came back to him. he remembered the little garden by his father's house, and felt for a moment like an innocent boy again. from that hour he grew penitent, and he may be forgiven in consequence by god.' "'but didn't the jailer forgive him?' asked mabel. "'no; he was hung. we belonged to no one then, so we caught our withering bodies under our arms, and flew away through the iron gratings of his cell. but, mabel, what are you thinking about?' ended the fairy. "'thinking,' said mabel, 'how much better it was to give away my violets than to keep them. i little dreamed they would do so much good in the world. but, fairy, what is the name of the earthly queen you told me about?' "'mabel,' answered all the little voices; and the fern leaf banners waved, and violet odors filled the air again, while the tiny flutes and trumpets made sweet music at the mention of their queen. "'why, that is my name,' said the little girl. "'and you are our queen,' said the fairies. 'it is a kind and loving heart that gives one power like a fairy wand, and can win all good spirits to serve its owner. this will change selfishness into benevolence, and sin to penitence, and hatred to forgiveness; it will transform--haven't you done it?--a prison into a dewy garden, and put love and penitence into a murderer's heart. whoever uses us to best purposes is our queen; and _this_ summer our queen is mabel.' "mabel reached forward to take her little subjects from the leaf; but lo, it was only a handful of violets. in her surprise, she awoke, with a dim feeling still that she had watched the little procession wind away through her foot tracks in the grass, the fern leaf banners waving over it, while mingled with violet odors came back triumphant music from the tiny flutes and timbrels. low but clear were the fairy voices; and mabel never forgot the words they sang, which ended,-- 'all of us, whoe'er we be, may carve us out such royalty.'" juvenile works christmas holidays at chestnut hill. by cousin mary. containing fine engravings from original designs, and printed very neatly. it will be found to be a charming little book for a present for all seasons. little blossom's reward; a christmas book for children by mrs. emily hare. beautifully illustrated from original designs, and a charming presentation book for young people. estelle's stories about dogs; containing six beautiful illustrations; being original portraits from life. by h. trusta little mary; or, talks and tales. this little book is charmingly illustrated, and is a very beautiful book. it is made up of short lessons, and was originally written for the practical use of children from five to ten years of age. peep at "number five;" or, a chapter in the life of a city pastor. the telltale; or, home secrets told by old travellers. the "last leaf from sunny side;" by paul creyton. father brighthopes; or, an old clergyman's vacation. hearts and faces; or, home life unveiled. by francis c. woodworth. editor of "woodworth's youth's cabinet," author of "the willow lane budget," "the strawberry girl," "the miller of our village," "theodore thinker's tales," etc., etc. uncle frank's boys' and girls' library _a beautiful series, comprising six volumes, with eight tinted engravings in each volume. the following are their titles respectively_:-- i. the peddler's boy; or, i'll be somebody. ii. the diving bell; or, pearls to be sought for. iii. the poor organ grinder, and other stories. iv. our sue: her motto and its uses. v. mike marble: his crotchets and oddities. vi. the wonderful letter bag of kit curious "woodworth is unquestionably and immeasurably the best writer for children that we know of; for he combines a sturdy common sense and varied information with a most childlike and loveful spirit, that finds its way at once to the child's heart. we regard him as one of the truest benefactors of his race; for he is as wise as he is gentle, and never uses his power over the child-heart to instil into it the poison of false teaching, or to cramp it with unlovely bigotry. the publishers have done their part, as well as the author, to make these volumes attractive. altogether we regard them as one of the pleasantest series of juvenile books extant, both in their literary character and mechanical execution."--_syracuse (n. y.) daily standard._ scanned images of public domain material from the internet archive. [illustration: book cover] [illustration: "all aboard for sleep," said jimmieboy.] half-hours with jimmieboy. by john kendrick bangs, author of _"tiddledywink tales," "in camp with a tin soldier," "tiddledywink poetry book," etc._ illustrated by frank verbeck, charles howard johnson, j. t. richards, p. newell, and others. [illustration] new york: r. h. russell & son, mdcccxciii. to my son, francis hyde bangs. thanks are due to messrs. harper & bros. for the privilege of re-printing several of the stories in this book. contents. . christmas eve at jimmieboy's . the dwarf and the dude giant . jimmieboy's dream poetry . a subterranean mutiny . jimmieboy in the library . jimmieboy's snowman . the bicyclopÆdia bird . giant the jack killer . jimmieboy and the fireworks . jimmieboy's photograph . jimmieboy and the blank-book . jimmieboy and the comet . jimmieboy and jack frost . jimmieboy and the gas-stove . in the heart of frostland . the end of the story i. christmas eve at jimmieboy's. it had been a long and trying day to jimmieboy, as december th usually is to children of his age, who have great expectations, and are more or less impatient to have them fulfilled. he had been positively cross at supper-time because his father had said that santa claus had written to say that a much-desired velocipede could not be got down through the chimney, and that he thought jimmieboy would have to wait until the chimneys had been enlarged, or his papa had built a new house with more commodious flues. "i think it's just too bad," said jimmieboy, as he climbed into bed an hour later. "just because those chimneys are small, i can't have a philocipede, and i've been gooder than ever for two weeks, just to get it." then, as his nurse extinguished the lamp and went into the adjoining room to sew, jimmieboy threw himself back upon his pillow and shed a tear. the tear crept slowly down over his cheek, and was about to disappear between his lips and go back again to where it had started from, when a voice was heard over by the fire-place. "can you get it down?" it said. jimmieboy sat up and peered over toward the spot whence the voice came, but could see nothing. "no. the hind wheels won't go through the chimney-pot, and even if they would, it wouldn't do any good. the front wheel is twice as big as the hind ones," said another voice, this one apparently belonging to some one on the roof. "can't you get it in through the front door?" "what do you take me for--an expressman?" cried the voice at the fire-place. "i can't leave things that way. it wouldn't be the proper thing. can't you get a smaller size through?" "yes; but will it fit the boy?" said the voice on the roof. "lower your lantern down here and we'll see. he's asleep over here in a brass bedstead," replied the other. and then jimmieboy saw a great red lantern appear in the fire-place, and by its light he noticed a short, ruddy-faced, merry-eyed old gentleman, with a snowy beard and a smile, tip-toeing across the room toward him. to his delight he recognized him at once as santa claus; but he didn't know whether santa claus would like to have him see him or not, so he closed his eyes as tightly as he could, and pretended to be asleep. "humph!" ejaculated santa claus, as he leaned over jimmieboy's bed, and tried to get his measure by a glance. "he's almost a man--must be five years old by this time. pretty big for a small velocipede; still, i don't know." here he scratched his beard and sang: "if he's too large for it, i think, 'twill be too small for him, unless he can be got to shrink two inches on each limb." then he walked back to the fire-place and called out, "i've measured." "well, what's the result?" queried the voice on the roof. "'nothing,' as the boy said when he was asked what two plus one minus three amounted to. i can't decide. it will or it won't, and that's all there is about it." "can't we try it on him?" asked the voice up the chimney. "no," returned santa claus. "that wouldn't prove anything; but we might try him on it. shall i send him up?" "yes," came the voice from above, much to jimmieboy's delight, for he was quite curious to see what was going on up on the roof, and who it was that owned the other voice. in a moment jimmieboy found himself in santa claus's arms, cuddled up to the warm fur coat the dear old gentleman wore, in which position he was carried up through the chimney flue to the roof. then jimmieboy peeped out between his half-opened eyelids, and saw, much to his surprise, that instead of there being only one santa claus, there were two of them. "oh dear!" he said in astonishment; "i didn't know there were two of you." both the santas jumped as if some one had let off a cannon cracker under their very noses. "well, i declare!" said the one that had carried jimmieboy up through the chimney. "we're discovered. here i've been in this business whole centuries, and i've never been discovered before." "that's so," assented the other. "we know now how america must have felt when columbus came sailing in. what'll we do about it?" "we'll have to take him into partnership, i guess," rejoined the first. "it'll never do in this world not to. would you like to be one of our concern, jimmieboy?" "oh, indeed i would," said jimmieboy. "well, i say we let him help us this time anyhow," said the roof santa claus. "you're so fat, i'm afraid you can't get down some of these small chimneys, and jimmieboy is just about the right size." "good scheme," said the other; "but he isn't dressed for it, you know." "he can get a nice black soot down in the factory chimney," said the roof santa claus, with a wink. "that's so; and as the factory fires are always going, it will be a nice warm soot. what do you say, jimmieboy?" said the other. "it's lovely," replied the boy. "but how did there come to be two of you?" "there had to be," said the first santa claus jimmieboy had seen. "the world is growing so fast that my work has nearly doubled in the last twenty years, so i had to get an assistant, and he did so well, i took him into partnership. he's my brother." "and is his name santa claus, too?" asked jimmieboy. "oh no, indeed. his name is marmaduke. we call him marmy for short, and i can tell you what it is, jimmieboy, "he is as fine a fellow as ever you did spy; he's quite as sweet and mellow, though not so fat as i." "and that's a recommendation that any man has a right to be proud of," said marmy claus, patting himself on the back to show how proud he felt. "but, santa, we must be off. it would not do for the new firm of santa, marmy, and jimmie claus to begin business by being late. we've got to leave toys in eighteen flat-houses, forty-two hotels, and an orphan asylum yet." "that's a fact," said santa, jumping into the sleigh and grasping the reins. "just help jimmieboy in here, marmy, and we'll be off. we can leave his things here on our way back." [illustration: jimmieboy and the brothers claus.] then, before he knew how it happened, jimmieboy found himself wrapped up warmly in a great fur coat, with a seal-skin cap on his head, and the dearest, warmest ear-tabs over his ears, sitting in the middle of the sleigh between the two huge, jolly-faced, members of the claus family. the long lash of the whip snapped in the frosty air, at the sound of which the reindeer sprang forward and dragged the toy-laden cutter off on its aerial flight. at the start santa drove, and marmy prepared the toys for the first little boy they were to visit, handing jimmieboy a lot of sugar-plums, to keep him from getting hungry, before he began. "this is a poor sick little fellow we are going to see first," he said. "he wanted a set of choo-choo cars, but we can't give them to him because the only set we have is for you, jimmieboy. your application came in before his did. i hope he won't be disappointed, though i am afraid he will be. a fish-pond isn't half so much fun as a set of choo-choo cars." "that's so," said jimmieboy. "but, mr. marmy, perhaps, if it's going to make him feel real bad not to get them--maybe--perhaps you might let him have the cars. i don't want them too much." this wasn't quite true, but jimmieboy, somehow or other, didn't like to think of the little sick boy waking up on christmas day and not finding what he wanted. "you know, i have one engine and a coal car left of my old set, and i guess maybe, perhaps, i can make them do," he added. marmy gave the little fellow an affectionate squeeze, and said: "well, if you really feel that way, maybe we had better leave the cars there. eh, santa?" "maybe, perhaps," said santa. and it so happened; and although he could not tell exactly why, jimmieboy felt happier after leaving the cars at the little sick boy's house than he ever thought he could be. "now, jimmieboy," said santa, as marmy took the reins and they drove off again, "while marmy and i are attending to the hotels and flat-houses, we want you to take that brown bag and go down the chimney of the orphan asylum, and leave one toy for each little child there. there are about a hundred little orphans to be provided for." "what's orphans?" asked jimmieboy. "orphans? why, they are poor little boys and girls without any papas and mammas, and they all have to live together in one big house. you'll see 'em fast asleep in their little white cots when you get down the chimney, and you must be very careful not to wake them up." "i'll try not to," said jimmieboy, softly, a lump growing up in his throat as he thought of the poor children who had no parents. "and i'll make sure they all get something, too." "that's right," said marmy. "and here's where they live. you take the bag now, and we'll let you down easy, and when we get through, we'll come back for you." so jimmieboy shouldered the bag full of toys, and was lowered through the chimney into the room where the orphans were sleeping. he was surprised to find how light the bag was, and he was almost afraid there would not be enough toys to go around; but there were, as he found out in a moment. there were more than enough by at least a dozen of the most beautiful toys he had ever seen--just the very things he would most have liked to have himself. "i just guess i'll give 'em one of these things apiece, and keep the extra ones, and maybe perhaps they'll be for me," he said. [illustration: jimmieboy in the orphan asylum.] so he arranged the toys quietly under the stockings that hung at the foot of the little white beds, stuffing the stockings themselves with candies and apples and raisins and other delicious things to eat, and then sat down by the fire-place to await the return of santa claus and santa's brother marmy. as he sat there he looked around the dimly lighted room, and saw the poor thin white faces of the little sleeping orphans, and his heart stirred with pity for their sad condition. then he looked at the bag again, and saw the extra dozen toys that were so pleasing to him, and he wondered if it would make the orphans happier next morning if they should wake and find them there, too. at first he wasn't sure but that the orphans had enough; and then he thought of his own hamper full of dolls, and dogs, and tin soldiers, and cars, and blocks, at home, and he tried to imagine how much fun he could get out of a single toy, and he couldn't quite bring himself to believe that he could get much. "one toy is great fun for an hour," he said to himself, "but for a year, dear me! i guess i won't keep them, after all. i'll just put them in the middle of the room, so that they'll find them in the morning, and maybe perhaps---- hello!" he added, as he took the extra toys out of the bag; "they were for me, after all. they've got my name on 'em. oh, dear! isn't it love---- i don't know, though. seems to me i'd better leave them here, even if they are for me. i can get along without them because i have a papa to play with, and he's more fun than any toy i ever had; and mamma's better'n any doll baby or choo-choo car i ever saw. yes, i will leave them." and the little fellow was true to his purpose. he emptied the bag to the very last toy, and then, hearing the tinkling bells of santa's sleigh on the roof again, he ran to the chimney, and was hauled up by his two new friends to the roof. "why, you've left everything except the bag!" cried marmy, as jimmieboy climbed into the sleigh. "yes," said jimmieboy, with a little sigh; "everything." "but the bag had all your things in it, and we haven't a toy or a sugar-plum left for you," said santa. "never mind," said jimmieboy. "i don't care much. i've had this ride with you, and--al--together i'm--pret--ty well--satis--fi----" here the little assistant to the claus brothers, lulled by the jingling of the bells, fell asleep. it was morning when he waked again--christmas morning--and as he opened his eyes he found himself back in his little crib, pondering over the mysterious experiences of the night. his heart was strangely light and happy even for him, especially when he thought of the little orphan children, and tried to imagine their happiness on waking and finding the extra toys--his toys--in addition to their own; and as he thought about it, his eyes wandered to the chimney-place, and an unexpected sight met his gaze, for there stood the much-wished-for velocipede, and grouped around it on the floor were a beautiful set of choo-choo cars exactly like those he had left with the sick boy, and a duplicate of every one of the extra toys he had left at the asylum for the orphans. "they must have been playing a joke on me," he cried, in delighted tones, as he sprang out of bed and rushed over to where the toys lay. "i do believe they left them here while i was in the asylum. the--dear--old--things!" and then jimmieboy was able to measure the delight of the orphan children and the little sufferer by comparing it with his own; and when he went to bed that night, he whispered in his mamma's ear that he didn't know for sure, but he thought that if the orphans only had a papa and a mamma like his, they would certainly be the happiest little children in all the world. ii the dwarf and the dude giant. the day had not yet dawned, but jimmieboy was awake--wide awake. so wide awake was he, indeed, that the small bed in which he had passed the night was not broad enough by some ten or twelve feet to accommodate the breadth of his wakefulness, and he had in consequence crawled over into his father's bed, seated himself as nearly upon his father's neck as was possible, and was vociferously demanding a story. "oh, wait a little while, jimmieboy," said his father, wearily. "i'm sound asleep--can't you see?" "tell a story," said jimmieboy, poking his thumbs into his father's half closed eyes. the answer was a snore--not a real one, but one of those imitation snores that fathers of boys like jimmieboy make use of on occasions of this sort, prompted no doubt by the maker's desire to convince a persistent enemy to sleep that his cause is hopeless, and of which the enemy is never to be convinced. "tell a story about a giant," insisted jimmieboy, a suggestion of tears in his voice. "oh, well," returned the sleepy father, sitting up and, rubbing his eyes vigorously in a vain effort to get all the sleepiness out of them. "if you must have it, you must have it, so here goes. let's see--a story of a giant or of a dwarf?" "both," said jimmieboy, placidly. "dear me!" cried his father. "i wish i'd kept quiet about the dwarf. well, once upon a time there was a giant." "and a dwarf, too," put in jimmieboy, who did not intend to be cheated out of a half of the story. "yes. and a dwarf, too," said the other with a nod. "the giant was a dude giant, who cared more for his hats than he did for anything else in the world. it was quite natural, too, that he should, for he had a finer chance to show them off than most people have, because he had no less than four heads, which is very remarkable for a dude giant, because dudes who are not giants very rarely have even one head worth mentioning. hats were about the only things the dude giant cared for at all. he used to buy every style of head-gear he could find, and it took almost all of the salary he received at the museum where he was on exhibition to pay for them; but he was particularly fond of silk hats. of these he had twenty-eight; four for each day of the week, those for sunday being especially handsome and costly. "now it happened that in the same exhibition with the dude giant there was a dwarf named tiny w. littlejohn--w standing for wee, which was his middle name. he was a very good-natured fellow, tiny was, and as far as he knew he hadn't an enemy in the world. he was so very nice that everybody who came to the exhibition brought him cream cakes, and picture books, and roller skates, and other beautiful things, and nobody ever thought of going away without buying his photograph, paying him twenty-five cents extra for the ones with his autograph on, which his mother wrote for him. in this way the dwarf soon grew to be a millionaire, while the dude giant squandered all he had on riotous hats, and so remained as poor as when he started. for a long time everything went smoothly at the exhibition. there were no jealousies or quarrels of any sort, except between the glass eater and the man who made glass steamboats, and that was smoothed over in a very short time by the glass eater saying that the glass-blower made the finest crystal pies he had ever tasted. but contentment and peace could not last forever in an establishment where one attraction was growing richer and richer every day as the dwarf was, while another, the dude giant, was no better off than the day he joined the show, and when finally the dwarf began to come every morning in a cab of his own, drawn by a magnificent gray horse with a banged tail, and to dress better even than the proprietor of the museum himself, the dude giant became very envious, and when the dude giant gets envious he is a very disagreeable person. for instance, when no one was looking he would make horrible faces at tiny, contorting his four mouths and noses and eight cheeks all at once in a very terrifying manner, and when he'd look cross-eyed at the dwarf with all eight of his eyes poor tiny would get so nervous that he would try to eat the roller skates and picture books, instead of the cream cakes people brought him, and on one occasion he broke two of his prettiest teeth doing it, which marred his personal appearance very much. "tiny stood it as long as he could, and then he complained to his friend, the whirlwind, about it, and the whirlwind, who was a very sensible sort of a fellow, advised him not to mind it. it was only jealousy, he said, that led the dude giant to behave that way, and if tiny had not been more successful than forepate--as the dude giant was called--forepate wouldn't have been jealous, so that his very jealousy was an acknowledgment of inferiority. so tiny made up his mind he wouldn't pay any attention to the dude giant at all, but would go right ahead minding his own business and making all the money he could. "this made forepate all the more angry, and finally he resolved to get even with the dwarf in some other way than by making grimaces at him. now, it happened that forepate's place was over by a window directly opposite to where the dwarf sat, and so, to get near enough to tiny to put his scheme against him into execution, he complained to the manager that there was a terrible draft from the window, and added that unless he could sit on the other side of the room he was certain he'd catch cold in three of his heads anyhow, if not in all of them. "'very well,' said the manager. 'where do you wish to sit?' "'you might put me next to littlejohn, over there,' said the head with red hair. "'but,' said the manager, 'what shall we do with that stuffed owl with the unicorn's horns?' "'put him by the window,' said another of the dude giant's heads. "'yes,' said the third head. 'no draft in all the world could give a stuffed owl a cold.' "'that's so,' replied the manager. 'we'll make the change right off.' "and then the change was made, though tiny did not like it very much. "to disarm all suspicion, the dude giant was very affable to the dwarf for a whole week, and to see him talking to tiny no one would have suspected that he hated him so, which shows how horribly crafty he was. finally the hour for his revenge arrived. it was monday morning, and forepate and tiny had taken their places as usual, when, observing that no one was looking, forepate took his biggest beaver hat and put it over tiny, completely hiding him from view. poor tiny was speechless with rage, and so could not cry out. forepate kept him under his hat all day, and whenever any one asked where littlejohn was, one of his heads would say, 'alas! poor tiny, he has mysteriously disappeared!' and another head would shake itself and say 'somebody must have left the door open and the wind must have whisked the dear little fellow out into the cold, cold world.' then the other two heads would blubber, at which the dude giant would take out his handkerchiefs and wipe his eight eyes and shake all over as if he were inconsolable, and tiny, overhearing it all, grew more and more speechless with indignation. "that night, of course, forepate had to release him, and tiny hurried away fairly howling with anger. when he arrived at home he told his mother how he had been treated and how he had been done out of a whole day's cream cakes and picture books and roller skates, and she advised him to go at once to the whirlwind and confide his woe to him, which he did. "'forepate ought to be ashamed of himself,' said the whirlwind, when tiny had told his story. "'but he never does what he ought to do unless somebody makes him,' said tiny, ruefully. 'can't we do something to make him ashamed of himself?' "'well, i'll see,' said the whirlwind, with a shake of his head that meant that he intended to do something. 'what does the dude giant do with himself on sundays?' "'shows off his best hats on fifth avenue," returned the dwarf. "'very well then, i have it,' said the whirlwind. 'next sunday, tiny, we'll have our revenge on forepate. you stand on one of the stoops at the corner of fifth avenue and thirty-fourth street at midday, and you'll see a sight that will make you happy for the rest of your days.' "so, on the following sunday the dwarf climbed up on one of the front stoops on fifth avenue, near thirty-fourth street, and waited. he hadn't been there long when he saw forepate striding down the avenue dressed in his best clothes, and wearing upon his heads four truly magnificent beavers, which he had just received from london, and of which he was justly proud. "'i wonder where the whirlwind is,' thought the dwarf, looking anxiously up and down the avenue for his avenger. 'i do hope he won't fail.' "hardly were the words out of his mouth when forepate reached the crossing of thirty-fourth street, and just as he stepped from the walk into the street, bzoo! along came the whirlwind, and off went forepate's treasured hats. one hat flew madly up fifth avenue. a second rolled swiftly down fifth avenue. a third tripped merrily along east thirty-fourth street, while the fourth sailed joyously into the air, struck a lamp-post, and then plunged along west thirty-fourth street. and then! dear me! what a terrible thing happened! it was perfectly awful--simply dreadful!" "hurry up and tell it," said jimmieboy, jumping up and down with anxiety to hear what happened next. "then," said his papa, "when the dude giant saw his beloved hats flying in every direction he howled aloud with every one of his four voices, and craned each of his necks in the direction in which it's hat had flown. "then the head with the auburn hair demanded that the giant should immediately run up fifth avenue to recover its lost beaver, and the giant started, but hardly had he gone a step when the head with the black hair cried out: "'no! down fifth avenue after my hat.' "'not at all!' shrieked the head without any hair. 'go east after mine.' "'well, i guess not!' roared the head that had curly hair. 'he's going west after mine.' "meanwhile the giant had come to a stand-still. he couldn't run in any direction until his heads had agreed as to which way he should go, and all this time the beautiful hats were getting farther and farther away, and the heads more frantic than ever. for five full minutes they quarreled thus among themselves, turning now and then to peer weepingly after their beloved silk hats, and finally, with a supreme effort, each endeavored to force the giant in the direction it wished him to go, with the result that poor forepate was torn to pieces, and fell dead in the middle of the street." here papa paused and closed his eyes for a minute. "is that all?" queried jimmieboy. "yes--i believe that's all. the dude giant was dead and the dwarf was avenged." "and what became of tiny?" asked jimmieboy. "oh, tiny," said his father, "tiny--he--he laughed so heartily at the dude giant's mishap that he loosened the impediment to his growth,--" "the what?" asked jimmieboy, to whom words like impediment were rather strange. "why, the bone that kept him from growing," explained the story teller. "he loosened that and began to grow again, and inside of two weeks he was as handsome a six-footer as you ever saw, and as he had made a million and a half of dollars he resigned from the exhibition and settled down in europe for a number of years, had himself made a grand duke, and then came back to new york and got married, and lived happy ever after." and then, as the getting-up bell rang down stairs, jimmieboy thanked his father for the story and went into the nursery to dress for breakfast. iii. jimmieboy's dream poetry. if there is anything in the world that jimmieboy likes better than custard and choo-choo cars, it is to snuggle down in his papa's lap about bedtime and pretend to keep awake. it doesn't matter at all how tired he is, or how late bedtime may on special occasions be delayed, he is never ready to be undressed and "filed away for the night," as his uncle periwinkle puts it. it was just this way the other night. he was as sleepy as he possibly could be. the sandman had left enough sand in his eyes, or so it seemed to jimmieboy, to start a respectable sea-beach, and he really felt as if all he needed to make a summer resort of himself was a big hotel, a band of music, and an ocean. but in spite of all this he didn't want to go to bed, and he had apparently made up his mind that he wasn't going to want to go to bed for some time to come; and as his papa was in an unusually indulgent mood, the little fellow was permitted to nestle up close under his left arm and sit there on his lap in the library after dinner, while his mamma read aloud an article in one of the magazines on the subject of dream poetry. it was a very interesting article, jimmieboy thought. the idea of anybody's writing poetry while asleep struck him as being very comical, and he laughed several times in a sleepy sort of way, and then all of a sudden he thought, "why, if other people can do it, why can't i?" "why?" he answered--he was quite fond of asking himself questions and then answering them--"why? because you can't write at all. you don't know an h from a d, unless there's a horse in the picture with the h, and a donkey with the d. that's why." "true; but that's only when i'm awake." "try it and see," whispered the pencil in his papa's vest pocket. "i'll help, and maybe our old friend the scratch pad will help too." "that's a good idea," said jimmieboy, taking the pencil out of his papa's pocket, and assisting it to climb down to the floor, so that it could run over to the desk and tell the scratch pad it was wanted. "don't you lose my pencil," said papa. "no, i won't," replied jimmieboy, his eyes following the pencil in its rather winding course about the room to where the desk stood. "i have to keep out of sight, you know, jimmieboy," the pencil said, in a low tone of voice. "because if i didn't, and your papa saw me walking off, he'd grab hold of me and put me back in his pocket again." suddenly the pencil disappeared over by the waste-basket, and then jimmieboy heard him calling, in a loud whisper: "hi! pad! paddy! pad-dee!" "what's wanted?" answered the pad, crawling over the edge of the desk and peering down at the pencil, who was by this time hallooing himself hoarse. "jimmieboy and i are going to write some dream poetry, and we want you to help," said the pencil. "oh, i'm not sleepy," said the pad. "neither am i," returned the pencil. "but that needn't make any difference. jimmieboy, does the sleeping and dreaming, and you and i do the rest." "oh, that's it, eh? well, then, i don't mind; but--er--how am i ever going to get down there?" asked the pad. "it's a pretty big jump." "that's so," answered the pencil. "i wouldn't try jumping. can't the twine help you?" "no. he's all used up." "then i have it," said the pencil. "put a little mucilage on your back and slide down. the mucilage will keep you from going too fast." "good scheme," said the pad, putting the pencil's suggestion into practice, and finding that it worked beautifully, even if it did make him feel uncomfortably sticky. [illustration: arm in arm they tiptoed softly across the room.] and then, arm in arm, they tip-toed softly across the room and climbed up into jimmieboy's lap. so quietly did they go that neither jimmieboy's mamma, nor his papa noticed them at all, as they might have had the conspirators been noisy, although mamma was reading and papa's head was thrown back, so that his eyes rested on the picture moulding. "here we are, jimmieboy," said the pad. "pen here tells me you're going to try a little dream poetry." "yes," said jimmieboy. "i am, if you two will help." "count on us," said the pencil. "what do you do first?" "i don't exactly know," said jimmieboy. "but i rather think i take pencil in my hand, pad in my lap, and fall asleep." "all right," said the pad, lying flat on his back. "i'm ready." "so am i," put in the pencil, settling down between two of jimmieboy's fingers. "all aboard for sleep," said jimmieboy, with a smile, and then he fell into a doze. in about two minutes he opened his eyes again, and found both pad and pencil in a great state of excitement. "did i write anything?" asked jimmieboy, in an excited whisper. "yes," said the pad. "you just covered me up with a senseless mass of words. this isn't any fun." "no," said the pencil. "it's all nonsense. just see here what you've got." [illustration: jimmieboy finds nothing but dream-writing on the pad.] jimmieboy looked anxiously at the pad, and this is what he saw: i seen since, memory's wrong, they both dressed couple walked and straightway change upstairs with me, "i think it's "if that's the case," catch the early in." to leave the shop, for it's pla polypop. two weeks yesterday." haven't uttered oh, polypop, i ersnee, "see here, he didn't pay moon was shining bright. to see the polypop came down "dear me!" he said. "why, that doesn't mean anything, does it?" "no. there isn't much in dream poetry, i guess," said the pad. "i'm going back home. good-by." "oh, don't go," said the pencil. "let's try it again--just once more. eh?" "very well," returned the pad, good-naturedly, tearing off one of his leaves. "go ahead, jimmieboy." and jimmieboy dozed off again. "wake up, wake up!" cried the pencil in about three minutes. "we've got something this time." but they were all disappointed, for, when they looked, all that they could see was this: have not them and if my not were in chintz; with that the along; your vest." for you to go replied best, the snickersnee, and tra i hadn't time "my reason in; "i know it," said the since you one small cheer, say, then quoth the snick his fee. and as the snickersnee, the one night, "rubbish!" said the pad, indignantly. "there's two leaves of myself wasted now on your old dream poetry. i think that's enough. i'm off. good-by." "don't be hasty, pad," retorted the pencil. "that's a great deal better than the other. why, there's one part there with all the lines beginning with capitals, and when that happens it's generally a sign that there's poetry around." "there isn't much there, though," said jimmieboy, a little disappointed by the result. "i guess pad's right. we'd better give it up." "not yet," pleaded the pencil. "there's luck in odd numbers, you know. let's try it just once more." "shall we, jimmieboy?" asked the pad. "yes. let's," assented jimmieboy, as he dropped off to sleep for the third time. this time he must have slept five minutes. when he opened his eyes he saw the pencil staring blankly at the pad, on which was written nothing more than this curious looking formula: - "how aggravating!" said jimmieboy. "abominable!" ejaculated the pad. "i believe it's a key to what has gone before," said the pencil, shaking his rubber wisely. "two and two make four--two and two make four. ah! i know. you've got to put two and two together to make four. if we put those two leaves of nonsensical words together, maybe we'll have a poem. let's try." "it'll use me up, i'm afraid," sighed the pad. "oh, no. it won't take more than a half of you," said the pencil, putting the two leaves on which jimmieboy had first written together. "it looks like a poem," he said, when he had fitted the two together. "let's see how it reads. "i have not seen them since. and if my memory's not wrong, they both were dressed in chintz, with that the couple walked along;" "that doesn't mean a blessed thing," said the pad. "it's nonsense," said jimmieboy. "just wait!" said the pencil, beginning to read again: and straightway change your vest." for you to go upstairs with me, replied, "i think it's best "if that's the case," the snickersnee and catch the early train." i hadn't time to leave the shop "my reason for it's plain; "i know it," said the polypop; "since two weeks yesterday." you haven't uttered one small cheer oh, polypop, i say, then quoth the snickersnee, "see here, he didn't pay his fee. and as the moon was shining bright, to see the snickersnee, the polypop came down one night "ho!" jeered the pad. "that's elegant poetry, that is. you might get paid five cents a mile for stuff like that, if you wanted to sell it and had luck." "i don't care," said the pencil. "it rhymes well." "oh, i know what's the matter," said jimmieboy, gleefully. "why, of course it's poetry. read it upside down, and it's all right. it's dream poetry, and dreams always go the other way. why, it's fine. just listen: "the polypop came down one night to see the snickersnee, and, as the moon was shining bright, he didn't pay his fee." "that is good," said the pad. "let me say the next: "then, quoth the snickersnee, 'see here, oh, polypop, i say, you have not uttered one small cheer since two weeks yesterday.'" "i thought it would come out right," said the pencil. "the next two verses are particularly good, too: "'i know it,' said the polypop; 'my reason for it's plain; i hadn't time to leave the shop and catch the early train.' "'if that's the case,' the snickersnee replied, 'i think it's best for you to go upstairs with me, and straightway change your vest.'" "now altogether," cried the pad, enthusiastically. "one, two, three!" and then they all recited: "with that the couple walked along; they both were dressed in chintz; and if my memory's not wrong, i have not seen them since." "hooray!" cried jimmieboy, as they finished--so loudly that it nearly deafened the pad, which jumped from his lap and scurried back to the table as fast as it could go. "what's that cheer for?" asked papa, looking down into jimmieboy's face, and grabbing the pencil, which was on the point of falling to the floor. "it's for dream poetry," murmured jimmieboy, getting drowsy again. "i've just dreamed a lot. it's on the pad." "indeed!" said papa, with a sly wink at mamma. "let's get the pad and read it." the little fellow straightened up and ran across to the desk, and, grasping the pad firmly in his hands, handed it to his father to read. "h'm!" said papa, staring at the leaf before him. "blank verse." "read it," said jimmieboy. "i can't to-night, my boy," he answered. "my eyes are too weak for me to see dream writing." for between you and me that was the only kind of writing there was on that pad. iv. a subterranean mutiny. it seemed rather strange that it should have been left there, and yet jimmieboy was glad that in grading his papa's tennis-court the men had left that bit of flat rock to show up on the surface of the lawn. it had afforded him no end of pleasure since he had first discovered it. as a make-believe island in a raging sea of grass, he had often used it to be cast away upon, but chiefly had he employed it as a vantage ground from which to watch his father and his father's friends at their games of tennis. the rock was just about large enough for the boy to sit upon and pretend that he was umpire, or, as his father said, mascot for his father's opponents, and it rarely happened that a game of tennis was played upon the court that was not witnessed by jimmieboy seated upon his rocky coigne. the strangest experience that jimmieboy ever had with this bit of stone, however, was one warm afternoon last summer. it was at the drowsy period of the day. the tennis players were indulging in a game, which, to the little onlooker, was unusually dull, and he was on the point of starting off in pursuit of something, it mattered not what, so long as it was interesting enough to keep him awake, when he observed a most peculiar thing about the flat stone. it had unquestionably become transparent! jimmieboy could see through it, and what he saw was of most unexpected quality. "dear me!" he ejaculated, "how very queer. this rock is made of glass." then he peered down through it, and saw a beautiful marble staircase running down into the earth, at the foot of which was a great door that looked as though it was made of silver, and the key was of gold. at the sides of the staircase, hanging upon the walls, were pictures of strange little men and women, but unlike the men and women in other pictures, they moved about, and talked, and romped, and seemed to enjoy themselves hugely. great pictures were they indeed to jimmieboy's mind, because they were constantly changing, like the designs in his kaleidoscope. "i must get down there," he said, softly, to himself. "but how?" as he spoke the door at the foot of the steps opened, and a small creature, for all the world like the goblin in jimmieboy's fairy book, poked his head out. the goblin looked all about him, and then turning his eyes upward until they met those of the boy, he cried out: "hullo! are you the toy peddler?" "no," replied jimmieboy. "then you are the milk broker, or the potato merchant, and we don't want any milk or any potatoes." the goblin slammed the door when he had said this, and with such a bang that all the little people in the pictures ran to the edge of the frame and peered out to see what was the matter. one poor little fellow, who had been tending sheep in a picture half-way up the stairs, leaned out so far that he lost his balance and tumbled out head over heels. the sheep scampered over the hill and disappeared in the background of the painting. "poor little shepherd boy!" said jimmieboy. "i hope you are not hurt!" the shepherd boy looked up gratefully at the speaker, and said he wasn't, except in his feelings. "is there any way for me to get in there?" asked jimmieboy. "no, sir," said the shepherd boy. "that is, not all of you. part of you can come in." "ho!" said jimmieboy. "i can't divide myself up." "yes, you can," returned the shepherd boy. "it's easy enough, when you know how, but i suppose you don't know how, not having studied arithmetic. you can't even add, much less divide." "maybe you can tell me how," said jimmieboy. "certainly, i can," said the shepherd boy. "the part of you that can come in is your eye, and your ear, and your voice. all the rest of you must stay out." "but how do i get 'em in?" asked jimmieboy. "they are in now," said the other. "you can see me, you can hear me, and i can hear you." "but i can't see what's beyond that door." "oh, we'll fix that," said the little shepherd. "i'll knock on the door, and when it is opened you can tell the goblin that you want to see what he's got, and he'll show it all to you if you tell him that your father is the man who didn't blast the rock out." the shepherd boy then went softly down the stairs, knocked on the door, and before it was opened had flown back to his duties in the picture. then, as he had intimated, the goblin opened the door again, and poking his head out as before, cried: "is that you, milk broker?" "no," answered jimmieboy. "i am the son of the man who didn't blast away the flat rock, and my eye and my ear and my voice want to come in." "why, certainly," said the goblin, throwing the door wide open. "i didn't know you were you. let 'em walk right in." jimmieboy was about to say that he didn't know how his eye or his ear or his voice could walk anywhere, but he was prevented from so doing by the sudden disappearance of the staircase, and the substitution therefor of a huge room, the splendor of which was so great that it for a moment dazzled his eyes. "who comes here?" said a voice in the corner of the room. "the eye and the ear and the voice of the son of the man who did not blast the flat stone," observed the goblin, and then jimmieboy perceived, seated upon a lustrous golden throne, a shriveled-up dwarf, who looked as if he might be a thousand years old, but who, to judge from the crown he wore upon his head, was a king. the dwarf was clad in garments of the richest texture, and his person was luminous with jewels of the rarest sort. as the goblin announced the visitor the king rose up, and descending from the throne, made a courtly bow to jimmieboy. "thrice welcome, o son of the man who did not blast the flat rock," he said. "it is only fitting that one who owes so much to the father should welcome the eye and the ear and the voice of the son, for know, o boy, that i am the lord of the undergroundies whose kingdom would have been shattered but for your father's kindly act in sparing it." "i suppose that blasting the rock would have spoiled all this," said jimmieboy's voice, as his eye took in the royal magnificence of the place, while to his ears came strains of soft and sweet music. "it would have been dreadful!" "much more dreadful than you imagine," replied the little king. "it would have worked damage that a life-time could not have repaired." then the king turned to a tall, pale creature in black who sat writing at a mahogany table in one corner of the throne room, and commanded him to recite into jimmieboy's ear how dreadful it would have been. "compose, o laureate," he said to the tall, pale creature, "compose a song in which the dire effects of such a blast are fully set forth." the laureate rose from his seat, and bowing low before the king and jimmieboy's eye, began his song, which ran in this wise: "a half a pound of dynamite set in that smooth, flat stone. our palace would quite out of sight most certainly have blown. "it would have blown our window-panes to high gibraltar's ledge, and all our streets and country lanes it would have set on edge. "it would have knocked our royal king as far up as the moon; beyond the reach of anything-- beyond the best balloon. "it would have taken all our pears, our candy and our toys, and hurled them where the polar bears indulge in horrid noise. "it would have spoiled the music-box, and ruined all our books-- knocked holes in all our woolen socks, and ruined thus their looks. "'t would have destroyed our chandeliers, to dough turned all our pie; and, worst of all, my little dears, it would have injured i." "is that dreadful enough?" asked the laureate, turning to the king. "it suits me," said the king. "but perhaps our friend jimmieboy would like to have it made a little more dreadful." "in that case," said the laureate, "i can compose a few more verses in which the blast makes the tennis-court over us cave in and bury all the cake and jam we have in the larder, or if he thinks that too much to sacrifice, and would like a little pleasure mixed in with the terribleness, the cod-liver oil bottle might be destroyed." "i wouldn't spoil the cake and jam," said jimmieboy's voice, in reply to this. "but the cod-liver oil might go." "very well," said the laureate, and then he bowed low again and sang: "but there is balm for our annoy, for next the blast doth spoil six hundred quarts--o joy! o joy!-- of vile cod-liver oil." "i should think you would have liked that," said jimmieboy's voice. "i would have," said the king, "because you know the law of this country requires the king to consume a bottle of cod-liver oil every day, and if the bottles were all broken, perhaps the law, too, would have been crushed out of existence. but, after all, i'd rather be king with cod-liver oil than have my kingdom ruined and do without it. how would you like to see our gardens?" "very much," said jimmieboy. "i'm fond of flowers." the king laughed. "what a droll idea," he said, turning to the laureate. "the idea of flowers growing in gardens! write me a rhyme on the drollness of the idea." the laureate sighed. it was evident that he was getting tired of composing verses to order. "i hear and obey," he replied, shortly, and then he recited as follows: "to think of wasting: any time in raising flowers, i think, is worse than writing nonsense-rhyme, or frying purple ink. "it's queerer really than the act of painting sword-fish green; or sailing down a cataract to please a magazine. "indeed, it really seems to me, who now am very old, the drollest bit of drollery that ever has been drolled." "but what do you raise in your gardens?" asked jimmieboy, as the laureate completed his composition. "nothing, of course," said the king. "what's a garden for, anyhow? pleasure, isn't it?" "yes," said jimmieboy's voice, "but----" "there isn't any but about it," said the king. "if a garden is for pleasure it must not be worked in. business and pleasure are two very different things, and you cannot raise flowers without working." "but how do you get pleasure out of a garden when you don't raise anything in it?" "aren't you dull!" ejaculated the king. "write me a quatrain on his dullness, o laureate." "confound his dullness!" muttered the laureate. "i'm rapidly wearing out, poetizing about this boy." then he added, aloud: "certainly, your majesty. here it is: "he is the very dullest lad i've seen in all my life; for dullness he is quite as bad as any oyster-knife." "is that all?" asked the king, with a frown. "i'm afraid four lines is as many as i can squeeze into a quatrain," said the laureate, returning the frown with interest. "then tell this young man's ear, sirrah, how it comes that we get pleasure out of a garden in which nothing grows." "if i must--i suppose i must," growled the laureate; and then he recited: "the plan is thus, o little wit, you'll see it in a minute; we get our pleasures out of it, because there's none within it." "that is very poor poetry, laury!" snapped the king. "if you don't like it, don't take it," retorted the laureate. "i'm tired of this business, anyhow." "and what, pray," cried the king, striding angrily forward to the mutinous poet, "what are you going to do about it?" "i'm going to get up a revolution," retorted the laureate, shaking his quill pen fiercely at the king. "if i go to the people to-morrow, and promise not to write any more poetry, they'll all be so grateful they'll make me king, and set you to work wheeling coal in the mines for the mortals." the king's face grew so dark with anger as the laureate spoke that jimmieboy's eye could hardly see two inches before itself, and in haste the little fellow withdrew it from the scene. what happened next he never knew, but that missiles were thrown by the quarreling king and poet he was certain, for there was a tremendous shout, and something just tipped the end of his ear and went whizzing by, and rubbing his eyes, the boy looked about him, and discovered that he was still lying face downward upon the flat rock, but it was no longer transparent. off in the bushes directly back of him was his father, looking for a tennis ball. this, some people say, is the object that whizzed past jimmieboy's ear, but to this day the little fellow believes that it was nothing less than the king's crown, which that worthy monarch had hurled at the laureate, that did this. for my part i take sides with neither, for, as a matter of fact, i know nothing about it. v. jimmieboy in the library. "i'm going to sit in this comfor'ble arm-chair by the fire," said jimmieboy, climbing up into the capacious easy-chair in his father's library, and settling down upon its soft cushioned seat. "i've had my supper, and it was all of cold things, and i think i ought to get 'em warmed up before i go to bed." "very well," said his papa. "only be careful, and keep your feet awake. it wouldn't be comfortable if your feet should go to sleep just about the time your mamma wanted you to go to bed. i'd have to carry you up stairs, if that should happen, and the doctor says if i carry you much longer i'll have a back like a dromedary." "oh, that would be lovely!" said jimmieboy. "i'd just like to see you with two humps on your back--one for me, and one for my little brother." "dear me!" said a gruff voice at jimmieboy's side--"dear me! the idea of a boy of your age, with two sets of alphabet picture blocks and a dictionary right in the house, not knowing that a dromedary has only one hump! ridiculous! next thing you'll be trying to say that the one-eyed catteraugus has two eyes." jimmieboy leaned over the arm of the chair to see who it could be that spoke. it wasn't his father, that much was certain, because his father had often said that it wasn't possible to do more than three things at once, and he was now doing that many--smoking a cigar, reading a book, and playing with the locket on the end of his watch-chain. "who are you, anyhow?" said jimmieboy, as he peered over the arm, and saw nothing but the dictionary. "i'm myself--that's who," was the answer, and then jimmieboy was interested to see that it was nothing less than the dictionary itself that had addressed him. "you ought to be more careful about the way you talk," added the dictionary. "your diction is airy without being dictionary, if you know what that means, which you don't, as the rose remarked to the cauliflower, when the cauliflower said he'd be a finer rose than the rose if he smelled as sweet." "i'm very sorry," jimmieboy replied, meekly, "i forgot that the dromedary only had one hump." "i don't believe you'd know a dromedary from a milk dairy if they both stood before you," retorted the dictionary. "now would you?" "yes, i think i would," said jimmieboy. "the milk dairy would have cream in bottles in its windows, and the dromedary wouldn't." "ah, but you don't know why!" sang the dictionary. "you don't even begin to know why the dromedary wouldn't have cream in bottles in its windows." "no," said jimmieboy, "i don't. why wouldn't he?" "because he has no windows," laughed the dictionary; "and between you and me, that's one of the respects in which the dromedary is like a base-drum--there isn't a solitary window in either of 'em." "you know a terrible lot, don't you?" said jimmieboy, patronizingly. "terrible isn't the word. i'm simply hideously learned," said the dictionary. "why, i've been called a vocabulary, i know so many words." "i wish you'd tell me all you know," said jimmieboy, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair, and putting his chin on the palms of his two hands. "i'd like to know more than papa does--just for once. do you know enough to tell me anything he doesn't know?" "do i?" laughed the dictionary. "well, don't i? rather. why, i'm telling him things all the time. he came and asked me the other night what raucous meant, and how to spell macrobiotic." "and did you really know?" asked jimmieboy, full of admiration for this wonderful creature. "yes; and a good deal more besides. why, if he had asked me, i could have told him what a zygomatic zoophagan is; but he never asked me. queer, wasn't it?" "yes," said jimmieboy. "what is one of those things?" "a zygomatic zoophagan? why that's a--er--let me see," said the dictionary, turning over his leaves. "i like to search myself pretty thoroughly before i commit myself to a definition. a zygomatic zoophagan is a sort of cheeky animal that eats other animals. you are one, though i wouldn't brag about it if i were you. you are an animal, and at times a very cheeky animal, and i've seen you eat beef. that's what makes you a zygomatic zoophagan." "do i bite?" asked jimmieboy, a little afraid of himself since he had learned what a fearful creature he was. "only at dinner-time, and unless you are very careless about it and eat too hastily you need not be afraid. very few zygomatic zoophagans ever bite themselves. in fact, it never happened really but once that i know of. that was the time the zoophagan got the best of the eight-winged tallahassee. ever hear about that?" "no, i never did," said jimmieboy. "how did it happen?" "this way," said the dictionary, as he stood up and made a bow to jimmieboy. and then he recited these lines: [illustration: the calipee and the zoophagan.] "the calipee and the zoophagan." "the yellow-faced zoophagan was strolling near the sea, when from the depths of ocean sprang forth that dread amp-hib-ian, the mawkish calipee. "the tallahassee bird sometimes the calipee is called. his eyes are round and big as dimes, he has eight wings, composes rhymes, his head is very bald. "now if there are two creatures in this world who disagree-- two creatures full of woe and sin-- they are the zo-oph, pale and thin, and that bad calipee. "whene'er they meet they're sure to fight, no matter where they are; nor do they stop by day or night, till one is beaten out of sight, or safety seeks afar. "and, sad to say, the calipee is stronger of the two; and so he'd won the victory at all times from his enemy, the slight and slender zoo. "but this time it went otherwise, for, so the story goes, as yonder sun set in the skies, the calipee, to his surprise, was whacked square on the nose. "which is the fatal, mortal part of all the calipees; much more important than the heart, for life is certain to depart when cali cannot sneeze. "the world, surprised, asked 'how was it? how did he do it so? where did the zoo get so much wit? how did he learn so well to hit so fatally his foe?' "''twas but his strategy,' then cried the friends of little zoo; 'as cali plunged, our hero shied, ran twenty feet off to one side, and bit himself in two. "'and then, you see, the calipee was certainly undone; the zo-oph beat him easily, as it must nearly always be when there are two to one.' "rather a wonderful tale that," continued the dictionary. "i don't know that i really believe it, though. it's too great a tale for any dog to wag, eh?" "yes," said jimmieboy. "i don't think i believe it either. if the zoophagan bit himself in two, i should think he'd have died. i know i would." "no, you wouldn't," said the dictionary; "because you couldn't. it isn't a question of would and could, but of wouldn't and couldn't. by-the-way, here's a chance for you to learn something. what's the longest letter in the alphabet?" "they're all about the same, aren't they?" asked jimmieboy. "they look so, but they aren't. l is the longest. an english ell is forty-five inches long. here's another. what letter does a chinaman wear on his head?" "double eye!" cried jimmieboy. "that's pretty good," said the dictionary, with an approving nod; "but you're wrong. he wears a q. and i'll tell you why a q is like a chinaman. chinamen don't amount to a row of beans, and a q is nothing but a zero with a pig-tail. do you know why they put a at the head of the alphabet?" "no." "because alphabet begins with an a." "then why don't they put t at the end of it?" asked jimmieboy. "they do," said the dictionary. "i-t--it." jimmieboy laughed to himself. he had no idea there was so much fun in the dictionary. "tell me something more," he said. "let me see. oh, yes," said the dictionary, complacently. "how's this? "'oh, what is a yak, sir?' the young man said; 'i really much wish to hear.' 'a queer-looking cad with a bushy head, a buffalo-robe all over him spread, and whiskers upon his ear.' "and tell me, i pray,' said the boy in drab, just what's a thelphusi-an?' 'a great big crab with nippers that nab whatever the owner desires to grab-- a crusty crustace-an." "'i'm obliged,' said the boy, with a wide, wide smirk, as he slowly moved away. 'will you tell me, sir, ere i go to work-- to toil till the night brings along its murk-- how high peanuts are to-day?' "and i had to give in, for i couldn't say; and the boy, with a grin, moved off on his way." "that was my own personal experience," said the dictionary. "the boy was a very mean boy, too. he went about telling people that there were a great many things i didn't know, which was very true, only he never said what they were, and his friends thought they were important things, like the meaning of sagaciousness, and how many jays are there in geranium, and others. if he'd told 'em that it was things like the price of peanuts, and how are the fish biting to-day, and is your mother's seal-skin sack plush or velvet, that i didn't know, they'd not have thought it disgraceful. oh, it was awfully mean!" "particularly after you had told him what those other things were," said jimmieboy. "yes; but i got even with him. he came to me one day to find out what an episode was, and i told him it was a poem in hysterical hexameters, with a refrain repeated every eighteenth line, to be sung to slow music." "and what happened?" asked jimmieboy. "he told his teacher that, and he was kept in for two months, and made to subtract two apples from one lunch every recess." "oh, my, how awful!" cried jimmieboy. "but it served him right. don't you think so?" said the dictionary. "yes, i do," said jimmieboy. "but tell me. what'll i tell papa that he doesn't know?" "tell him that a sasspipedon is a barrel with four sides, and is open at both ends, and is a much better place for cigar ashes than his lap, because they pass through it to the floor, and so do not soil his clothes." "good!" said jimmieboy, peering across the room to where his father still sat smoking. "i think i'll tell him now. say, papa," he cried sitting up, "what is a sasspipedon?" "i don't know. what?" answered jimmieboy's father, laying his paper down, and coming over to where the little boy sat. "it's a--it's a--it's an ash-barrel," said the little fellow, trying to remember what the dictionary had said. "who said so?" asked papa. "the dictionary," answered jimmieboy. and when jimmieboy's father came to examine the dictionary on the subject, the disagreeable old book hadn't a thing to say about the sasspipedon, and jimmieboy went up to bed wondering what on earth it all meant, anyhow. vi. jimmieboy's snowman. the snow had been falling fast for well-nigh forty-eight hours and jimmieboy was almost crazy with delight. he loved the snow because it was possible to do so much with it. one didn't need to go into a store, for instance, and part with ten cents every time one happened to want a ball, when there was snow on the ground. then, too, jimmieboy had a new sled he wanted to try, but best of all, his father had promised to make him a snowman, with shoe-buttons for eyes and a battered old hat on his head, if perchance there could be found anywhere in the house a hat of that sort. fortunately a battered old hat was found, and the snowman when finished looked very well in it. i say fortunately because jimmieboy had fully made up his mind that a battered hat was absolutely necessary to make the snowman a success, and had not the old one been found i very much fear the youth would have taken his father's new one and battered that into the state of usefulness required to complete the icy statue to his satisfaction. after the snowman was finished jimmieboy romped about him and shouted in great glee for an hour or more, and then, growing a little weary of the sport, he ran up into his nursery to rest for a little while. he had not been there very long however when he became, for some unknown reason, uneasy about the funny looking creature he had left behind him. running to the window he looked out to see if the snowman was all right, and he was much surprised to discover that he wasn't there at all. he couldn't have melted, that was certain, for the air was colder than it had been when the snowman was put up. no one could have stolen him because he was too big, and so, well, it certainly was a strange conclusion, but none the less the only one, he must have walked off himself. "it's mighty queer!" thought jimmieboy. "he was there ten minutes ago." then he ran down stairs and peered out of the window. at the front of the house no snowman was in sight. then he went to a side window and looked out. still no snowman. and then the door-bell rang, and jimmieboy went to the door and opened it, and, dear me! how he laughed when he saw who it was that had rung the bell, as would also have you, for, honestly, it was no one else than the snowman himself. "what do you want?" asked jimmieboy. the snowman made a low bow to jimmieboy, and replied: "i got so weary standing there, i thought i'd ask you for a chair; 'tis rather cool of me, i know, but coolness in a man of snow is quite the fashion in these days, and to be stylish always pays." "won't you come in?" asked jimmieboy politely. the snowman stared at jimmieboy with all the power of the shoe-buttons. he was evidently surprised. in a moment or two, however, he recovered and said: "indeed, i'll enter not that door, i've tried it once or twice before." "what of that?" asked jimmieboy. "didn't you like it?" "oh, yes; i liked it well enough, although it used me pretty rough; i lost a nose and foot and ear, last time i happened to come here." "do you always speak in rhyme?" asked jimmieboy, noticing the snowman's habit for the first time. "always, except when i speak in prose," said the snowman. "but perhaps you don't like rhyme?" "yes, i do like rhyme very much," said jimmieboy. "then you like me," said the snowman, "because i'm mostly rime myself. but say, don't stand there with the door open letting all the heat out into the world. if you want to talk to me come outside where we can be comfortable." "very well," said jimmieboy. "i'll come, if you'll wait until i bundle up a little so as to keep warm." "all right, i'll wait," the snowman answered, "only don't you get too warm. i'll take you up to where i live and introduce you to my boys if you like--only hurry. if a thaw should set in we might have trouble. "of all mean things i ever saw the meanest of them is a thaw." jimmieboy, pondering deeply over his curious experience, quickly donned his overcoat and rubber boots, and in less time than it takes to tell it was out of doors again with the snowman. the huge white creature smiled happily as jimmieboy came out, and taking him by the hand they went off up the road together. "i'm glad you weren't offended with me because i wouldn't go in and sit down in your house," said the snowman, after they had walked a little way. "i had a very narrow escape thirty winters ago when i was young and didn't know any better than to accept an invitation of that sort. i lived in russia then, and a small boy very much like you asked me to go into his house with him and see some funny picture-books he had. i said all right, and in i went, never thinking that the house was hot and that i'd be in danger of melting away. the boy got out his picture-books and we sat down before a blazing log fire. suddenly the boy turned white as i was, and cried out: "'hi! what have you done with your leg?' "'i brought it in with me, didn't i?' i said, looking down to where the leg ought to be, and noticing much to my concern that it was gone. "'i thought so,' said the boy. 'maybe you left it down on the hat-rack with your hat and cane.' "'well i wish you'd go and see,' said i, very nervously. 'i don't want to lose that leg if i can help it.' "so off the boy went," continued the snowman, "and i waited there before the fire wondering what on earth had become of the missing limb. the boy soon came back and announced that he couldn't find it. "'then i must hop around until i do find it,' i put in, starting up. would you believe it, jimmieboy, that the minute i tried to rise and hop off on the search i discovered that my other leg was gone too?" "dear me!" said jimmieboy. "how dreadful." "it was fearful," returned the snowman, "but that wasn't half. i raised my hand to my forehead so as to think better, when off dropped my right arm, and as i reached out with my left to pick it up again that dropped off too. then as my vest also disappeared, the boy cried out: "'why, i know what's the matter. you are melting away!' "he was right. the heat of the log fire was just withering me right up. fortunately as my neck began to go and my head rolled off the chair onto the floor, the boy had presence of mind enough to pick it up--it was all that was left of me--and throw it out of the window. if it hadn't been for that timely act of his i should have met the horrid fate of my cousin the iceberg." "what was that?" asked jimmieboy. "oh, he wanted to travel," said the snowman, "so he floated off down to south america and waked up one morning to find himself nothing but a tankful of the gulf of mexico. we never saw the poor fellow again." "i understand now why you didn't want to come in," said jimmieboy, "and i'm glad you didn't do as i asked you, for i don't think mamma would have been pleased if you'd melted away in the parlor." "i know she wouldn't," said the snowman. "she's like the woman mentioned in the poem, who "--hated flies and muddy shoes, as well as pigs and kangaroos; but most of all she did abhor, a melted snow-drift on the floor." "do you live near here?" asked jimmieboy as he trudged along at the snowman's side. "well," replied the snowman, "i do, and i don't. when i do, i do, and when i don't, it's otherwise. this climate doesn't agree with me in the summer, and so when summer comes i move up to the north pole. ever been there?" "no," said jimmieboy, "what sort of a place is it?" "fine," returned the snowman. "the thermometer is always at least twenty miles below zero, even on the hottest days, and fire can't by any possibility come near us. only one fire ever tried to and it was frozen stiff before it got within a hundred leagues of us. in winter, however, i come to places like this, and bring my little boys with me. we hire a convenient snow-drift and live in that. there's mine now right ahead of you." jimmieboy peered curiously along the road, at the far end of which he could see a huge mound of snow like the one the famous blizzard had piled up in front of his father's house some time before jimmieboy and the world came to know each other. "do you live in that?" he asked. "yes," said the snowman. "and i will say that it's one of the most conveniently arranged snow-drifts i ever lived in. the house part of it is always as cold as ice--it's cooled by a special kind of refrigerator i had put in, which consumes about half a ton of ice a week." jimmieboy laughed. "it's a cold furnace, eh?" he said. "precisely," answered the snowman. "and besides that the house is deliciously draughty so that we have no difficulty in keeping cold. once in a while my boys run in the sun and get warmed through, but i dose 'em up with ice-water and cold cream and they soon get chilled again. but come, shall we go in?" the pedestrians had by this time reached the side of the snow-drift, and jimmieboy was pleased to see a door at one side of it. this the snowman opened, and they entered together a marvelously beautiful and extensive garden glistening with frosty flowers and snow-clad trees. at the end of the garden was a little white house that looked like the icing on jimmieboy's birthday cake. as they approached it, the door of the little house was thrown open and a dozen small-sized snow boys rushed out and began to pelt the snowman and jimmieboy with tennis balls. "hold up, boys," cried the snowman. "i've brought a friend home to see you." the boys stopped at once, and jimmieboy was introduced to them. for hours they entertained him in the gardens and in the house. they showed him wondrous snow toys, among which were rocking horses, railway trains, soldiers--all made of the same soft fleecy substance from which the snowman and his children were constructed. when he had played for a long time with these they gave him caramels and taffy and cream cakes, these also made of snow, though as far as their taste went they were better than those made of sugar and chocolate and cream, or, at least, it seemed so to jimmieboy at the time. after this bit of luncheon the boys invited him out to coast, and he went along with them to the top of a high hill without any snow upon it, and for hours he and they slid from summit to base in great red-wheeled wagons. it took his breath away the first time he went down, but when he got used to it he found the sport delightful. he was glad, however, when a voice from the little white house called to the children to return. "come in now, boys," it said. "it is getting too warm for you to stay out." the boys were obedient to the word and they all--a dozen of them at least--trooped back into the house where jimmieboy was welcomed by his friend the snowman again. the snowman looked a little anxious, jimmieboy thought, but he supposed this was because the littlest snowboy had overheated himself at his play and had come in minus two fingers and an ear. it was not this, however, that bothered him, as jimmieboy found out in a few minutes, for the snowman simply restored the missing fingers and the ear by making a new lot for the little fellow out of a handful of snow he got in the garden. anything so easily replaced was not worth worrying over. the real cause of his anxiety came out when the father of this happy little family of snow boys called jimmieboy to one side. "you must go home right away," he said. "i'm sorry, but we have got to fly just as hard as we can or we are lost." "but----" said jimmieboy. "don't ask for reasons," returned the snowman, gathering his little snowboys together and rushing off with them in tow. "i haven't time to give them. just read that and you'll see. farewell." then he made off down the garden path, and as he fled with his babies jimmieboy picked up the thing the snowman had told him to read, and wandered back into the house, holding it in his hand. it was only a newspaper, but at the top of the first column was an announcement in huge letters: warm wave to-night. * * * * * wise snowmen will move north at once. when jimmieboy saw this he knew right away why he had been deserted, but to this day he doesn't know how he knew it, because at the time this happened he had not learned how to read. at all events he discovered what the trouble was instantly, and then he decided that as he had been left by all of his new friends he would go home. he walked to the front door and opened it, and what do you suppose it opened into? the garden? not a bit of it. into jimmieboy's nursery itself, and when the door closed upon him after he had stepped through it into the nursery and jimmieboy turned to look at it, lo, and behold it wasn't there! nor was the snowman to be found the next morning. it was quite evident that he had got away from the warm wave that appeared on the scene the night before, for there wasn't even a sign of the shoe-button eyes or the battered hat, as there certainly would have been had he melted instead of run away. vii. the bicyclopÆdia bird. "boo!" said something. and jimmieboy of course was startled. so startled was he that, according to his own statement, he jumped ninety-seven feet, though for my own part i don't believe he really jumped more than thirty-three. he was too sleepy to count straight anyhow. he had been lolling under his canvas tent down near the tennis-court all the afternoon, getting lazier and lazier every minute, and finally he had turned over square on his back, put his head on a small cushion his mamma had made for him, closed his eyes, and then came the "boo!" "i wonder--" he said, as he gazed about him, seeing no sign of any creature that could by any possibility say "boo!" however. "of course you do. that's why i've come," interrupted a voice from the bushes. "more children of your age suffer from the wonders than from measles, mumps, or canthaves." "what are canthaves?" asked jimmieboy. "canthaves are things you can't have. don't you ever suffer because you can't have things?" queried the voice. "oh, yes, indeed!" returned jimmieboy. "lots and lots of times." "and didn't you ever have the wonders so badly that you got cross and wouldn't eat anything but sweet things for dinner?" the voice asked. "i don't know exactly what you mean by the wonders," replied jimmieboy. "why, wonders is a disease that attacks boys who want to know why things are and can't find out," said the voice. "oh, my, yes i've had that lots of times," laughed jimmieboy. "why, only this morning i asked my papa why there weren't any dandelionesses, and he wouldn't tell me because he said he had to catch a train, and i've been wondering why ever since." "i thought you'd had it; all boys do get it sooner or later, and it's a thing you can have any number of times unless you have me around," said the voice. "what are you anyhow?" asked jimmieboy. "i'm what they call the encyclopædia bird. i'm a regular owl for wisdom. i know everything--just like the cyclopædia; and i have two wheels instead of legs, which is why they call me the bicyclopædia bird. i can't let you see me, because these are not my office hours. i can only be seen between ten and two on the thirty-second of march every seventeenth year. you can get a fair idea of what i look like from my photograph, though." [illustration] as the voice said this, sure enough a photograph did actually pop out of the bush, and land at jimmieboy's feet. he sprang forward eagerly, stooped, and picking it up, gazed earnestly at it. and a singular creature the bicyclopædia bird must have been if the photograph did him justice. he had the head of an owl, but his body was oblong in shape, just like a book, and, as the voice had said, in place of legs were two wheels precisely like those of a bicycle. the effect was rather pleasing, but so funny that jimmieboy really wanted to laugh. he did not laugh, however, for fear of hurting the bird's feelings, which the bird noticed and appreciated. "thank you," he said, simply. "what for?" asked jimmieboy, looking up from the photograph, and peering into the bush in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of the bird itself. "for not laughing," replied the bird. "if you had laughed i should have biked away at once because i am of no value to any one who laughs at my personal appearance. it always makes me forget all i know, and that does me up for a whole year. if i forget all i know, you see, i have to study hard to learn it all over again, and that's a tremendous job, considering how much knowledge there is to be had in the world. so you see, by being polite and kind enough not to laugh at me, who can't help being funny to look at, and who am not to blame for looking that way, because i am not a self-made bird, you are really the gainer, for i promise you i'll tell you anything you want to know." "that's very nice of you," returned jimmieboy; "and perhaps, to begin with, you'll tell me something that i ought to want to know, whether i do or not." "that is a very wise idea," said the bicyclopædia bird, "and i'll try to do it. let me see; now, do you know why the pollywog is always amiable?" "no," returned jimmieboy. "i never even knew that he was, and so couldn't really wonder why." "but you wonder why now, don't you?" asked the voice, anxiously. "for if you don't, i can't tell you." "i'm just crazy to know," jimmieboy responded. "then listen, and i will tell you," said the voice. and then the strange bird recited this poem about the pollywog. "the pollywog's a perfect type of amiability. he never uses angry speech wherever he may be. he never calls his brother names, or tweaks his sister's nose; he never pulls the sea-dog's tail, or treads upon his toes. "he never says an unkind word, and frown he never will. a smile is ever on his lips, e'en when he's feeling ill. and this is why: when pollywog the first came on the scene, he had a temper like a cat's-- his eye with it was green. "now, just about the time when he began to lose his tail, to change into a croaking frog, he came across a nail-- a nail so rusty that it looked just like an angle-worm, except that it was straight and stiff, and so could never squirm. "and polly, feeling hungry, to assuage his appetite, swam boldly up to that old nail, and gave it such a bite, he nearly broke his upper jaw; his lower jaw he bent. and then he got so very mad, his temper simply went. "he lost it so completely as he lashed and gnashed around, that though this happened years ago, it has not since been found. and that is why, at all times, in the pollywog you see, a model of that virtue rare-- true amiability." "now, i dare say," continued the bird--"i dare say you might have asked your father--who really knows a great deal, considering he isn't my twin brother--sixteen million four hundred and twenty-three times why the pollywog is always so good-natured, and he couldn't have answered you more than once out of the whole lot, and he'd have been wrong even then." "it must be lovely to know so much," said jimmieboy. "it is," said the bird; "that is, it is lovely when you don't have to keep it all to yourself. it's very nice to tell things. that's really the best part of secrets, i think. it is such fun telling them. now, why does the sun rise in the morning?" "i don't know. why?" "for the same reason that you do," returned the sage bird. "because it is time to get up." "well, here's a thing i don't know about," said jimmieboy. "what is 'to alarm?'" "to frighten--to scare--to discombobulate," replied the bird. "why?" "well, i don't see why an alarm-clock is called an alarm-clock, because it doesn't ever alarm anybody," said jimmieboy. "oh, it doesn't, eh?" cried the bird. "well, that's just where you are mistaken. it alarms the people or the animals you dream about when you are asleep, and they make such a noise getting away that they wake you up. why, an alarm-clock saved my life once. i dreamed that i fell asleep on board a steamboat that went so fast hardly anybody could stay on board of her--she just regularly slipped out from under their feet, and unless a passenger could run fast enough to keep up with her, or was chained fast enough to keep aboard of her, he'd get dropped astern every single time. i dreamed i was aboard of her one day, and that to keep on deck i chained myself to the smoke-stack, and then dozed off. just as i was dozing, a misinformation bird, who was jealous of me, sneaked up and cut the chain. as he expected, the minute i was cut loose the boat rushed from under me, and the first thing i knew i was struggling in the water. while i was struggling there, i was attacked by a catfish. cats are death to birds, you know, and i really had given myself up for lost, when '_ling-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling_' went the alarm-clock in the corner of my cage; the fish turned blue with fear, swished his tail about in his fright, and the splashing of the water waked me up, and there i was standing on one wheel on my perch, safe and sound. if that clock hadn't gone off and alarmed that catfish, i am afraid i should have been forever lost to the world." "i see now; but i never knew before why it was called an alarm-clock, and i've wondered about it a good deal," said jimmieboy. "now, here's another thing i've bothered over many a time: what's the use of weeds?" "oh, that's easy," said the bird, with a laugh. "to make lawns look prettier next year than they do this." "i don't see how that is," said jimmieboy. "clear as window-glass. this year you have weeds on your lawn, don't you?" "yes," returned jimmieboy. "and you make them get out, don't you?" said the bird. "yes," assented jimmieboy. "well, there you are. by getting out they make your lawns prettier. that's one of the simplest things in the world. but here's a thing i should think you'd wonder at. why do houses have shutters on their windows?" asked the bird. "i know why," said jimmieboy. "it's to keep the sun out." "that's nonsense, because the sun is so much larger than any house that was ever built it couldn't get in if it tried," returned the feathered sage. "then i don't know why. why?" asked jimmieboy. "so as to wake people up by banging about on windy nights, and they are a mighty useful invention too," said the bird. "i knew of a whole family that got blown away once just because they hadn't any shutters to bang about and warn them of their danger. it was out in the west, where they have cyclones, which are things that pick up houses and toss them about just as you would pebbles. a mr. and mrs. podlington had built a house in the middle of a big field for themselves and their seventeen children. mr. podlington was very rich, but awful mean, and when the house was finished, all except the shutters, he said he wasn't going to have any shutters because they cost too much, and so they hadn't a shutter on the house. one night after they had lived where they were about six months they all went to bed about nine o'clock, and by ten they were sound asleep, every one of them. at eleven o'clock a breeze sprang up. this grew very shortly into a gale. then it became a hurricane, and by two o'clock it was a cyclone. one cyclone wouldn't have hurt much, but at three o'clock two more came along, and the first thing the podlington family knew their house was blown off its foundations, lifted high up in the air, and at breakfast-time was out of sight, and, what is worse, it has never come down anywhere, and all this happened ten years ago." "but where did it go?" asked jimmieboy. "nobody knows. maybe it landed in the moon. maybe it's being blown about on the wings of those cyclones yet. i don't believe we'll ever know," answered the bird. "but you can see just why that all happened. it was mr. podlington's meanness about the shutters, and nothing else. if he had had shutters on that house, at least one of them would have flopped bangety-bang against the house all night, and the chances are that they would all have been waked up by it before the cyclone came, and in plenty of time to save themselves. in fact, i think very likely they could have fastened the house more securely to the ground, and saved it too, if they had waked up and seen what was going on." [illustration: "i'll never build a house without shutters."] "i'll never build a house without shutters," said jimmieboy, as he tried to fancy the condition of the podlingtons whisking about in the air for ten long years--nearly five years longer than he himself had lived. if they had landed in the moon it wouldn't have been so bad, but this other possible and even more likely fate of mounting on the wind ever higher and higher and not landing anywhere was simply dreadful to think about. "i wouldn't, especially in the cyclone country," returned the voice in the bush. "but i'll tell you of one thing that would save you if you really did have to build a house without shutters; build it with wings. you've heard of houses with wings, of course?" "yes, indeed," said jimmieboy. "why, our house has three wings. one of 'em was put on it last summer, so that we could have a bigger kitchen." "i remember," said the bird. "i wondered a good deal about that wing until i found out it was for a kitchen, and not to fly with. the house had enough wings to fly with without the new one. in fact, the new one for flying purposes would be as useless as a third wheel to a bicycle." "what do you mean by to fly with?" asked jimmieboy, puzzled at this absurd remark of the bird. "exactly what i say. wings are meant to fly with, aren't they? i hope you knew that!" said the bird. "so if the podlingtons' house had had wings it might have got back all right. it could have worked its way slowly out of the cyclone, and then sort of rested on its wings a little until it was prepared to swoop down on to its old foundations, alighting just where it was before. a trip through the air under such circumstances would have been rather pleasant, i think--much pleasanter than going off into the air forever, without any means of getting back." "but," asked jimmieboy, "even if mr. podlington's house had had wings, how could he have made them work?" "why, how stupid of you!" cried the bird. "don't you know that he could have taken hold of the----" "ting-a-ling-a-ling a-ling-a-ling!" rang the alarm-clock up in the cook's room, which had been set for six o'clock in the afternoon instead of for six in the morning by some odd mistake of mary ann's. "the alarm! the alarm!" shrieked the bird, in terror. and then the invisible creature, if jimmieboy could judge by the noise in the bush, seemed to make off as fast as he could go, his cries of fear growing fainter and fainter as the wise bird got farther and farther away, until finally they died away in the distance altogether. jimmieboy sprang to his feet, looked down the road along which his strange friend had fled, and then walked into the house, wishing that the alarm-clock had held off just a little longer, so that he might have learned how the wings of a house should be managed to make the house fly off into the air. he really felt as if he would like to try the experiment with his own house. viii. giant the jack killer. jimmieboy was turning over the pages of his fairy book the other night, trying to refresh his memory concerning the marvelous doings of the fairy-land people by looking at the pictures. his papa was too tired to read to him, and as no one else in the house was willing to undertake the task, the boy was doing his best to entertain himself, and as it happened he got more out of his own efforts than he ever derived from the efforts of others. he had dallied long over the weird experiences of cinderella, and had just turned over the pages which lead up to the story of jack the giant killer, when something in the picture of the giant's castle seemed to move. looking a little more closely at the picture in a startled sort of way, jimmieboy saw that the moving thing was the knob of the castle door, and in a jiffy the door itself opened, and a huge homely creature whom jimmieboy recognized at once as an ogre stuck his head out. for a moment the little fellow felt disposed to cry for help. surely if the giant could open the door in the picture there was no reason why he should not step out of the book entirely and make a speedy meal of jimmieboy, who, realizing that he was entirely unarmed, was inclined to run and hide behind his papa's back. his fast oozing courage was quickly restored, however, by the giant himself, who winked at him in a genial sort of fashion as much as to say: "nonsense, boy, i wouldn't eat you, if i could." the wink he followed up at once with a smile, and then he said: "that you, jimmieboy?" "yes, sir," said jimmieboy, very civilly indeed. "i'm me. are you you?" the giant laughed. "yes," he replied, "and so, of course, we are ourselves. are you very busy?" "not very," said jimmieboy. "why?" "i want a little advice from you," the giant answered. "i think it's about time the tables were turned on that miserable little ruffian jack. the idea of a big thing like me being killed every day of his life by a mosquito like jack is very tiresome, and i want to know if you don't think it would be fair if i should kill him just once for the sake of variety. it won't hurt him. he'll come to life again right away just as we giants do----" "don't you stay dead when jack kills you?" asked jimmieboy. "you know the answer to that as well as i do," said the giant. "you've had this story read to you every day now for three years, haven't you?" "about that," said jimmieboy. "well, if we staid dead how do you suppose we'd be on hand to be killed again the next time you had the story read to you?" "i never thought of that," said jimmieboy. "never thought of it?" echoed the ogre. "why, what kind of thoughts do you think, anyhow? it's the only thought for a thinker to think i think, don't you think so?" "say that again, will you?" said jimmieboy. "couldn't possibly," said the ogre. "in fact, i've forgotten it. but what do you think of my scheme? don't you think it would be wise if i killed jack just once?" "perhaps it would," said the boy. "that is if it wouldn't hurt him." "hurt him? didn't i tell you it wouldn't hurt him?" said the giant. "i wouldn't hurt that boy for all the world. if i did i'd lose my position. why, all i am i owe to him. the fairy people let me live in this magnificent castle for nothing. they let me rob them of all their property, and all i have to do in return for this is to be killed by jack whenever any little boy or girl in your world desires to be amused by a tragedy of that sort. so you see i haven't any hard feelings against him, even if i did call him a miserable little ruffian." "well, i don't exactly like to have jack killed," said jimmieboy. "i've always rather liked him. what do you suppose he would say to it?" "that's just the point. i wouldn't kill him unless he was willing. that would be a violation of my agreement with him, and when he came to he might sue me for what the lawyers call a breach of contract," said the ogre. "now, it seemed to me that if you were to go to jack and tell him that you were getting a little tired of having this story end the way it does all the time, and that you thought it only fair to me that i should have a chance to celebrate a victory, say once a week--every saturday night for instance--he'd be willing to do it." "where can i find him?" asked jimmieboy. "i just as lief ask him." "he's in the picture, two pages farther along, sharpening his sword," said the ogre. "very well, i'll go see him at once," said jimmieboy. then he said good-by to the giant, and turned over the pages until he came to the pictures showing how jack sharpened his sword on the soles of the shoes of another giant, whom he had bound and strapped to the floor. at first jimmieboy did not know how to address him. he had often spoken to the figures in the pictures, but they had never replied to anything he had said. however, he made a beginning. "ahem!" he said. the effect was pleasing, for as he said this jack stopped sharpening his blade and turned to see who had spoken. "ah, jimmieboy!" said the small warrior. "howdy do. haven't seen much of you this week. you've been paying more attention to hop o' my thumb than to me lately." "well, i love you just the same," said jimmieboy. "i've just seen the giant that lives up in the castle with the dragon on the front stoop." "he's a good fellow," said jack. "i'm very fond of him. he never gives me any trouble, and dies just as easy as if he were falling off a log, and out of business hours we're great chums. he's had something on his mind lately, though, that i don't understand. he says being killed every day is getting monotonous." "that's what he said to me," said jimmieboy. "well, i hope he doesn't resign his position," said jack, thoughtfully. "i know it isn't in every way a pleasant one, but he might go farther and fare worse. the way i kill him is painless, but if he got into that bean-stalk boy's hands he'd be all bruised up. you can't fall a mile without getting hurt, you know, and i like the old fellow too well to have him go over to that bean-stalk cousin of mine." "he likes you, too," said jimmieboy, pleased to find that there was so much good feeling between the two creatures. "but he thinks he ought to get a chance to win once in a while. he said if he could arrange it with you to have him kill you once a week--saturday nights, for instance--he'd be perfectly contented." "that's reasonable enough," said jack, nodding his head approvingly. "did he say how he would like to do it?" "no, only that he'd kill you tenderly, so that you wouldn't suffer," said jimmieboy. "oh, i know that!" said jack, softly. "he's too tender-hearted to hurt anybody. i'm very much inclined to agree to the proposition, but he must let me choose the manner of the killing. he hasn't had much practice killing people, and if he were to do it by hitting me on the head with a stick of wood i'd be likely to wake up with a headache next day; neither should i like to be smothered because while that doesn't bruise one or break any bones its awfully stuffy, and if there's one thing i like it is fresh air." "perhaps he might eat you," suggested jimmieboy. "he isn't big enough to do that comfortably," said jack, shaking his head. "he'd have to cut me up and chew me, because his throat isn't large enough for him to swallow me at one gulp. but i'll tell you what you can do. you go back to him, and tell him that i'll agree to his proposition, if he'll have me cooked in a plum-pudding four hundred feet in circumference. i'm very fond of plum-pudding, and while he is eating it from the outside i could be eating it from the inside, and, of course, i shouldn't be burned in the cooking, because in the middle of a pudding of that size the heat never could reach me." "but when he reached you," said jimmieboy, "you'd have the same trouble you said you'd have if he ate you up. he'd have to cut you to pieces and chew you." "ah!" said jack, "don't you see my point? by the time he reached me he would have eaten so much plum-pudding that he wouldn't have room for me, so i'd escape." "but, then, you wouldn't be killed," said jimmieboy. "that wouldn't make any difference," said jack. "we'd stop the story before i escaped and everybody would think i'd been eaten up, and that's all he wants. he just wants to seem to win once. he doesn't really care about killing me dead. don't you see." "yes, i think i do," said jimmieboy, "and i'll go back and tell him what you say." "thank you," said jack. "and while you are there give him my love, and tell him i'll be around to kill him as usual after tea." all of which jimmieboy did and the giant readily agreeing to the plum-pudding scheme, said good-night to his little visitor, and retired into the castle, closing the door after him. then jimmieboy went to bed in a great hurry, because he knew how sleep made time seem shorter than it really was, and he was very anxious to have saturday night come around so that he could see how the new ending to the story of jack the giant killer worked. as yet that saturday night has not turned up, so that i really cannot tell you whether or not the arrangement was a success. ix. jimmieboy and the fireworks. there was whispering going on somewhere, and jimmieboy felt that it was his duty to find out where it was, who it was that was doing it, and what it was that was being whispered. it was about an hour after supper on the evening of july d when it all happened. a huge box full of fire-works had arrived only a few hours before, and jimmieboy was somewhat afraid that the whisperings might have come from burglars who, knowing that there were thirty-five rockets, twenty roman candles, colored lights by the dozen, and no end of torpedoes and fire-crackers and other things in the house, had come to steal them, and, if he could help himself, jimmieboy was not going to allow that. so he began to search about, and in a few minutes he had located the whisperers in the very room at the foot of the back stairs in which the fire-works were. his little heart almost stopped beating for a moment when he realized this. it isn't pleasant to feel that perhaps you will be deprived, after all, of something you have looked forward to for a whole month, and upon the very eve of the fulfillment of your dearest hopes at that. "i'll have to tell papa about this," he said; and then, realizing that his papa was not at home, and that his mamma was up stairs trying to convince his small brother that it would be impossible to get the moon into the nursery, although it looked much smaller even than the nursery window, jimmieboy resolved that he would take the matter in hand himself. "a boygler wouldn't hurt me, and maybe if i talk gruff and keep out of sight, he'll think i'm papa and run," he said. then he tried his gruff voice, and it really was tremendously gruff--about as gruff as the bark of a fox-terrier. after he had done this, he tip-toed softly down the stairs until he stood directly opposite the door of the room where the fire-works were. "move on, you boygler you!" he cried, just as he thought his father would have said it. the answer was an explosion--not exactly of fire-works, but of mirth. "he thinks somebody's trying to steal us," said a funny little voice, the like of which jimmieboy had never heard before. "how siss-siss-sissingular of him," said another voice that sounded like a fire-cracker missing fire. "he thinks he can fool us by imitating the voice of his pop-pop-pop-popper," put in a third voice, with a laugh. at which jimmieboy opened the door and looked in, and then he saw whence the whispering had come, and to say that he was surprised at what he saw is a too mild way of putting it. he was so astonished that he lost all control over his joints, and the first thing he knew he was sitting on the floor. the spectacle had, in fact, knocked him over, as well it might, for there, walking up and down the floor, swarming over chairs and tables, playing pranks with each other, and acting in a generally strange fashion, were the fire-works themselves. it was interesting, and at the same time alarming, for one or two reckless sky-rockets were smoking, a lot of foolish little fire-crackers were playing with matches in one corner, and a number of the great big cannon torpedoes were balancing themselves on the arms of the gas-fixture, utterly heedless of the fact that if they were to fall to the floor they would explode and be done for forever. "hullo, jimmieboy!" said one of the larger rockets, taking off his funny little cap at the astonished youngster. "i suppose you've come down to see us rehearse?" "i thought somebody was stealing you, and i came down to frighten them away," jimmieboy replied. the rocket laughed. "nobody can steal us," it said. "if anybody came to steal us, we'd cry, and get so soaked with tears nobody could get us to go off, so what good would we be?" "not much, i guess," said jimmieboy. "that's the answer," returned the rocket. "you seem to be good at riddles. let me give you another. what's the difference between a man who steals a whole wig and a fire-cracker?" "i am sure i don't know," said jimmieboy, still too full of wonderment to think out an answer to a riddle like that. "why, one goes off with a whole head of hair," said the rocket, "and the other goes off only with a bang." "that's good," said jimmieboy. "make it up yourself?" "no," said the rocket. "i got that out of the magazine." "what magazine?" asked jimmieboy, innocently. "the powder-magazine," roared the rocket, and then the pin wheel and other fire-works danced about, and threw themselves on the floor with laughter--all except the torpedoes, which jumped up and down on a soft plush chair, where they were safe. when the laughter over the rocket's wit had subsided, one of the roman candles called to the giant cracker, and asked him to sing a song for jimmieboy. "i can't sing to-night," said the cracker. "i'm very busy making ready my report for to-morrow." [illustration: the giant cracker singing his song.] here the cracker winked at jimmieboy, as much as to say, "how is that for a joke?" whereat jimmieboy winked back to show that he thought it wasn't bad; which so pleased the cracker that he said he guessed, after all, he would sing his song if the little crackers would stop playing until he got through. the little crackers promised, and the giant cracker sang this song: "the giant cracker and the mandarin's daughter. "he was a giant cracker bold, his name was wing-hi-ee. he wore a dress of red and gold-- was handsome as could be. his master was a mandarin, who lived in old shang-hai, and had a daughter named ah din, with sweet blue almond eye. "now wing he loved this saffron queen, and ah din she loved him; but chinese law came in between them with its measures grim. for you must know, in that far land, where dwell the heathen wild, a cracker may not win the hand of any noble's child. "this made their love a hopeless one-- alas! that it should be that anywhere beneath the sun exists such misery! so they resolved, since she could not become his cherished bride, together they'd seek out some spot and there they'd suicide. "they hastened, weeping, from the town, wing-hi and fair ah din, and on the river-bank sat down until the tide came in. then wing-hi whispered, sitting there, with tear-drops in his eye, 'good-by, ah din!' and, in despair, she answered him, 'good-by.' "and then she grasped a sulphur match; she lit it on her shoe, whereat, with neatness and dispatch, wing-hi she touched it to. there came a flash, there came a shriek, a sound surpassing weird, and wing-hi brave and ah din meek in pieces disappeared." "isn't that lovely?" asked the rocket, his voice husky with emotion. "it's very fine," said jimmieboy. "it's rather sad, though." "yes; but it might have been sadder, you know," said the giant cracker. "she might not have loved him at all; and if she hadn't loved him, he wouldn't have wasted a match committing suicide for her sake, and then there wouldn't have been any tragedy, and, of course, no song would have been written about it. why, there is no end to the misery there might have been." here one of the torpedoes fell off the gas-fixture to the floor, where he exploded with a loud noise. there was a rush from all sides to see whether the poor little fellow was done for forever. "send for the doctor," said the pin wheel. "i think he can be mended." "no, don't," said the injured torpedo. "i can fix myself up again. send for a whisk broom and bring me a parlor match, and i'll be all right." "what's the whisk broom for?" asked jimmieboy, somewhat surprised at the remedies suggested. "why," said the torpedo, "if you will sweep me together with the whisk broom and wrap me up carefully, i'll eat the head off the parlor match, and i'll be all right again. the match head will give me all the snap i need, and if you'll wrap me up in the proper way, i'll show you what noise is to-morrow. you'll think i'm some relation to that miss din in the giant cracker's song, unless i'm mistaken, when you hear me explode." the fire-crackers jeered a little at this, because there has always been more or less jealousy between the torpedoes and the fire-crackers, but the rocket soon put a stop to their sneers. "what's the use of jeering?" he said. "you don't know whether he'll make much noise or not. the chances are he'll make more noise than a great many of you crackers, who are just as likely as not to turn out sissers in the long-run." the fire crackers were very much abashed by the rocket's rebuke, and retired shamefacedly into their various packs, whereupon the pin wheel suggested that the rocket recite his poem telling the singular story of nate and the rocket. "would you like to hear that story, jimmieboy?" asked the rocket. "very much," said jimmieboy. "the name of it sounds interesting." "well, i'll try to tell it. it's pretty long, and your ears are short; but we can try it, as the boy observed to the man who said he didn't think the boy's mouth was large enough to hold four pieces of strawberry short-cake. so here goes. the real title of the poem is "the dreadful fate of naughty nate. "way back in eighty-two or three-- i don't recall the date-- there lived somewhere--'twixt you and me, i really can't locate the place exact; say sangaree-- a lad; we'll call him nate. "his father was a grocer, or a banker, or maybe he kept a thriving candy store, for all that's known to me. perhaps he was the governor of maine or floridee. "at any rate, he had a dad-- or so the story's told; most youngsters that i've known have had-- and nate's had stacks of gold, and those who knew him used to add, he spent it free and bold. "if nate should ask his father for a dollar or a cent, his father'd always give him more than for to get he went; and then, before the day was o'er, nate always had it spent. "molasses taffy, circus, cake, tarts, soda-water, pie, hot butter-scotch, or rare beefsteak, or silk hats, nate could buy. his father'd never at him shake his head and ask him 'why?' "'for but one thing,' his father cried, 'you must not spend your store; sky-rockets i cannot abide, so buy them never more. let such, i pray, be never spied inside of my front door.' "but nate, alas! did not obey his father's orders wise. he hied him forth without delay, ignoring tarts and pies, and bought a rocket huge, size a, 'the monarch of the skies.' "he clasped it tightly to his breast, and smiled a smile of glee; and as the sun sank in the west, he sat beneath a tree, and then the rocket he invest- i-g-a-t-e-d. "alas for nate! the night was warm; june-bugs and great fire-flies around about his head did swarm; the mercury did rise; and then a fine electric storm played havoc in the skies. "now if, perchance, it was a fly, i'm not prepared to say; or if 'twas lightning from the sky, that came along that way; or if 'twas only brought on by the heat of that warm day, "i am not certain, but 'tis clear there came a sudden boom, and high up in the atmosphere, enlightening the gloom, the rocket flew, a fiery spear, and nate, too, i presume. "for never since that july day has any man seen nate. but far off in the milky way, astronomers do state, a comet brilliant, so they say, doth round about gyrate. "it's head's so like small natty's face, they think it's surely he, aboard that rocket-stick in space, still mounting constantly; and still must mount until no trace of it at all we see." [illustration: nate as a comet.] "isn't that the most fearfully awfully terribly horribly horribly terribly fearful bit of awfulness you ever heard?" queried the rocket, when he had finished. "it is indeed," said jimmieboy. "it really makes me feel unhappy, and i wish you hadn't told it to me." "i would not bother about it," said the rocket; "because really the best thing about it is that it never happened." "suppose it did happen," said jimmieboy, after thinking it over for a minute or two. "would nate ever get back home again?" "oh, he might," returned the rocket. "but not before six or seven million years, and that would make him late for tea, you know. by-the-way," the rocket added, "do you know the best kind of tea to have on fourth of july?" "no," said jimmieboy. "what?" "r-o-c-k-e-tea," said the rocket. the pin wheels laughed so heartily at this that one of them fell over on a box of blue lights and set them off, and the rocket endeavoring to put them out was set going himself, and the first thing jimmieboy knew, his friend gave a fearful siss, and disappeared up the chimney. the sparks from the rocket falling on the roman candles started them along, and three or four balls from them landed on a flower piece which was soon putting forth the most beautiful fiery roses imaginable, one of which, as it gave its dying sputter, flew up and landed on the fuse of a great set piece that was supposed to have a motto on it. jimmieboy was almost too frightened to move, so he just sat where he was, and stared at the set piece until he could read the motto, which was, strange to say, no motto at all, but simply these words in red, white, and blue fire, "wake up, and go to bed right." whereupon jimmieboy rubbed his eyes, and opened them wider than ever to find his papa bending over him, and saying the very words he had seen on the set piece. probably the reason why his papa was saying this was that jimmieboy had been found by him on his return home lying fast asleep, snuggled up in the corner of the library lounge. as for the fire-works, in some way or other they all managed to get back into the box again in good condition, except the broken torpedo, which was found in the middle of the floor just where it had fallen. which jimmieboy thinks was very singular. x. jimmieboy's photograph. jimmieboy had been taken to the photographer's and had posed several times for the man who made pictures of little boys. one picture showed how he looked leaning against a picket fence with a tiger skin rug under his feet. another showed him in the act of putting his hands into his pockets, while a third was a miserable attempt to show how he looked when he couldn't stand still. the last pleased jimmieboy very much. it made him laugh and jimmieboy liked laughing better than anything, perhaps, excepting custard, which was his idea of real solid bliss. why it made him laugh, i do not know, unless it was because in the picture he was very much blurred and looked something like a mixture of a cloud and a pin-wheel. "i like that one," jimmieboy said to his mother, when the proof came home. "won't you let me have it?" "yes," said his mother. "you can have it. i don't think any one else wants it." so the proof became jimmieboy's property, and he put it away in his collection of treasures, which already contained many valuable things, such as the whistle of a rubber ball, a piece of elastic, and a worn-out tennis racket. these treasures the boy used to have out two or three times a day, and the last time he had them out something queer happened. the blurred little figure in the picture spoke to him and told him something he didn't forget in a hurry. "you think i'm a funny-looking thing don't you?" said the blurred picture of himself. "yes, i do," said jimmieboy, "that's why i laugh at you whenever i see you." "well, i laugh when i see you, too," retorted the picture. "you are just as funny to look at sometimes as i am." "i'm not either," said jimmieboy. "i don't look like a cloud or a pin-wheel, and you do." "i'm a picture of you, just the same," returned the proof, "and if you had stood still when the man was taking you, i'd have been all right. it's awful mean the way little boys have of not standing still when they are having their pictures taken, and then laughing at the thing they're responsible for afterward." "i didn't mean to be mean," said jimmieboy. "perhaps not," retorted the picture, "but if it hadn't been for you i'd have been a lovely picture, and your mamma would have had a nice little silver frame put around me, and maybe i'd have been standing on your papa's desk with the inkstand and the mucilage instead of having to live all my life with a broken whistle and a tennis bat that nobody but you has any use for." here the picture sighed, and jimmieboy felt very sorry for it. "boys don't know what a terrible lot of horrid things happen because they don't stand still sometimes," continued the picture. "i know of lots of cases where untold misery has come from movey boys." "from what?" queried jimmieboy. "movey boys," replied the picture. "by that i mean boys that don't stand still when they ought to. why, i knew of a boy once who wouldn't stand still and he shook a whole town to pieces." "ho!" jeered jimmieboy. "i don't believe it." "well, it's so, whether you believe it or not," said the picture. "the boy's name was bob, and he lived somewhere, i don't remember where. his mother told him to stand still and he wouldn't; he just jumped up and down, and up and down all the time." "that may be, but i don't see how he could shake a whole town to pieces," said jimmieboy, "unless he was a very heavy boy." "he didn't weigh a bit more than you do," answered the picture. "he was heavy enough when he jumped to shake his nursery though, and the nursery was heavy enough to shake the house, and the house was heavy enough to shake the lot, and the lot was heavy enough to shake the street, and the street shook the whole town, and when the town shook, everybody thought there was an earthquake, and they all moved away, and took the name of the town with them, which is why i don't know where it was." jimmieboy was silent. he never knew before that not standing still could result in such an awful happening. "i know another boy, too, who lived in--well, i won't say where, but he lived there. he broke a fine big mirror in his father's parlor by not standing still when he was told to." "did he shake it down?" asked jimmieboy. "no, indeed, he didn't," returned the picture. "he just stood in front of it and got so movey that the mirror couldn't keep up with him, but it tried to do it so hard that it shook itself to pieces. but that wasn't anything like as bad as what happened to jumping sam. he was the worst i ever knew. he never would keep still, and it all happened and he never could unhappen it, so that it's still so to this very day." "but you haven't told me what happened yet," said jimmieboy, very much interested in jumping sam. "well, i will tell you," said the picture, gravely. "and this is it. the story is a poem, jimmieboy, and it's called: "the horrid fate of jumping sam. "small sammy was as fine a lad as ever you did see; but one bad habit sammy had, a jumper bold was he. and, oh! his fate was very sad, as it was told to me. "he never, never, would stand still in school or on the street; he'd squirm if he were well or ill, if on his back or feet. he'd wriggle on the window-sill, he'd waggle in his seat. "and so it happened one fine day, when all alone was he, he got to jumping in a way that was a sight to see. he leaped two feet at first, they say, and then he made it three. "then four, and five, the long day through, until he could not stop. each jump he jumped much longer grew, until he gave a hop up in the air a mile or two, a-twirling like a top. "he turned about and tried to jump back to his father's door, but landed by the village pump, some twenty miles or more beyond it, and an awful bump he'd got when it was o'er. "and still his jumps increased in size, until they got so great, he landed on the railway ties in some far distant state; and then he knew 'twould have been wise, his jumping to abate. "but as the years passed slowly by, his jumping still went on, until he leaped from italy, as far as washington. and he confessed, with heavy eye, it wasn't any fun. "and when, in , i met him up in perth, he wept and said 'good-by' to me, and jumped around the earth. and i was saddened much to see that he knew naught of mirth. "last year in far allahabad, late in the month of june, i met again this jumping lad-- 'twas in the afternoon-- as he with visage pale and sad was jumping to the moon. "so all his days, leap after leap, he takes from morn to night. he cannot eat, he cannot sleep, but flies just like a kite, and all because he would not keep from jumping when he might. "and i believe the moral's true-- though shown with little skill-- that whatsoever you may do, be it of good or ill, once in a while it may pay you to practice keeping still." a long silence followed the completion of the blurred picture's poem. for some reason or other it had made jimmieboy think, and while he was thinking, wonderful to say, he was keeping very quiet, so that it was quite evident that the fate of jumping sam had had some effect upon him. finally, however, the spell was broken, and he began to wiggle just as he wiggled while his picture was being taken, and then he said: "i don't know whether to believe that story or not. i can't see your face very plainly here. come over into the light and tell me the poem all over again, and i can tell by looking in your eye whether it is true or not." the picture made no reply, and jimmieboy, grasping it firmly in his hand, went to the window and gazed steadily at it for a minute, but it was useless. the picture not only refused to speak, but, as the rays of the setting sun fell full upon it, faded slowly from sight. nevertheless, true story or not, jimmieboy has practiced standing still very often since the affair happened, which is a good thing for little boys to do, so that perhaps the brief life and long poem of the rejected picture were not wasted after all. xi. jimmieboy and the blank-book. [illustration: "oh! dear!"] somebody had sighed deeply, and had said, "oh dear!" what bothered jimmieboy was to find out who that somebody was. it couldn't have been mamma, because she had gone out that evening with papa to take dinner at uncle periwinkle's, and for the same reason, therefore, it could not have been papa that had sighed and said "oh dear!" so plainly. neither was it moggie, as jimmieboy called his nurse, companion, and friend, because moggie, supposing him to be asleep, had gone up stairs to her own room to read. it might have been little russ if it had only been a sigh that had come to jimmieboy's ears, for little russ was quite old enough to sigh; but as for adding "oh dear!" that was quite out of the question, because all little russ had ever been able to say was "bzoo," and, as you may have observed for yourself, people who can only say "bzoo" cannot say "oh dear!" it was so mysterious altogether that jimmieboy sat up straight on his pillow, and began to wonder if it wouldn't be well for him to get frightened and cry. the question was decided in favor of a shriek of terror; but the shriek did not come, because just as jimmieboy got his mouth open to utter it the strange somebody sighed again, and said: "aren't you sorry for me, jimmieboy?" "who are you?" asked jimmieboy, peering through the darkness, trying to see who it was that had addressed him. "i'm a poor unhappy blank-book," came the answer. "a blank-book with no hope now of ever becoming great. did you ever feel as if you wanted to become great, jimmieboy?" "oh, yes, indeed," returned the boy. "i do yet. i'm going to be a fireman when i grow up, and drive an engine, and hold a hose, and put out great configurations, as papa calls 'em." "then you know," returned the blank-book, "or rather you can imagine, my awful sorrow when i say that i have aspired to equally lofty honors, but find myself now condemned to do things i don't like, to devote my life not to great and noble deeds, but to miserable every-day affairs. you can easily see how i must feel if you will only try to imagine your own feelings if, after a life whose every thought and effort had been directed toward making you the proud driver of a fire-engine, you should find it necessary to settle down to the humdrum life of a lawyer, all your hopes destroyed, and the goal toward which you had ever striven placed far beyond your reach." "you didn't want to be a fireman, did you?" asked jimmieboy, softly. "no," said the blank-book, jumping off the table, and crossing over to jimmieboy's crib, into which he climbed, much to the little fellow's delight. "no, i never wanted to be a fireman, or a policeman, or a car conductor, because i have always known that those were things i never could become. no matter how wise and great a blank-book may be, there is a limit to his wisdom and his greatness. it sometimes makes us unhappy to realize this, but after all there is plenty in the world that a blank-book can do, and do nobly, without envying others who have to do far nobler and greater things before they can be considered famous. everything we have to do in this world is worth doing well, and everybody should be content to do the things that are given to his kind to accomplish. the poker should always try to poke as well as he can, and not envy the garden hose because the garden hose can sprinkle flowers, while he can't. the rake should be content to do the best possible rake's work, and not sigh because he cannot sing 'annie rooney' the way the hand-organ does." "then why do you sigh because of the work they have given you to do?" "that's very simple," returned the blank-book. "i can explain that in a minute. while i have no right to envy a glue-pot because it can hold glue and i can't, i have a right to feel hurt and envious when it falls to the lot of another blank-book, no better than myself, to become the medium through which beautiful poems and lovely thoughts are given to the world, while i am compelled to do work of the meanest kind. "it has always been my dream to become the companion of a poet, of a philosopher, or of a humorist--to be the blank-book of his heart--to lie quiet in his pocket until he had thought a thought, and then to be pulled out of that pocket and to be made the receptacle of that thought. "oh, i have dreamed ambitious dreams, jimmieboy--ambitious dreams that must now remain only dreams, and never be real. once, as i lay with a thousand others just like me on the shelf of the little stationery shop where your mother bought me, i dreamed i was sold to a poet--a true poet. everywhere he went, went i, and every beautiful line he thought of was promptly put down upon one of my leaves with a dainty gold pencil, contact with which was enough to thrill me through and through. "here is one of the things i dreamed he wrote upon my leaves: "'what's the use of tears? what's the use of moping? what's the use of fears? here's to hoping! "'life hath more of joy than she hath of weeping. when grief comes, my boy, pleasure's sleeping. "'only sleeping, child; thou art not forsaken, let thy smiles run wild-- she'll awaken!' "don't you think that's nice?" queried the blank-book when he had finished reciting the poem. "very nice," said jimmieboy. "and it's very true, too. tears aren't any good. why, they don't even wash your face." "i know," returned the blank-book. "tears are just like rain clouds. a sunny smile can drive 'em away like autumn leaves before a whirl-wind." "or a clothes-line full of clothes before an east wind," suggested jimmieboy. "yes; or like buckwheat cakes before a hungry school-boy," put in the blank-book. "then that same poet in my dream wrote a verse about his little boy i rather liked. it went this way: "'of rats and snails and puppy-dogs' tails some man has said boys are made; but he who spoke to be truthful fails, if 'twas of my boy 'twas said. "'for honey, and wine, and sweet sunshine, and fruits from over the swim, and everything else that's fair and fine, are sure to be found in him. "'his kisses are nice and sweet as spice, his smile is richer than cake-- which, if it were known to rats and mice, the cheeses they would forsake. "'his dear little voice is soft and choice, he giggles all day with glee, and it makes my heart and soul rejoice, to think he belongs to me.'" "that's first rate," said jimmieboy. "only mother goose has something very much like it about little girls." "that was just it," returned the blank-book. "she had been a little girl herself, and she was too proud to live. if she had been a boy instead of a girl, it would have been the boy who was made of sugar and spice and all that's nice." "didn't your dream-poet ever write anything funny in you?" asked jimmieboy. "i do love funny poems." "well, i don't know whether some of the things he wrote were funny or not," returned the blank-book, scratching his cover with a pencil he carried in a little loop at his side. "but they were queer. there was one about a small boy, named napples, who spent all his time eating apples, till by some odd mistake he contracted an ache, and now with j. ginger he grapples." "that's the kind," said jimmieboy. "i think to some people who never ate a green apple, or tasted jamaica ginger, or contracted an ache, it would be real funny. i don't laugh at it, because i know how solemn tommy napples must have felt. did you ever have any more like that?" "oh my, yes," returned the blank-book. "barrels full. this was another one--only i don't believe what it says is true: "a man living near navesink, eats nothing but thistles and zinc, with mustard and glue, and pollywog stew, washed down with the best of blue ink.'" "that's pretty funny," said jimmieboy. "is it?" queried the blank-book, with a sigh. "i'll have to take your word for it. i can't laugh, because i have nothing to say ha! ha! with, and even if i could say ha! ha! i don't suppose i'd know when to laugh, because i don't know a joke when i see one." "really?" asked jimmieboy, who had never supposed any one could be born so blind that he could not at least see a joke. [illustration: "everybody laughed but me."] "really," sighed the blank-book. "why, a man came into the store where i was for sale once, and said he wanted a blank-book, and the clerk asked him what for--meaning, of course, did he want an account-book, a diary, or a copy-book. the man answered, 'to wash windows with, of course,' and everybody laughed but me. i simply couldn't see the point. can you?" "why, certainly," said jimmieboy, a broad smile coming over his lips. "it was very funny. the point was that people don't wash windows with blank-books." "what's funny about that?" asked the blank-book. "it would be a great deal funnier if people did wash windows with a blank-book. he might have said 'to go coasting on,' or 'to sweeten my coffee with,' or 'to send out to the heathen,' and it would have been just as funny." "i guess that's true," said jimmieboy. "but it was funny just the same." "no doubt," returned the blank-book; "but it seems to me what's funny depends on the other fellow. you might get off a splendid joke, and if he hadn't his joke spectacles on he'd think it was nonsense." "oh no," said jimmieboy. "if he hadn't his joke spectacles on he wouldn't think it was nonsense. jokes are nonsense." "but you said a moment ago the fun of the blank-book joke was that you couldn't wash windows with one. that's a fact, so how could it be nonsense?" "i never thought of it in that way," said jimmieboy. "ah!" ejaculated the blank-book. "now that is really funny, because i don't see how you could think of it in any other way." "i don't see anything funny about that," began jimmieboy. "oh dear!" sighed the blank-book. "we never shall agree, except that i am willing to believe that you know more about nonsense than i do. perhaps you can explain this poem to me. i dreamt my poet wrote this on my twelfth page. it was called 'a plane tale:' "'i used to be so surly, that all men avoided me; but now i am a diplomat, of wondrous suavity. "'i met a carpenter one night, who wore a dotted vest; and when i asked if that was right, he told me to go west. "'i seized his saw and brandished it, as fiercely as i could, and told him, with much show of wit, i thought he was no good. "'at that he looked me in the face, and said my tone was gruff; my manner lacked a needed grace, in every way was rough. "'he seized and laid me on a plank, he gave a little cough; and then, although my spirits sank, _he planed me wholly off_! "'and ever since that painful night, when he so treated me, i've been as polished, smooth a wight, as any one can be.'" "there isn't much sense in that," said jimmieboy. "well, now, i think there is," said the blank-book. "there's a moral to that. two of 'em. one's mind your own business. if the carpenter wanted to wear a dotted vest it was nobody's affair. the other moral is, a little plane speaking goes a great way." "oh, what a joke!" cried jimmieboy. "i didn't make any joke," retorted the blank-book, his russia-leather cover getting red as a beet. "yes, you did, too," returned jimmieboy. "plane and plain--don't you see? p-l-a-n-e and p-l-a-i-n." [illustration: "is that what you call a joke?"] "bah!" said the blank-book. "nonsense! that can't be a joke. that's a coincidence. is that what you call a joke?" "certainly," replied jimmieboy. "well, then, i'm not as badly off as i thought. i wanted to be a poet's book and couldn't, but it is better to be used for a wash-list as i am than to help funny men to remember stuff like that. i am very grateful to you, jimmieboy, for the information. you have made me see that i might have fared worse than i have fared, and i thank you, and as i hear your mamma and papa coming up the stairs now, i'll run back to the desk. good-night!" and the blank-book kissed jimmieboy, and scampered over to the desk as fast as it could, and the next day jimmieboy begged so hard for it that his mamma gave it to him for his very own. "what shall you do with it now that you have it?" asked mamma. "i'm going to save it till i grow up," returned jimmieboy. "maybe i'll be a poet, and i can use it to write poems in." xii. jimmieboy and the comet. jimmieboy was thinking very hard. he was also blinking quite as hard because he was undeniably sleepy. his father had been reading something to his mamma about a curious thing that lived up in the sky called a comet. jimmieboy had never seen a comet, nor indeed before that had he even heard of one, so of course his ideas as to what it looked like were rather confused. his father's description of it was clear enough, perhaps, but nevertheless jimmieboy found it difficult to conjure up in his mind any reasonable creature that could in any way resemble a comet. finally, however, he made up his mind that it must look like a queer kind of a dog with nothing but a head and a tail--or perhaps it was a sort of fiery pollywog. at any rate, while he thought and blinked, what should he see peeping in at him through the window but the comet itself. jimmieboy knew it was the comet because the comet told him so afterward, and besides it wore a placard suspended about its neck which had printed on it in great gold letters: "i'm the comet. come out and take a ride through the sky with me." "me?" cried jimmieboy, starting up as soon as he had read the invitation. immediately the word "yes" appeared on the placard and jimmieboy walked over to the window and stepping right through the glass as though it were just so much air, found himself seated upon the comet's back, and mounting to the sky so fast that his hair stood out behind him like so many pieces of stiff wire. "are you comfortable?" asked the comet, after a few minutes. "yes," said jimmieboy, "only you kind of dazzle my eyes. you are so bright." the comet appeared to be very much pleased at this remark, for he smiled so broadly that jimmieboy could see the two ends of his mouth appear on either side of the back of his neck. "you're right about that," said the comet. "i'm the brightest thing there ever was. i'm all the time getting off jokes and things." "are you really?" cried jimmieboy, delighted. "i am so glad, for i love jokes and--and things. get off a joke now, will you?" "certainly," replied the obliging comet. "you don't know why the moon is called she, do you?" "no," said jimmieboy. "why is it?" "because it isn't a sun, so it must be a daughter," said the comet. "isn't that funny?" "i guess so," said jimmieboy, trying to look as if he thought the joke a good one. "but don't you know anything funnier than that?" "yes," returned the comet. "what do you think of this: what is the only thing you can crack without splitting it?" "that sounds interesting," said jimmieboy, "but i'm sure i never could guess." "why, it's a joke, of course," said the comet. "you can crack a joke eight times a day and it's as whole as it ever was when night comes." "that's so," said jimmieboy. "that's funnier than the other, too. i see now why they call you a comic." "i'm not a comic," said the comet, with a laugh at jimmieboy's mistake. "i'm a comet. i end with a t like the days when you have dinner in the afternoon. they end with a tea, don't they?" "that's the best, yet," roared jimmieboy. "if you give me another like that i may laugh harder and fall off, so i guess you'd better hadn't." "how would you like to hear some of my poetry?" asked the comet. "i'm a great writer of poetry, i can tell you. i won a prize once for writing more poetry in an hour than any other comet in school." "i'm very fond of it," said jimmieboy. "specially when it don't make sense." "that's the kind i like, too," agreed the comet. "i never can understand the other kind. i've got a queer sort of a head. i can't understand sense, but nonsense is as clear to me as--well as turtle soup. ever see any turtle soup?" "no," said jimmieboy, "but i've seen turtles." "well, turtle soup is a million times clearer than turtles, so maybe you can get some idea of what i mean." "yes," said jimmieboy. "i think i do. nonsense poetry is like a window to you. you can see through it in a minute." "exactly," said the comet. "only nonsense poetry hasn't any glass in it, so it isn't exactly like a window to me after all." "well, anyhow," put in jimmieboy. "let's have some of the poetry." "very good," said the comet. "here goes. it's about an animal named the speeler, and it's called 'the speeler's lament.' "oh, many years ago, when jack and jill were young, there wandered to and fro, along the glistening snow, a speeler, much unstrung. "i asked the speeler why he looked so mortal sad? he gazed into my eye, and then he made reply, in language very bad, "'i'm sad,' said he, 'because a speeler true i be; and yet, despite my jaws, my wings, and beak, and claws, despite my manners free, "'despite my feathers fine, my voice so soft and sweet, my truly fair outline, my very handsome spine, and massive pair of feet, "'in all this world of space-- on foot, on fin, on wing-- from nature's top to base, there never was a trace of any such strange thing. "'and it does seem to me-- indeed it truly does-- 'tis dreadful, sir, to be, as you can plainly see, a thing that never was!'" "what's a speeler?" said jimmieboy. "it isn't anything. there isn't any such thing as a speeler and that's what made this particular speeler feel so badly," said the comet. "i know i'd feel that way myself. it must be dreadful to be something that isn't. i was sorry after i had written that poem and created the poor speeler because it doesn't seem right to create a thing just for the sake of making it unhappy to please people who like poetry of that kind." "i'm afraid it was a sensible poem," said jimmieboy. "because, really, mr. comet, i can't understand it." "well, let me try you on another then, and take away the taste of that one. how do you like this. it's called 'wobble doo, the squaller.' "the wobble doo was fond of pie, he also loved peach jam. but what most pleased his eagle eye, was pickled cakes and ham. "but when, perchance, he got no cake, jam, ham, or pie at all, he'd sit upon a garden rake, and squall, and squall, and squall. "and as these _never_ came his way, this hero of my rhyme, i really do regret to say, was squalling all the time." "your poems are all sad, aren't they?" said jimmieboy. "couldn't you have let wobble doo have just a little bit of cake and jam?" "no. it was impossible," replied the comet, sadly, "i couldn't afford it. i did all i could for him in writing the poem. seems to me that was enough. it brought him glory, and glory is harder to get than cakes and peach jam ever thought of being. perhaps you'll like this better: "abadee sollaker hollaker moo, carraway, sarraway mollaker doo-- hobledy, gobbledy, sassafras sam, taramy, faramy, aramy jam." "i don't understand it at all," said jimmieboy. "what language is it in?" "one i made up myself," said the comet, gleefully. "and it's simply fine. i call it the cometoo language. nobody knows anything about it except myself, and i haven't mastered it yet--but my! it's the easiest language in the world to write poetry in. all you have to do is to go right ahead and make up words to suit yourself, and finding rhyme is no trouble at all when you do that." "but what's the good of it?" asked jimmieboy. "oh, it has plenty of advantages," said the comet, shaking his head wisely. "in the first place if you have a language all your own, that nobody else knows, nobody else can write a poem in it. you have the whole field to yourself. just think how great a man would be if he was the only one to understand english and write poetry in it. he'd get all the money that ever was paid for english poetry, which would be a fortune. it would come to at least $ , which is a good deal of money, considering." "considering what?" asked jimmieboy. "considering what it would bring if wisely invested," said the comet. "did you ever think of what $ was worth in peanuts, for instance." jimmieboy laughed at the idea of spending $ in peanuts, and then he said: "no, i never thought anything about it. what is it worth in peanuts?" "well," said the comet, scratching his head with his tail, "it's a very hard bit of arithmetic, but, i'll try to write it out for you. peanuts, you know, cost ten cents a quart." "do they?" said jimmieboy. "i never bought a whole quart at once. i've only paid five cents a pint." "well, five cents a pint is english for ten cents a quart," said the comet, "and in $ there are eight thousand ten centses, so that you could get eight thousand quarts of peanuts for $ . now every quart of peanuts holds about fifty peanut shellfuls, so that eight thousand quarts of peanuts equal four hundred thousand peanuts shellfuls. each peanut shell holds two small nuts so that in four hundred thousand of them there are eight hundred thousand nuts." "phe-e-ew!" whistled jimmieboy. "what a feast." "yes," said the comet, "but just you wait. suppose you ate one of these nuts a minute, do you know how long it would take you, eating eight hours a day, to eat up the whole lot?" "no," said jimmieboy, beginning to feel a little awed at the wondrous possibilities of $ in peanuts. "four years, six months, three weeks and six days, and you'd have to eat sundays to get through it in that time," said the comet. "in soda water it would be quite as awful and in peppermint sticks at two cents a foot it would bring you a stick forty thousand feet, or more than seven miles long." "isn't $ wonderful," said jimmieboy, overcome by the mere thought of so much peppermint candy. "yes--but really i am much more wonderful when you think of me. you haven't been on my back more than ten minutes and yet in that time i have taken you all around the world," said the comet. "all the way!" said jimmieboy. "yes," said the comet, stopping suddenly. "here we are back at your window again." "but i didn't see china, and i wanted to," said the boy. "can't help it," said the comet. "you had your chance, but you preferred to talk about poetry and peanuts. it isn't my fault. off with you, now." and then the comet bucked like a wild western broncho, and as jimmieboy went over his head through the window and landed plump in his papa's lap, the queer creature with the fiery tail flew off into space. chapter xiii. jimmieboy and jack frost--in which jack gives offence. jimmieboy is the proud possessor of a small brother, who, to use one of jimmieboy's own expressions, is getting to be a good deal of a man. that is to say, he is old enough to go out driving all by himself, being eleven months of age, and quite capable of managing the fiery untamed nurse that pushes his carriage along the street. of course, if the nurse had not been warranted kind and gentle when the baby's mamma went to find her in the beginning, little russ would have had to have somebody go along with him when he went driving--somebody like jimmieboy, for instance, to frighten off big dogs and policemen, and to see that the nurse didn't shy or run away--but as it was, the baby had developed force of character and self-reliance enough to go out unattended, and, except on one occasion, he got back again safe and sound. this one occasion was early in december, when nature, having observed that the great big boys had got through playing football and were beginning to think of snow-balls, sent word to the arctic cold weather company that she desired to have delivered at once five days of low temperature for general distribution among her friends, which days were sent through by special messenger, arriving late on the night of december st, giving great satisfaction to everybody, particularly to those who deal in ice, ear-tabs, and skates. at first jimmieboy's mamma thought that nature was perhaps a little too generous with her frosty weather, and for two days she kept her two sons, jimmieboy and russ, cooped up in the house, laying in a supply of furnace and log-fire heat sufficiently large to keep them warm until the third day, when she thought that they might safely go out. [illustration: jimmieboy prepared for cold weather.] upon the third day jimmieboy's papa said that he imagined the boys were warm enough to venture out-of-doors, so they were bundled up in leggings, fur-lined coats, flannel bands, scarfs, silk handkerchiefs, lamb's-wool rugs, and "arctics," the door was opened, and out they went. jimmieboy staid out seven minutes, and then came in again to see if he could find out why his nose had suddenly changed its color, first from pink to red, and then from red to blue. he also wished to come in, he said, because the solid iron driver of his red express wagon had been "freezed stiff," and he was afraid if he staid out much longer he'd never thaw out again. little russ, on the contrary, lying luxuriously in his carriage, with no part of him visible save the tip end of his chin, which was so fat that the coverings would slip off, no matter how hard mamma and the nurse tried to make them stay on, remained out-of-doors for two hours, apparently very comfortable. his great blue eyes shone mirthfully when he came in, and until six o'clock that evening all went well with him, and then he began to whimper. "what's the matter with my baby?" asked jimmieboy. [illustration: little russ.] little russ made no reply other than a grimace, which made jimmieboy laugh, at which the baby opened his mouth as wide as he could and shrieked with wrath. "i'm inclined to think," said the nurse, as she sought vainly to find where a possible pin might be creating a disturbance to the baby's discomfiture--"i'm inclined to think that perhaps he's got a pain somewhere." and then the youthful russ blinked his eyes, gave another shriek, and attempted to pout. now it is a singular way little russ has of pouting. he gets it from his mamma, who used to pout in just the same way when she was a little girl--so grandma says--and it consists entirely of sticking his chin out as far as he can, while concealing his lower lip as much as possible beneath the cherry-colored cupid's bow that acts as his upper lip. a proceeding of this sort always results in making that chin the most conspicuous thing in the room, so that it is not surprising that when little russ pouted every one in the room should at once notice that there was a great red spot upon it. "why, the poor little soul has been frost-bitten!" cried mamma, running for the cold cream--queer thing that, by-the-way, jimmieboy thought. he would have put warm cream on a cold sore like that. "so he is!" ejaculated papa, with an indignant glance at the chin, which only caused that fat little feature to pout the more. "hadn't i better send for the doctor?" "does dogs frost-bite?" queried jimmieboy, looking around the room for a stick with which to beat the dog that had done the biting, if perchance it was a dog that was responsible. "no, indeed," said papa. "it wasn't a dog; it was jack frost, and nobody else. he ought to be muzzled." "who is jack frost, papa?" jimmieboy asked, so much interested in jack that he for a moment forgot his suffering small brother. "jack? why, jack is a man named frost, who deals in cold, and he goes around in winter biting people. he's a sort of ice-man, only he's retired from trade, and gives things away, to people who don't want 'em. it would be better if he'd go into business, and sell his favors to people who do want 'em." "well, he's a naughty man," said jimmieboy. "yes, indeed, he is," said papa. "why, he's the man who withered all your mamma's plants, and painted our nice green lawn white; and then, when we wanted to dig holes for the fence posts, he came along and made the ground so hard it took all the edge off the spade, and made the hired man so tired that he overslept himself that night and let the furnace go out." "can't somebody catch him, and put him into prism?" asked jimmieboy. "oh, he's been in prism lots of times," said papa, with a laugh at jimmieboy's droll word; "but he manages to get out again." "where does he live, papa?" asked the boy. "all around in winter. in summer he goes north for his health." "and can't anybody ever get rid of him?" "no. the only way to do that successfully would be to burn him out, and so far nobody has ever been able to do it entirely. you can put him out of your own house; but, if he wants to, he'll stay around the place and nip your plants, and freeze up your wells, and put a web of ice on your grass and sidewalks in spite of anything you can do." by this time little russ had quieted down and gone to sleep. the cold cream, aided by a huge bottleful of the food he liked best, which warmed up his little heart and various other parts of his being, to which the world had for a little while seemed bleak and drear, had put him in a contented frame of mind, and if the smile on his lips meant anything he had forgotten his woes in dreams of sweet and lovely things. it was not so, however, with jimmieboy, who grew more and more indignant as he thought of that great lumbering ice-man, jack frost, coming along and biting his dear little brother in that cruel fashion. it was simply cowardly, he thought. of course jimmieboy could understand how any one might wish to take a bite of something that was as sweet as little russ was, and when mosquitoes did it he was not disposed to quarrel with them, because it was courageous in a minute insect like a mosquito to risk his life for his sweetmeats, but with jack frost it was different. why didn't he take a man of his size like papa, for instance, or the grocer man? he was afraid to--that was it--and so he fastened upon a poor, helpless little man like russ, only eleven months old. "he ought to be hitted on the head," said jimmieboy. "that wouldn't do any good," said papa. "it wouldn't hurt him a bit. you couldn't kill him with a hundred ice-picks, and i don't believe even a steam-drill would lay him up more than a week. what he's afraid of is heat--only heat, and nothing else. that cracks him all up and melts him, so that he can't bite anything." then jimmieboy had his supper and began playing with his toys until bedtime should come, but all the time his mind was on that cruel jack frost. something else in the room was thinking about it, too, only jimmieboy didn't know it. the little gas-stove that stood guard over by the fire-place was quite as angry about jack's behavior as anybody, but he kept very still until along about eight o'clock when he began to sputter. jimmieboy stopped pushing his iron engine over the floor, and looked with heavy eyes at the gas-stove. this was extraordinary behavior for the stove, and jimmieboy wondered what was the matter. "say!" whispered the stove, as jimmieboy looked at him. "let's get after that frost fellow and make him wish he never was born." jimmieboy said nothing to this. he was too much surprised to say anything--the idea of a gas-stove speaking to him was so absurd. he only gazed steadfastly at the extraordinary thing in the fire-place, and then let his head droop down on his arms as he lay on the floor, and in a moment would have been asleep had not the stove again sputtered. "hi! jimmieboy!" it cried. "don't go to sleep. i know where jack frost lives, and we'll get after him and punish him for what he did to little russ." "how?" asked jimmieboy, crawling across the room on his hands and knees, and looking earnestly at this strange gas-stove. "never mind how," returned the stove. "i'll tell you that later. the point is, will you go? if you will say the word i'll make all the arrangements, and we'll set off after everybody has gone to bed. it is a beautiful moonlight night. everything is just right for a successful trip. there's enough snow on the ground for the sleigh to move, and the river's all frozen over except in the middle. we can skate as far as the ice goes, and then, if there is no boat, we can put on your papa's arctics, and walk across the water to the other side. from there it's only a forty-minute skate to jack's home. he'll come in about twelve o'clock, and we'll have him just where we want him. what do you say?" "i'll be in bed by the time you want to start," said jimmieboy. "i'd like to do it very much, but i don't know how to dress myself, and----" "never mind that," returned the gas stove. "go as you are." "in my night-gown? on a cold night like this?" queried the little fellow, more than ever astonished at the gas stove's peculiarities. "why, certainly. i'll see that you are kept warm," returned the stove. "i've got warmth enough for twenty-six as it is, and if there's only two of us--why, you see how it'll be. it'll be too warm for two of us." "that's so," said jimmieboy. "i never thought of it that way. i might sit on your lap if i couldn't keep warm any other way, eh?" "i've got a better way than that," said the stove, dancing a little jig on the tiles. "i'll get you a pair of gas gloves, some gas ear-tabs, a patent nose furnace, an overcoat lined with gas-jets that can be lit so as to keep you warm without burning you, and leggings, shoes, hats, and everything you need to make you feel as happy and warm as a poached egg on toast." "that'll be splendid," said jimmieboy. "i'll go, and we'll fix jack so that he won't bite any of our people any more, eh?" "yes," said the gas stove, delighted at the prospect. "shall we muzzle him?" asked jimmieboy. but the gas stove only winked, for just then mamma came up stairs from dinner, and as it was jimmieboy's nurse's night out, his mamma undressed the little fellow, and put him in his crib, where he shortly dropped off to sleep. [illustration: the gas-stove tapped him lightly on the shoulder.] in a little while everybody in the house had gone to bed, and when the last light had been extinguished the door of the room in which jimmieboy slept was slowly opened, and the gas stove, all his lights turned down so that nobody could see him in the darkness, tip-toed in, and climbing upon the side of jimmieboy's crib tapped him lightly on the shoulder. "all ready?" he said, in a low whisper. "yes," answered jimmieboy, softly, as he arose and got down on the floor. "how do we go? down the stairs?" "no," replied the gas stove. "we'll take the toy balloon up the chimney." which they at once proceeded to do. xiv. in which jimmieboy and the gas stove make a start. "now jump into the sleigh just as quickly as you can, jimmieboy," said the stove, as they issued forth into the cold night air. "put on that fur cap and the overcoat, shoes, and gloves, and i'll light 'em up." "they won't burn, for sure?" queried jimmieboy, nervously, for the idea of wearing clothes heated by gas was a little bit terrifying. "not a bit," said the stove in reply. "i wouldn't give 'em to you if they would. thanks," he added, turning and throwing a ten-cent piece to a gas boy, who handed him the reins by which the horses were controlled. "we'll be back about sunrise." "very well," said the boy. "do you want me turned on all night, sir?" "no," answered the stove. "gas is expensive these days. you can turn yourself out right away. have you fed the horses?" "yes, sir," said the boy. "they've each had four thousand feet by the meter for supper." "fuel or illuminating?" queried the stove. "illuminating," replied the boy. "good," said the stove. "that ought to make them bright. good-by. get up!" with this the horses made a spring forward--fiery steeds in very truth, their outlines in jets, each burning a small flame, standing out like lines of stars in the sky. [illustration: "this is pretty fine, eh?" said the gas-stove.] "this is pretty fine, eh?" said the gas stove, with a smile, which, had any one looked, must have been visible for miles, so light and cheerful was it. "lovely!" cried jimmieboy, almost gasping in ecstasy. "i'm just as warm and comfortable as can be. i didn't know you had a team like this." "ah, my boy," returned the stove, "there's lots you don't know. for instance: "you don't know why a fire will burn on hot days merrily; and when the cold days come, will turn as cold as i-c-e! "you don't know why the puppies bark, or why snap-turtles snap; or why a horse runs round the park, because you say, 'git-ap.' "you don't know why a peach has fuzz upon its pinky cheek; or what the poor dumb-crambo does when he desires to speak. "do you?" "no, i don't," said jimmieboy. "but i should like to very much." "so should i," said the stove. "we're very much alike in a great many respects, and particularly in those in which we resemble each other." the truth of this was so evident that jimmieboy could think of nothing to say in answer to it, so he merely observed: "i'm awful hungry." this was a favorite remark of his, particularly between meals. "so am i," said the stove. "let's see what we've got here. just hold the reins while i dive down into the lunch basket." jimmieboy took the reins with some fear at first, but when he saw that they were high up in the air where there was really nothing but a star or two to run into, and realized that even they were millions of miles away, he soon got used to it, and was sorry when the stove resumed control. "there, jimmieboy," said the stove, as he drew his hand out of the basket. "there's a nice hot ginger-snap for you. i think i'll take a snack of this fuel gas myself." "you don't eat gas, do you?" asked the small passenger. "i guess i do," ejaculated the stove, with a smack of his lips. "as our gas poet laureate said: "oh, kerosene is good, i ween, and so is apple sass; but bring for me, oh, chickadee, a bowl of fuel gas! "some persons like the red beefstike, the cow just dotes on grass-- but to my mind no one can find more toothsome things than gas. "and so i say, bring me no hay; no roasted deep-sea bass. bring me no pease, or fricassees, if, haply, you have gas." "it's easy to eat, too," added the stove. "in fact, i heard your papa say we consumed too much of it one day when he'd got his bill from the gas butcher." "do you chew it?" asked jimmieboy. "no, indeed. we take it in through a pipe. it isn't like soup or meat, though i sometimes think if people could take soup out of a pipe instead of from a spoon they'd look handsomer while they were eating. but the great thing about it is it's always ready, and if it comes cold, all you have to do is to touch a match to it, and it gets as hot as you could want." "i should think you'd get tired of it," said jimmieboy. "not at all. there's a great variety in gases. there's fuel gas, illuminating gas, laughing gas, attagas----" "what's that last?" queried jimmieboy. "attagas? why, when we want a game dinner, we have attagas. if you will look it up in the dictionary you will find that it's a sort of partridge. it's mighty good, too, with a sauce of stewed gasberries, and a mug or two of gasparillo to wash it down." here jimmieboy smacked his lips. gasparillo truly sounded as if it might be very delightful, though i don't myself believe it is any less bitter to the taste than some other barks of trees, such as quinine, for instance. "howdy do?" said the stove, with a familiar nod to the east of them. "howdy do!" replied jimmieboy. "i wasn't speaking to you," said the stove, with a laugh. "i was only nodding to an old friend of mine; he's got a fine place up in the sky there. his name is sirius. they call him the dog-star, and all he has to do is twinkle. you can't see him all the time from your house, but when you get up as high as this he stands right out and twinkles at you. pretty good fellow, sirius is. i might have had his place, but somehow or other i prefer to work in-doors and rest nights. sirius is out all the time, and has to keep awake all night. but we've got to get down to the earth again. here's where we take to the skates." jimmieboy looked over the edge of the sleigh as the horses turned in response to a movement of the reins, and started down to earth. he saw a great white river below him, flowing silently along a narrow winding channel, everything on the border of which seemed bathed in silver except the middle of the river itself, a strip of forty or fifty feet in width, which was not frozen over. "that's frostland," whispered the gas stove. "we can't get over to the other side with this team because they are very skittish, and if the sleigh were overturned and our ammunition lost we should be lost ourselves. we've got to land directly below where we are now, skate to the edge of the ice on this bank, row over to the other, and then skate again directly to the palace. we mustn't let anybody know who we really are, either, or we may have trouble, and we want to avoid that; for you know, jimmieboy, "the man who gets along without a care or bit of strife, is certain sure, beyond all doubt, to lead a happy life." "but i can't skate," said jimmieboy. "you can slide, can't you?" asked the stove. "yes, both ways. standing up and sitting down." "well, my patent steam skates, operated by gas, will attend to all the rest if you will only stand up straight," returned the stove, and the sleigh dropped lightly down to the earth, and the two crusaders against jack frost alighted. "isn't it beautiful here?" said jimmieboy, as he looked about him and saw superb tall trees, their leaves white and glistening in the moonlight, bound in an icy covering that kept them always as he saw them then. "and look at the flowers," he added, joyously, as he caught sight of a bed of rose-bushes, only the flowers were lustrous as silver and of the same dazzling whiteness. "yes," said the gas stove, sadly. "every time jack frost withers a flower or a plant he brings it here, and it remains forever as you see them now; he has had the choice of the most beautiful things in the world. but come, we must hurry. put on these skates." jimmieboy did as he was told, and then the stove lit a row of small jets of gas along the steel runners of the skates, and they grew warm to jimmieboy's feet, and in a moment little puffs of steam issued forth from them, and jimmieboy began to move, slowly at first, and then more and more quickly, until he was racing at breakneck speed. "hi, stovey!" he cried, very much alarmed to find himself speeding off through this strange country all alone. "hurry up and catch me, or i'll be out of sight." "keep on," hallooed the stove in return. "don't bother about me. i've got four feet to your two, and i can go twice as fast as you do. keep on straight ahead, and i'll be up with you in a minute--just as soon as i can get the ammunition and my hose out." "i wonder what he's going to do with the hose?" jimmieboy asked himself. the stove was too far behind him for the little skater to ask him. [illustration: "halt!" cried a voice in front.] "halt!" cried a voice in front of jimmieboy. "i can't," gasped the little fellow, very much frightened, for as he gazed through the darkness to see who it was that addressed him, he perceived a huge snow man standing directly in his path. "you must," cried the snow man, opening his mouth and breathing forth an icy blast that nearly froze the water in jimmieboy's eyes. "you shall!" he added, opening his arms wide, so that before he knew it jimmieboy was precipitated into them. "see?" said the snow man. "i can compel y--" [illustration: the snow man.] the snow man never got any further with this remark, for in a moment jimmieboy passed straight through him. the heat of jimmieboy's clothes had melted a hole through the snow man, and as the small skater turned to look at his adversary he saw him standing there, his head, his sides, and legs still intact, but from his waist down all the middle part of him had disappeared. "dear me! how sad," jimmieboy said. "not at all," responded a voice beside him. "it serves him right; he's the meanest snow man that ever lived. if you hadn't melted him he'd have turned himself into an avalanche, and then you'd have been buried so deep in snow and ice you'd never have got out." "who are you?" queried jimmieboy, with a startled glance in the direction whence the voice seemed to come. "only what you hear," replied the voice. "i am a voice. jack frost froze the rest of me and carted it away, and left me here for the rest of my life." "what were you?" "i cannot remember," said the voice. "i may have been anything you can think of. you could stand there and call me all the names you chose, and i couldn't deny that i was any of them. "sometimes i think i may have been a piece of apple pie; perhaps a great and haughty queen, perhaps a gaily dressed marine, in former days was i. "i may have been a calendar, to tell some man the date; i may have been a railway car, a rocket or a shooting star, or e'en a roller skate. "i may have been a jar of jam, perhaps a watch and chain; i may have been a boy named sam, an oyster or a toothsome clam, perhaps a weather vane. "i may have been a pot of ink, a sloop or schooner yacht; i may have been the missing link, but _what_ i was i cannot think-- for i have quite forgot. "all i know is that i was something once; that jack frost came along and caught me and added me to his collection of curiosities, where i have been ever since. they call me the invisible chatter-box, and tell visitors that i escaped from the national vocabulary at washington." "i am very sorry for you," said jimmieboy, sympathetically. "you needn't be," said the voice. "i'm happy! i'm the only curiosity here that can be impudent to king jack. i can say what i please, you know, and there's no way of punishing me; i'm like a newspaper in that respect. i can go into any home, high or low, say what i please, and there you are. nobody can hurt me at all. oh, it's just immense. i play all sorts of tricks on jack, too. i get right up in front of his mouth and talk ridiculous nonsense, and people think he says it. why, only the other night a snow man i don't like went in to see jack, and jack liked him tremendously, too, and was really glad to see him; but before the king had a chance to say a word i hallooed out: 'get out of here, you donkey. go make snow-balls of your head and throw them at yourself;' and the snow man thought jack said it, and, do you know, he went outside and did it. he's been laid up ever since." "i think that was a very mean thing to do," said jimmieboy. "i'd agree with you if i had any conscience, but alas! they've deprived me of that too," sighed the voice. "but look out," it added, hastily. "throw yourself into that snow-bank or you'll fall into the river." without waiting to think why, jimmieboy obeyed the voice and threw himself headlong into a huge snow bank at his side, and glanced anxiously about him. he was indeed, as the voice had said, on the very edge of the ice, and another yard's advance would have landed him head over heels in the rushing water. "that would have been awful, wouldn't it?" he said to the stove, as his little friend came up. "yes, it would," returned the stove. "it would have put out the lights in your clothes, and that would have been very awful, for i find we have come away without any matches. jump into the boat, now, and row as straight for the other side as you can." jimmieboy looked about him for a boat, but couldn't see one. "there is no boat," he said. "yes, there is--jump!" cried the stove. and jimmieboy jumped, and, strange to relate, found himself in an instant seated amidships in an exquisitely light row-boat made entirely of ice. "row fast, now," said the stove. "if you don't the boat will melt before we can get across." xv. in the heart of frostland. "we're afloat! we're afloat! in our trim ice-boat; and we row-- yeave ho! "i guess i won't sing any more," said the gas stove. "it's a hard song to sing, that is, particularly when you've never heard it before, and can't think of another rhyme for boat." "that's easy enough to find," returned jimmieboy, pulling at the oars. "coat rhymes with boat, and so do note and moat and goat and----" "very true," assented the stove, "but it wouldn't do to use coat because we take our coats off when we row. note is good enough but you don't have time to write one when you are singing a sea-song. moat isn't any good, because nobody'd know whether you meant the moat of a castle, a sun-moat, or the one in your eye. as for goats, goats don't go well in poetry. so i guess it's just as well to stop singing right here." "how fast we go!" said jimmieboy. "what did you expect?" asked the stove. "the bottom of this boat is as slippery as can be, and, of course, going up the river against the current we get over the water faster than if we were going the other way because we--er--because we--well because we do." "seems to me," said jimmieboy, "i'd better turn out some of the gas in my coat. i'm melting right through the seat here." "so am i," returned the stove, with an anxious glance at the icy craft. "it won't be more than a minute before i melt my end of the boat all to pieces. i'm afraid we'll have to take to our arctics after all. i brought a pair of your father's along, and it's a good thing for us that he has big feet, for you'll have to get in one and i in the other." just then the stern of the boat melted away, and the stove, springing up from his seat and throwing himself into one of the arctics, with his ammunition and rubber hose, floated off. jimmieboy had barely time to get into the other arctic when his end of the ice-boat also gave way, and a cross-current in the stream catching the arctic whirled it about and carried it and its little passenger far away from the stove who shortly disappeared around a turn in the river, so that jimmieboy was left entirely alone in utter ignorance as to where he really was or what he should do next. generally jimmieboy was a very brave little boy, but he found his present circumstances rather trying. to be floating down a strange river in a large overshoe, with absolutely no knowledge of the way home, and a very dim notion only as to how he had managed to get where he was, was terrifying, and when he realized his position, great tears fell from jimmieboy's eyes, freezing into little pearls of ice before they landed in the bottom of the golosh, where they piled up so rapidly that the strange craft sank further and further into the water and would certainty have sunk with their weight had not the voice jimmieboy had encountered a little while before come to his rescue. [illustration: "golosh, ahoy!"] "golosh, ahoy!" cried the voice. "captain! captain! lean over the side and cry in the river or you'll sink your boat." the sound of the voice was a great relief to the little sailor who at once tried to obey the order he had received but found it unnecessary since his tears immediately dried up. "come out here in the boat with me!" cried jimmieboy. "i'm awful lonesome and i don't know what to do." "then there is only one thing you can do," said the voice from a point directly over the buckle of the arctic. "and that is to sit still and let time show you. it's a great thing, jimmieboy, when you don't know what to do and can't find any one to tell you, to sit down and do nothing, because if you did something you'd be likely to find out afterwards that it was the wrong thing. when i was young, in the days when i was what i used to be, i once read a poem that has lingered with me ever since. it was called 'wait and see' and this is the way it went: "when you are puzzled what to do, and no one's nigh to help you out; you'll find it for the best that you should wait until time gives the clew. and then your business go about-- of this there is no doubt. "just see the cow! she never knows what's going to happen next, so she contented 'mongst the daises goes, in clover from her head to toes, from care and trouble ever free-- she simply waits, you see! "the horse, unlike the cow, in fear jumps to and fro at maddest rate, tears down the street, doth snort and rear, and knocks the wagon out of gear-- and just because he does not wait, his woes accumulate. "d. crockett, famous in the past, the same sage thought hath briefly wed to words that must forever last, wherever haply they be cast: 'be sure you're right, then go ahead,' "that's what d. crockett said. "lots in that. if you don't know what to do," continued the voice, "don't do it." "i won't," said jimmieboy. "but do you know where we are?" "yes," said the voice. "i am here and you are there, and i think if we stay just as we are forever there is not likely to be any change, so why repine? we are happy." just then the golosh passed into a huge cavern, whose sides glistened like silver, and from the roof of which hung millions of beautiful and at times fantastically shaped icicles. "this," said the voice, "is the gateway to the kingdom of frostland. at the far end you will see a troop of ice soldiers standing guard. i doubt very much if you can get by them, unless you have retained a great deal of that heat you had. how is it? are you still lit?" "i am," said jimmieboy. "just put your hand on my chest and see how hot it is." "can't do it," returned the voice, "for two reasons. first, i haven't a hand to do it with, and secondly, if i had, i couldn't see with it. people don't see with their hands any more than they sing with their toes; but say, jimmieboy, wouldn't it be funny if we could do all those things--eh? what a fine poem this would be if it were only sensible: "a singular song having greeted my toes, i stared till i weakened the sight of my nose to see what it was, and observed a sweet voice come forth from the ears of lucinda, so choice. "i cast a cough-drop in the lovely one's eyes, who opened her hands in a tone of surprise, and remarked, in a way that startled my wife, 'i never was treated so ill in my life.' "then tears in a torrent coursed over her arms, and the blush on her teeth much heightened her charms. as, tossing the cough-drop straight back, with a sneeze, she smashed the green goggles i wear on my knees." jimmieboy laughed so long and so loudly at this poetical effusion that he attracted the attention of the guards, who immediately loaded their guns and began to pepper the invaders with snow-balls. "throw yourself down on your stomach in the toe of the golosh," whispered the voice, "and they'll never know you are there. keep perfectly quiet, and when any questions are asked, even if you are discovered, let me answer them. i can disguise myself so that they won't recognize me, and they'll think i'm your voice. in this way i think i can get you through in safety." so jimmieboy threw himself down in the golosh, and the voice began to sing. "no, no, my dear, i do not fear the devastating snow-ball; when it strikes me, i shriek with glee, and eat it like a dough-ball." [illustration: "halt!" cried the ice-guards.] "halt!" cried the ice-guards. "who are you?" "i am a haunted overshoe," replied the voice. "i am on the foot of a phantom which only appears at uncertain hours, and is consequently now invisible to you. "and, so i say, oh, fire away, i fear ye not, icicles; howe'er ye shoot, i can't but hoot, your act so greatly tickles." "shall we let it through?" asked the captain of the guards. "i move we do," said one high private. "i move we don't," said another. "all in favor of doing one thing or the other say aye," cried the captain. "aye!" roared the company. "contrary-minded, no," added the captain. "no!" roared the company. "both motions are carried," said the captain. "we will now adjourn for luncheon." the overshoe, meanwhile, had floated on down through the gates and was now out of the guards' sight and jimmieboy sprang to his feet and looked about him once more, and what he saw was so beautiful that he sat speechless with delight. he was now in the heart of frostland, and before him loomed the palace, a marvelously massive pile of richly carven ice-blocks transparent as glass; and within, seated upon a throne of surpassing brilliance and beauty, sat king jack surrounded by his courtiers, who were singing songs the like of which jimmieboy never before had heard. "now remember, jimmieboy," said the voice, as the overshoe with its passengers floated softly up to the huge snow-pier that ran out into the river at this point where they disembarked--"remember i am to do all the talking. otherwise you might get into trouble." "all right, voicy," began jimmieboy, and then there came a terrific shout from within. [illustration: "who comes here?"] "who comes here?" cried king jack, rising from his throne and pointing his finger at jimmieboy. "i am a traveling minstrel," jimmieboy seemed to reply though in reality it was the kind-hearted voice that said it. "and i have come a thousand and six miles, eight blocks, fourteen feet, six inches to recite to your majesty a poem i have written in honor of your approaching jubilee." "have i a jubilee approaching?" roared jack, turning to his secretary of state, who was so startled that his right arm melted. "y--yes, your majesty," stammered the secretary, with a low bow. "it is coming along at the rate of sixty seconds a minute." "why have i not been informed of this before?" roared jack, casting a glance at the cowering secretary that withered the nose straight off his face. "don't you know that jubilees are useful to a man only because other people give him presents in honor of the event? and here you've kept me in ignorance of the fact all this time, and the chances are i won't get a thing;--for i've neglected my relatives dreadfully." "sire," pleaded the secretary, "all that you say is true, but i have attended to all that. i have informed your friends that the jubilee is coming, and they are all preparing pleasant little surprises for you. we are going to give your majesty a surprise party, which is the finest kind of a party, because you don't have to go home after it is over, and the guests bring their own fried oysters, and pay all the bills." "ah!" said jack, melting a little. "you are a good man, after all. i will raise your salary, and send your children a skating-pond on christmas day; but when is this jubilee to take place?" "in eight hundred and forty-seven years," returned the voice, who did not like the secretary of state, and wanted to get him in trouble. "on the eighty-second day of july." "what--a--at?" roared the king, glaring at the secretary. "i didn't say a word, sire," cried the unfortunate secretary. "no?" sneered jack. "i suppose it was i that answered my own question, eh? that settles you. the idea of my waiting eight hundred and forty-seven years for a jubilee that is to take place on an impossible date! executioner, take the secretary of state out to the furnace-room, and compel him to sit before the fire until there's only enough of him left to make one snow-ball. then take that and throw it at the most decrepit hack-driver in my domain. the humiliation of this delayer of jubilees must be complete." the secretary of state was then led weeping away, and jack, turning to the awed jimmieboy, shouted out: "now for the minstrel. if the poem pleaseth our royal coolness, the singer shall have the position made vacant by that unfortunate snow-drift i have just degraded. step right up, young fellow, and turn on the poem." "step up to the foot of the throne and make a bow, and leave the rest to me," whispered the voice to jimmieboy. "all you've got to do is to move your lips and wave your arms. i'll do the talking." jimmieboy did as he was bade. he took up his stand before the throne, bowed, and the voice began to declaim as jimmieboy's lips moved, and his arms began to shoot out, first to the left and then to the right. "this poem," said the voice, "is in the language of the snortuguese, and has been prepared at great expense for this occasion, fourteen gallons of ink having been consumed on the first stanza alone, which runs as follows: "jack frigidos, jack frigidos, oh, what a trope you are! how you do shine and ghibeline, and conjugate afar!" "it begins very well, oh, minstrel!" said jack, with an approving nod. "the ink was well expended. mount thee yon table, and from thence deliver thyself of the remnant of thy rhyme." "thanks," returned the voice; "i will." "get up on the table, jimmieboy," the voice added, "and we'll finish 'em off there. be a little slow about it, for i've got to have time to compose the rest of the poem." so jimmieboy clambered up the leg of the table, and in a few moments was ready for the voice to begin, which the voice proceeded to do. "i will repeat the first verse, your majesty, for the sake of completeness. and here goes: "jack frigidos, jack frigidos, oh, what a trope you are! how you do shine, and ghibeline, and conjugate afar! "how debonair is thy back hair; thy smile how contraband! would i could ape thy shapely shape, and arrogate thy hand! "that nose of thine, how superfine! how pertinent thy chin. how manifest the palimpsest and contour of thy shin! "how ormolu thy revenue! how dusk thy silhouette! how myrtilly thy pedigree doth grace thine amulet! "what man is there, ay, anywhere, what mortal chanticleer, can fail to find unto his mind thy buxom bandolier! "ah, frigidos! jack frigidos, in parcel or in keg, another like thee none can strike from dan to winnipeg." here the voice paused. "is that all?" queried jack frost. "it is all i have written up to this moment," the voice answered. "of course there are seventy or eighty more miles of it, because, as your majesty is well aware, it would take many a league of poetry fitly to commemorate your virtues." "your answer is pleasing unto me," replied the monarch of frostland, when the voice had thus spoken. "the office of the secretary of state is yours. the salary is not large, but the duties are. they are to consist mainly of----" here the king was interrupted by a tremendous noise without. evidently some one was creating a disturbance, and as jimmieboy turned to see what it was, he saw the great ice mountain looming up over the far-distant horizon melt slowly away and dwindle out of sight; and then messengers, breathless with haste, rushed in and cried out to the king: [illustration: the gas-stove destroying frostland.] "we are attacked! we are attacked! a tribe from a far country, commanded by the gas stove, is even now within our boundaries, armed with a devastating hose, breathing forth fire, by which already has been destroyed the whole western frontier." "what is to be done?" cried jack, in alarm, and springing to his feet. "can we not send a regiment of cold winds out against them, and freeze them to their very marrows and blow out the gas?" "we cannot, sire," returned the messenger, "for the heat is so deadly that the winds themselves thaw into balmy zephyrs before they reach the enemy." "not so!" cried the voice from jimmieboy's lips. "for i will save you if you will place the matter in my hands." "noble creature!" sobbed jack, grasping jimmieboy by the hand. "save my kingdom from destruction, and all that you ask of me in the future is yours." and jimmieboy, promising to help jack, started out, clad with all the authority of his high office, to meet the gas stove. xvi. the end of the story. as jimmieboy proceeded along the icy road he observed that everything was beginning to thaw, and then, peering as far into the distance as he could, he saw a great flame burning fiercely and scorching everything with which it came in contact. it was quite evident that the gas stove had brought with him the most effective ammunition possible for his purposes. "i don't see exactly how he does it," said the newly appointed secretary of state, as he ran hurriedly toward the devastating fire. "easy enough," returned the voice. "he has brought along a large quantity of gas and a garden hose, and he has turned on the gas just as you would turn on water, lit it, and there you are. there is absolutely no withstanding him, and unless he can be induced to stop very shortly, he'll destroy this whole kingdom, and we'll have nothing but a desert ocean; and i can tell you, jimmieboy, a desert ocean where there is nothing but water is worse than a desert desert where there is nothing but sand." "it seems almost a pity to destroy such a beautiful place as this," said jimmieboy, looking about him, taking note of the great tall ice-covered trees and the frost flowers and grasses at the road-side. "but, you know, jack frost bit my little brother, which was very cowardly of him, and that's why the gas stove and i have come here to fight." "i think you are wrong there," said the voice. "i don't believe jack any more than kissed him; but if he did bite him, it was because he loved him." jimmieboy had never thought of it in that light before. all he knew was that whatever jack frost had done, it had brought tears to little russ's eyes and woe to his heart. "it's rather a funny way to show love to bite a person," said jimmieboy. "just let me ask you a few questions," said the voice. "do you like cherries and peaches?" "oh, don't i!" cried jimmieboy, smacking his lips. "i just dote on 'em!" "then," said the voice, "why do you bite the cherry sweet? why in the peach do your teeth meet?" "never thought of it that way," said jimmieboy. "i suppose not," returned the voice. "are you fond of apples and gingerbread?" "well, rather!" ejaculated jimmieboy. "then tell me this," asked the voice: "why do you gnaw the apple red? why do you chew your gingerbread?" "because i like 'em," returned jimmieboy. "why do you crunch your taffy brown? why do you nibble your jumble down? why do you munch your candy ball? why do you chew at all--at all?" continued the voice. "to make things last longer. 'tain't proper to gulp 'em all down at once," answered jimmieboy. "and that's why jack frost bit little russ," asserted the voice. "in the first place, he loved him. little russ was to him as sweet as a cherry is to you. in the second place, he took a little wee bite, because it wasn't proper to gulp him all down. to-morrow that bite spot will be well, and little russ will be none the worst for it. now i don't see why you should want to ruin all this beautiful country just for that. it isn't a crime to love babies or to eat cherries." "that's so," said jimmieboy. "but jack frost has done other things. he killed a lot of mamma's flowers." "no, he didn't," returned the voice. "your mamma left 'em out-doors all night, and jack came along and did just what the bees do. he took all the sweetness he could find out of 'em, and brought them here, where he planted them and made them appear like flowers of silver. you see what the heat down there is doing?" jimmieboy looked, and saw the icy covering melting off the flowers and trees, and as the silver coating fell away they would wave softly in the balmy air for a moment, and then wither and crumble away. "isn't that too bad?" he said. "it is, indeed," replied the voice. "those flowers and trees would have stood and lived on forever in their ice coats--ever fresh, ever happy. the warmth from the invader's fire gives them one glad mad moment of ecstasy, and then they wither away, and are lost forever. is that worth while, my boy?" the voice quivered a little as it uttered these words, and jimmieboy felt tears rising in his own eyes too. jack frost was not so bad a fellow, after all, as he had been made out. "but he made our hired man's back ache when he went to dig some holes for the fence posts," said jimmieboy, who now felt that he should have some excuse for his presence in frostland, and on a mission of destruction. "was that right of him?" "even if it was his fault, it was right," said the voice. "i don't believe it was his fault, though. hired men have a way of having back-ache when there's lots to do. but supposing jack did give it to him. that hired man was taking a spade and scarring mother earth with its sharp edge. jack frost gets all that he has from mother earth. she has given him work to do--work that has made him what he is--and it was his duty to protect her." "well, i don't know what to do," said jimmieboy, beginning to sob. "i came here for revenge, and i don't think----" "there is only one thing for you to do, be true to those who trust you," said the voice. "now who trusts you? your nurse doesn't--she wouldn't let you out of her sight. your papa believes in you, but he never would have intrusted such a mission as this to your hands; nor would your mamma or little russ. on the other hand, jack frost has made you secretary of state, and you promised to help him in this dreadful trial--_he trusts you_. as the poem says, "e'en though it's sure to take and bust you, be ever true to them that trust you." "i'll save them," said jimmieboy. and then he started off on a run down the road, and ere long stood face to face with the gas stove. the latter immediately threw down his hose, turned off the gas, and clasped jimmieboy to his heart. "saved! saved!" he cried. "i have found you at last. dear me, how anxious i have been about you!" and then he burst out in song: "but now, o joy? my averdupoy will steadily increase; for, now you're back, my woes will pack their clothes in their valise, "and fly afar, to the uttermost star that shines up in the skies, while you and i will warble high the gleesomest of cries. "we'll sing and sing, and warble and sing, and warble, and sing, and sing, and warble and sing, and sing, sing, sing, and warble and sing, sing, sing," "come off!" ejaculated the voice. "that's mighty poor poetry for a stove that's as glad as you are." "why, jimmieboy, you pain me," said the gas stove, who thought that it was his little friend that had spoken. "i didn't think you would criticize my song of happiness that way." "i never said a word," said jimmieboy. "it was my friend the voice, who helped me when i was in trouble, and----" "and by whose efforts," interrupted the voice, "our jimmieboy here is now the right honorable jamesboy. secretary of state to his majesty the emperor of frostland, prince of iceberg, marquis thawberry, and chief ice-cream freezer to all the crowned heads of europe, asia, africa, austrilia and new jersey. i'd advise you to take off your hat, mr. stove, for you are in the presence of a great man." "no, no," cried jimmieboy, as the gas stove doffed his iron lid; "don't take off your hat to me, stovey. i am all that he says, but i am still jimmieboy, and your friend." "but what becomes of your war?" queried the gas stove, ruefully. "i can't fight against you, and you are a part of the government." "that's a very sensible conclusion," said the voice. "only i wouldn't let king jack know that, or he wouldn't ever let jimmieboy go away from here. what you want to do is to make terms that will be satisfactory to both parties, get jack frost to agree to 'em, and there you are. if he won't agree, the gas stove will have to go on with the war until he does agree." "that's the thing to do, i suppose," said the stove. "what shall i insist upon, mr. secretary?" "well, i think jack ought to quit biting babies, no matter if he does love 'em," said jimmieboy. "i insist upon it," said the gas stove, firmly. "i think, too," said jimmieboy, "that he ought not to run off with so many flowers." "if you do not agree to that, mr. secretary," returned the stove, "i shall turn on my canned devastation again." "i shall endeavor to secure the king's consent," replied jimmieboy. "and, furthermore, he must keep away from the water-pipes in my papa's house. he froze 'em all up last winter." "that is my ultimatum," said the stove. "your what?" queried jimmieboy. "my last word," explained the stove. "it's long enough to have been a half-dozen of your last words," laughed the voice. "but is that all you're to agree upon?" "i don't know of anything more," said jimmieboy. "nor i," said the stove. "you're a mean couple," ejaculated the voice, angrily. "if i had my way, you'd do something for one who has served you when you were in trouble," he added, addressing jimmieboy. "where would you have been if it hadn't been for--for--well, for a friend of mine?" "i don't know who you mean," said jimmieboy. "he wants something for himself," whispered the gas stove, "and he is right." "oh, you don't know who i mean, eh?" sneered the voice. and then he added: "who saved you from the icy sea. and brought you through s-a-f-e? why, me! "who thought about that jubilee, and filled jack frost chock up with glee? why, me! "who all your goings did o'ersee, and got this lofty place for thee? why, me! "that's who. now what are you going to do about it?" "he's going back to jack frost," said the gas stove, "and he is going to demand that you shall be made secretary of state in his place, and he is going to tell jack that if he ever removes you from that position i shall return and destroy the country." "you are very moderate in your demands," said the voice. "i think king jack will be very foolish if he refuses to accede to them, particularly that one having reference to myself. i do not care for the office, of course, but since there seems to be a demand for me, i shall accept." [illustration: the gas-stove is introduced to the king.] so jimmieboy, followed by the gas stove and the voice, returned to the palace, and the demands of the stove were laid before the monarch. "i'll agree to 'em all gladly," said he, "save that which forces me to deprive myself of your valuable services. was he quite firm about that?" "he was!" shouted the voice, before jimmieboy could speak. here somebody else in the distance seemed to call: "jimmieboy! hi! jimmieboy!" "shall i accede or stand by you?" asked jack, taking jimmieboy by the hand. "you'd better accede," said jimmieboy, looking around to see who was calling him, "for i have just heard some one calling me--my papa, i think--and i guess it's time for me to get up." [illustration: the gas-stove burning merrily and winking at him from the fireplace.] what jack's response to this curious remark would have been no one knows, for just then a most strange thing took place. jack frost and his palace in an instant faded completely from view, and jimmieboy in surprise closed his eyes, rubbed them with both his fists, and then opened them again, to find himself in his little cot in the nursery, the gas-stove burning merrily and winking at him from the fire-place, and the friendly voice, as usual, nowhere to be seen, and now not even to be heard. no sole remnant of the frozen country remained, save a few beautiful frost pictures on the windows, which, it seemed to jimmieboy, jack had left there in remembrance of the services jimmieboy had done him; and as for the frost kiss on little russ's chin, it had become as invisible as that far sweeter kiss that mamma had placed upon that very same spot when she first discovered what jack had done. (the end.) scanned images of public domain material from the internet archive. [illustration: book cover] [illustration: "excuse me," said the stranger, "but we have to be very particular here."] bikey the skicycle & other tales of jimmieboy * * * * * _by_ john kendrick bangs _author of_ "uncle sam trustee," "mr. munchausen," "house boat on the styx," etc. illustrated by peter newell [illustration] * * * * * _new york_ riggs publishing company mcmii copyright, , by riggs publishing co. table _of_ contents [illustration] page i. bikey the skicycle ii. the imp of the telephone iii. caught in toy town iv. totherwayville, the animal town v. an electrical error vi. in the brownie's house vii. jimmieboy--and something viii. jimmieboy's fire works ix. high-jinks in the barn x. jimmieboy's valentine xi. the magic sled xii. the stupid little apple tree illustrations [illustration] "excuse me," said the stranger, "but we have to be very particular here" see frontispiece before him stood the imp facing page "at last!" ejaculated the imp the electric custard "no wonder it wouldn't say anything," he cried "i'm very glad to see you sharkey," said the lobster "your ears would be frozen solid" "hullo! said his papa, where have you been?" bikey the skicycle i _how it all came about_ jimmieboy's father had bought him a bicycle, and inasmuch as it was provided with a bag of tools and a nickel plated bell the small youth was very much pleased with the gift. "it's got rheumatic tires, too," he said, when describing it to one of his little friends. "what's that?" asked the boy. "big pieces of hose pipe," said jimmieboy. "they run all around the outside of the wheel and when you fill 'em up with wind and screw 'em up tight so's the wind can't get out, papa says, you can go over anything easy as a bird." "i s'pose," said the little friend, "it's sort of like sailing, maybe. the wind keeps blowing inside o' those pipes and that makes the wheels go round." "i guess that's it," returned jimmieboy. "but i don't see why they call 'em rheumatic," said the other boy. "nor i don't, either," said jimmieboy, "unless it's because they move a little stiff at first." it was not long, however, before jimmieboy discovered that his father had made a mistake when he said that the pneumatic tire would enable a bicycle to ride over anything, for about a week later jimmieboy tried to ride over the shaft of a lawn mower with his wheel, with disastrous results. the boy took a header, and while he himself was not hurt beyond a scratch or two and a slight shaking up, which took away his appetite, the wonderful rubber tire was badly battered. what was worse, the experience made jimmieboy a little afraid of his new possession, and for some time it lay neglected. a few nights ago, however, jimmieboy's interest in his wheel was aroused once more, and to-day it is greater than ever, and it all came about in this way. his father and mother had gone out to make some calls and the youngster was spending a few minutes of solitude over a very fine fairy book that had recently been sent to him. while he was gazing at a magnificent picture of jack slaying two giants with his left hand and throttling a dragon with his right, there came a sudden tinkling of a bell. "somebody's at the telephone," thought jimmieboy, and started to go to it, when the ringing sound came again, but from a part of the house entirely away from the neighborhood of the telephone. "humph," said jimmieboy. "that's queer. it isn't the telephone and it can't be the front door bell--i guess it's the----" "it's me--bikey," came a merry voice from behind the door. "who?" cried jimmieboy. "bikey," replied the voice. "don't you remember bikey, who threw you over the lawn mower?" jimmieboy turned about, and sure enough there stood his neglected wheel. "i hope you weren't hurt by your tumble," said the little bicycle standing up on its hind wheel and putting its treadles softly on jimmieboy's shoulders, as if it were caressing him. "no," said jimmieboy. "the only thing was that it took away my appetite, and it was on apple pie day. it isn't pleasant to feel as if you couldn't eat a thing with a fine apple pie staring you in the face. that was all i felt badly about." "i'm sorry about the pie," returned the little bicycle, "but glad you didn't flatten your nose or put your teeth out of joint, as you might easily have done. i knew a boy once who took a header just as you did, and after he got up he found that he'd broken the brim of his hat and turned a beautiful roman nose into a stub nose." "you mean snub nose, don't you?" asked jimmieboy. "no, i mean stub. stub means more than snub. snub means just a plain turn up nose, but stub means that it's not only turned up, but has very little of itself left. it's just a stub--that's all," explained the bicycle. "another boy i knew fell so hard that he pushed his whole face right through to the back of his head, and you don't know how queer it looks to see him walking backward on his way to school." "i guess i was in great luck," said jimmieboy. "i might have had a much harder time than i did." "i should say so," said the bicycle. "a scratch and loss of appetite, when you might just as easily have had your whole personal appearance changed, is getting off very cheap. but, i say, why didn't you turn aside instead of trying to ride over that lawn mower? didn't you know you'd get yourself into trouble?" "of course i didn't," said jimmieboy. "you don't suppose i wanted to commit soozlecide, do you? i heard papa talking to mamma about the rheumatic tires on his bicycle, and he said they were great inventions because they made the wheel boy--boy--well, boy something, i don't remember what." "boyant?" asked the little bicycle, scratching its cyclometer with its pedal. "yes--that was it," said jimmieboy. "he said the rheumatic tires made the thing boyant, and i asked him what that meant. he said boyant was a word meaning light and airy--like a boy, you know, and that boyancy in a bicycle meant that it could jump over almost anything." "that is so," said bikey. "that's what they have those tires for, but they can't jump over a lawn mower--unless"----here bikey paused and glanced anxiously around. it was evident that he had some great secret in his mind. "unless what?" asked jimmieboy, his curiosity at once aroused. "unless a patent idea of mine, which you and i could try if you wanted to, is good." bikey's voice sank into a whisper. "there's millions in my idea if it'll work," he continued. "do you see this?" he asked, holding up his front wheel. "this tire i have on is filled with air, and it makes me seem light as air--but it's only seeming. i'm heavy, as you found out when you tried to get me to jump over the lawn mower, but if i could only do a thing i want to you could go sailing over a church steeple as easily as you can ride me over a lawn." "you mean to say you'd fly?" asked jimmieboy, delighted at the idea. "no--not exactly," returned bikey. "i never could fly and never wanted to. birds do that, and you can buy a bird for two dollars; but a bicycle costs you anywhere from fifty to a hundred, which shows how much more valuable bicycles are than birds. no, i don't want to fly, but i would like to float." "on water?" asked jimmieboy. "no, no, no; in the air," said the little bicycle impatiently--"like a balloon. wouldn't that be fine? anybody can float on the water, even an old cork; but when it comes to floating in the air, that's not only fun but it means being talented. a bicycle that could float in the air would be the finest thing in the world." "that's very likely true," said jimmieboy, "but how are you going to do it? you can't soar." "not with my tires filled with air," replied bikey, "but if you'll take the hose from the gas stove and fasten one end to the supply valve of my tires, the other to the gas fixture, fill the tires up with gas and get aboard i'll bet you we can have a ride that'll turn out to be a regular sky-scraper." it sounded like an attractive proposition, but jimmieboy wanted to know something more about it before consenting to trifle with the gas pipe. "what good'll the gas do?" he asked. "why, don't you know that gas makes balloons go up?" said bikey. "they just cram the balloon as full of gas as they can get it and up she sails. that's my idea. fill my rubber tires with gas and up we'll go. what do you say?" "i'll do it," cried jimmieboy with enthusiasm. "i'd love more than anything else to go biking through the clouds, for to tell the truth clouds look a great deal softer than grocery carts and lawn mowers, and i wouldn't mind running into one of them so much. skybicycling"---- "pooh! what a term," retorted bikey. "skybicycling! why don't you use your mind a little and call it skycycling?" jimmieboy laughed. "perhaps skycling would be better than that," he suggested. "or skiking," smiled the little bicycle. "if it works you know i'll be simply grand. i'll be a sort of christopher columbus among bicycles, and perhaps i'll be called a skicycle instead of bicycle. oh, it would be too beautiful!" he added, dancing joyously on his hind wheel. "it will indeed," said jimmieboy, "but let's hurry. seems to me as if i could hardly wait." "me too," chuckled bikey. "you go up and get the rubber tube, fasten it to the gas pipe, and inside of ten minutes we'll be off--if it works." so jimmieboy rushed off to the attic, seized a piece of rubber tubing that had been used to carry the supply of gas to his little nursery stove in the winter, and running back to where bikey was waiting fastened it to the fixture in the hall. "now," said bikey, unscrewing the cap of his pneumatic tire, "hold the other end there and we'll see how it goes." jimmieboy hastened to obey, and for five minutes watched his strange little friend anxiously. "feel any lighter?" he said. "yes," whispered bikey, almost shivering with delight. "my front wheel is off the floor already. i think twenty feet more will be enough there, and when you've filled up the hind tire--ta--ta--ti--tum--ti--too--ha--ha! then we'll go skiking." the plan was followed out, and when both tires had taken in as much gas as they could hold bikey called hoarsely to jimmieboy:-- "quick! quick! jump aboard or i'll be off without you. is the door open?" "no," said jimmieboy, clambering into the saddle, after turning off the gas and screwing the caps firmly on both tires, "b--but the par--par--parlor window is." "good," cried bikey. "we'll sail through that! give the right pedal a good turn; now--one--two--three--we're off!" and they were off. out of the hall they flew, through the parlor without touching the floor, and then sailed through the window out into the moonlight night. "isn't it great," cried bikey, trembling with delight. "greatest that ever was," said jimmieboy. "but, hi! take care, turn to the left, quick." a great spike of some sort had loomed up before them. "excuse me," said bikey, giving a quick turn. "i was so happy i wasn't looking where we were going. if you hadn't spoken we'd have got stuck on that church steeple sure enough." ii _wheeling on the big ring of saturn_ "hadn't we better go a little higher?" asked jimmieboy. "there's a lot of these tall steeples about here, and it wouldn't be any fun if we pricked a hole in one of these tires on a weather vane." "we are going higher all the time," said bikey. "there isn't a steeple in the world can touch us now. what we want to keep away from now are eagles and snow clad alps." "ho! snow clad alps," laughed jimmieboy. "there aren't any alps in america, they're all in europe." "well, where are you? you don't suppose we've been standing still all this time, do you? if you'd studied your geography lessons as well as you ought to you'd be able to tell one country from another. you are wheeling directly over france now. in ten minutes we'll be over germany, and in fifteen, if you turned to the south, you'd simply graze the top of mont blanc." "let's," said jimmieboy. "i want to see a glazier." "a what?" asked bikey. "a glazier," answered jimmieboy. "it's a big slide." "oh, you mean a glacier," said bikey, shaking all over with laughter. "i thought you meant a man to put in a pane of glass, and it struck me that mont blanc was a curious place to go looking for one. shall we turn south?" "if you don't mind," said jimmieboy. "seems to me we might coast down mont blanc, and have a pretty good time of it." "oh, if that's what you're after, i won't do it," said bikey. "coasting isn't a good thing for beginners like you, particularly on the alps. take a hill of your own size. furthermore, we haven't come out to explore the earth. i was going to take you off to the finest bicycle track you ever saw. i never saw it either, but i've seen pictures of it. it's a great level gold road running about another world called saturn. we call it saturn's ring down home, but i've ideas as to what it is." "seems to me i've heard papa speak of saturn. it's got eight moons, i think he said. one for every day of the week, and two for sunday," said jimmieboy. "that's the place," said bikey. "you don't need a lamp on your wheel when you go out at night there. they've got moonlight to burn. if you'll pedal ahead now as hard as you can we can get there in time for one turn and then come back; and i tell you, my boy, that coming back will be glorious. it will be down grade all the way." "how far off is saturn?" asked jimmieboy. "i don't know," returned bikey, "but it's a long walk from your house. the ring is , miles from saturn itself. that's why i think it's a good place for bicycling. nobody'd take an ice cart or a furniture truck that far just to get in the way of a wheelman, and then as it doesn't go anywhere but just round and round and round, they're not likely to have trolley cars on it. it doesn't pay to run a trolley car nowheres." it all seemed beautifully reasonable, and jimmieboy's curiosity grew greater and greater as he pedalled along. up and on they went, passing through huge fleecy masses of clouds, now and again turning to one side to avoid running into strange little bits of stars, so small that they seemed to be nothing but islands in the ocean of the sky, and far too small to be seen on the earth. "we can stop and rest on one of those if you want to, jimmieboy," said bikey; "are you tired?" "not at all," jimmieboy answered. "seems to me i could go on this way forever. it's easy as lying down and going to sleep." bikey chuckled. "what are you laughing at?" said jimmieboy. "nothing," said bikey. "when you said it was easy as sleeping i thought of something--that was all." "dear me," said jimmieboy, ruefully. "i am awake, ain't i? this isn't like all the other experiences, is it?" "not at all," laughed bikey. "your other adventures have been quite different. but, i say, we're getting there. i can see five moons ahead already." "i can see six," cried jimmieboy, quite elated. "yes, six--and--one more." "you've got nearly the whole set, as the boy said when he came to the other boy's nicaragua page in the stamp album. there are only eight altogether--only i think your seventh is saturn itself." "it must be," said jimmieboy. "it's got a hello around it." "what's that?" asked bikey. "i forgot," said jimmieboy. "you never went to sunday school, and so of course you don't know what a hello is. it's a thing like a gold hoople that angels wear on their heads." "i'll have to get one," said bikey. "i heard somebody say i was an angel of a bicycle. i don't know what she meant, though. what is an angel?" "it's a--a--good thing with wings," said jimmieboy. "humph!" said bikey, "i'm afraid i'm not one of those. don't they ever have wheels? i'm a good thing, but i haven't any wings." "i never heard of an angel with wheels," said jimmieboy. "but i suppose they come. angels have everything that's worth having." bikey was silent. the idea of anything having everything that was worth having was too much for him to imagine, for bicycles have very little imagination. "i wish i could be one," he said wistfully, after a moment's silence. "it must be awfully nice to have everything you want." jimmieboy thought so, too, but he was too much interested in getting to saturn to say anything, so he, too, kept silent and pedalled away as hard as he could. together and happily they went on until jimmieboy said:-- "bikey, what's that ahead? looks like the side of a great gold cheese." "that," bikey answered, "is exactly what you think it is. it's the ring of saturn, and, as the saying goes, for biking saturn is quite the cheese. in two minutes we'll be there." and in two minutes they were there. in less, in fact, for hardly eight seconds had passed before a great, blinding light caused jimmieboy to close his eyes, and when he had opened them again he and bikey were speeding along a most beautiful road, paved with gold. "i thought so," said bikey, "we're on the ring. and isn't it smooth?" "it's like riding on glass," said jimmieboy. and then they stopped short. a peculiar looking creature had stopped them. it was a creature with a face not unlike that of a man, and a body like a man's, but instead of legs it had wheels like a bicycle. if you can imagine a centaur with a body like a bicycle instead of a horse you will have a perfect mental picture of this strange creature. "excuse me," said the stranger, "but we have to be very particular here. where do you come from?" "earth," said bikey. "all right," said the stranger. "move on, i'm a saturn policeman and so many wheelmen from the sun and the moon and jupiter have caused disturbances of late that we have had to forbid them coming. you are the only earth people who have been here, and of course are not included in our rules, but i will have to go along with you to see that you do not break any of them." "we're very glad to meet you," said bikey, "and if you'll tell us your rules we will be very glad to obey them." "well," said the creature with wheels instead of legs, "the first rule is that nobody shall ride a wheel standing on his head. there was a person over here from mars last week who actually put his head in the saddle and wheeled his pedals with his hands." "how utterly absurd!" said jimmieboy. "wasn't it?" said the saturnian; "and my! how mad he got when i interfered--asked whether this was a free country and if anybody had rights, and all sorts of stuff like that. now there's another rule we have, and that is that coasting backward cannot be permitted. we used to allow that until a man from jupiter ran slap bang into another man who lived at the extreme end of the handle of the great dipper, who was coasting backward from the other direction. they came together so hard that we couldn't get 'em apart, and we have had to keep 'em here ever since. they can't be separated, and the dipper man won't go to jupiter, and the jupiter man won't go to dipperville--consequently they stay here. they're a fearful nuisance, and it all came from coasting backward." "it's a very good rule," said jimmieboy, "but in our world i don't think we'd need a rule like that, because, while our bicycle riders do lots of queer things, i don't think they'd do that." "i hope not," said the saturnian, "because there isn't any use in it, any more than in that other trick our visiting bicyclists try to play here. they take those bicycles built for two, you know, and have what they call tugs of war with 'em. one fellow takes the hind wheel and the other the front wheel, and each begins to work for all he is worth to pull the other along. we had to stop that, too, because the last time they did it the men were so strong that the bar was pulled apart and both tuggers went flying off on one wheel so fast that they have never managed to get back--not that we want them back, but that we don't want people to set bicycling down as a dangerous sport. it means so much to us. we get all our money from our big ring here; bicyclists come from all parts of the universe to ride around it, and as they pay for the privilege why we get millions of dollars a year, which is divided up among the people. consequence is, nobody has to do any work and we are all happy. you can see for yourself that it would be very bad for us if people gave it up as dangerous." "very true," said bikey, "and now we know the rules i suppose we can go ahead." "yes," said the policeman, "only you must go to the captain's office and get a permit. it'll cost you $ , for one season." "two thousand dollars?" echoed jimmieboy, aghast. "that's what i said," said the policeman. "but," said jimmieboy, ruefully, "i haven't got more than five cents with me." "then," said the policeman, "you can get a permit for five cents' worth--that's one-forty thousandth part of a season." "and how long is a season?" asked jimmieboy. "forty thousand years," said the policeman. "you can ride a year for five cents." bikey laughed. "that'll be long enough," he said. "and where can i find the captain?" "i'm him," said the saturnian. "give me the five cents and it will be all right." so jimmieboy handed over his nickel, and in a moment he and bikey were speeding along over a beautiful golden road so wide that he could not see the other side of it, and stretching on and on to the fore for thousands of miles. iii _a sudden stop at the tyred inn_ "this is a great place," said bikey as they sped along. "i've coasted on pretty much every kind of coasting thing there is, and i think i never struck anything like this before. it beats the north pole all hollow." "you never coasted on the north pole, did you?" queried jimmieboy. "oh, didn't i just!" laughed bikey. "it's made of ice, that north pole is, and it's so slippery that you can even slide up it--that's awful slippery, when you come to think of it--and as for coming down, well, you'd almost think you were falling off a roof." "but, wasn't it dangerous?" asked jimmieboy. "not at all," laughed bikey. "sliding up you run into the air, and that isn't very hard, and coming down you land in a great snow bank--but this place here is much pleasanter, because it's warmer, and you don't have to exert yourself. that's the great thing about this track. we aren't going at all, though we seem to be--it's the track that makes my wheels go round. it's just a-whizzing, this track is, but we are standing perfectly still. if you should step off on to the road you'd whizz back out of sight in two seconds." "well, i won't step off, then," said jimmieboy a little fearfully; "i don't want to be left up here all by myself." silently they went on for at least five minutes, when what should they see before them but a great stone wall, built solidly across the road. "hi!" cried bikey. "put on the brake--hurry up." "there isn't one," shrieked jimmieboy. "i--b--bub--busted it on the lawn mower the day of the accident." "back pedal then--back pedal," roared bikey. "c--can't gug--get my feet on 'em, they're going so fast," cried jimmieboy. "then p--pup--punk--puncture my tire--take a nail or a pin or anything--or we'll be dashed to pieces." "huh! haven't gug--got a nail or a pup--pin or anything," wept jimmieboy. "then we are lost," said bikey; but just then his tires punctured themselves and they came to a full stop two feet from the stone wall and directly in front of a little hotel, from the front door of which swung a bright red sign on which was the following inscription:-- the tyred inn for the tired out. "my!" ejaculated bikey as he and jimmieboy tumbled in a heap before the inn. "that was the narrowest escape i ever had. if we hadn't stopped we'd have been smashed all to bits--leastways i would have--you might have cleared the wall all right." "good morning, biklemen," said a fat, pudgy little old fellow, appearing in the doorway of the inn and bowing profoundly. "what's that you say?" asked bikey looking up. "i didn't catch that last word." "biklemen," repeated the fat little fellow. "it's a word i invented myself to save time and it signifies gentlemen who ride bicycles. instead of saying 'good morning, gentlemen who ride bicycles,' i say 'good morning, biklemen, is there anything i can do for you?'" "well, i should say there was," retorted bikey. "just look at my tires, will you? there are twenty-six punctures in the front one and eighteen in the hind one. i should think you'd have better sense than to sprinkle the road with tacks in this way." "why, what an ungrateful creature you are," cried the landlord of the tyred inn, for that was who the pudgy little old fellow was. "if it hadn't been for those tacks i'd like to know where you'd be at this moment. you'd have smashed into that stone wall and busted yourself and your rider all to pieces." "that's so, bikey," said jimmieboy. "those tacks saved our lives." "of course they did," said the landlord. "and even if you had a right to growl about 'em, you haven't any right to growl at me because the government compels me to keep that part of the road sprinkled with 'em." "really?" asked bikey. "queer law that, isn't it?" "i don't see why you think that," replied the landlord. "is it a queer law which results in the saving of people's lives?" "no; but the way to save people's lives would be to remove that stone wall," said bikey. "and that's the thing that makes this place dangerous." "i don't like to be impolite to biklemen," said the landlord, "but i must say that you don't know what you are talking about. do you suppose i am in business for fun?" "i don't see what that has to do with it," said bikey, ruefully regarding his tires, which looked for all the world like porous plasters would look if they were sold by the yard. "well, i'll show you in ten seconds," said the landlord. "do you see this inn? i presume you do, though there seems to be so little that you see that i have my doubts. well, this inn is run, not because i think it's a game i'm playing, but because i'm after money. now, this inn wouldn't earn a cent of money if biklemen didn't stop here. see that?" "yes," said bikey. "that's plain enough, but that doesn't account for the tacks or the stone wall." "yes, it does, too," retorted the landlord. "i ran this inn two years before that stone wall was built, and i paid the government $ a week for being allowed to do it, but nobody ever stopped. every bikleman in the universe went coasting by here and never a one stopped in, so i never got a cent and was paying $ , a year to the government into the bargain. of course i complained to the secretary of the interior, and he just laughed me off; said it wasn't his fault; that i ought to do something myself to make 'em stop, and that is how i came to build the stone wall. they've got to stop now. see that?" "yes," said bikey, "i see. and did you begin to make money?" "well, rather," said the landlord. "the first day after that was built a lot of biklemen from the moon came over here and they ran plumb into that wall. five out of eight broke their legs, two broke their arms and one of 'em got off with a cracked nose, but every one of 'em had to stay here two months at $ a day apiece, and, of course, their families had to visit 'em, and they paid from $ to $ apiece, and then i charged 'em all for medical services, and altogether things began to look up. i cleared $ a week steady. but they were a mean crowd. in spite of all the good treatment they got, as soon as they got well they made a complaint against that wall, said it was an outrage, and the government said it must come down. "'all right,' said i to the secretary. 'but if that wall comes down i go out of the hotel business, and you can whistle for your $ a week.' he didn't like that a bit, the secretary didn't, because his salary depended on the money i paid. being secretary of the interior he got a commission on hotel taxes, and as mine was the only hotel in saturn, shutting it up meant that he was ruined." "you had him there," laughed bikey. "i rather guess so," smiled the landlord, "and he knew it. still i was easy with him. i didn't want to have people making complaints all the time, so i said that while the stone wall had come to stay, i'd pave the street for two hundred yards in front of it with cat teasers." "what?" cried jimmieboy. "cat teasers," said the landlord. "didn't you ever hear of cat teasers? they're small square pieces of zinc with prickers on 'em. city people generally put 'em on top of their back yard fences so that patti cats"---- "excuse me," asked bikey. "what cats?" "patti cats and de reszke cats--the kind that sing, you know," explained the landlord. "they put 'em on their back yard fences so that these operatic felines would not be able to sit down there and sing and keep them awake all night; but the scheme didn't work. i had an idea that the cat teasers would puncture the bicycle wheels in time to stop 'em, and they did, but they interfered with people on foot as well, and after these people got lockjaw from puncturing their feet on my pavement i took it up and suggested sprinkling the roadway twice a day with tacks. this satisfied the secretary, and a law was passed compelling me to do it, and i do. how it works you have seen for yourselves." "that's true," said bikey, ruefully. "well, it saved me," said jimmieboy. "but how are we ever to get home?" asked bikey. "oh, as for that," returned the landlord, "gather yourselves together and come inside. i think i can fix you out very shortly, and it won't cost you more than $ ." "come on, bikey," said jimmieboy, "i'd sort of like to see the inside of this house, anyhow." "i haven't got any $ ," snapped bikey. "oh, never mind about that," laughed the landlord. "i run a banking business here, too. i'll lend you all you want. come in." and so they went into the "tyred inn for the tired out," and a most remarkable place they found it to be. iv _the tyred inn_ the entrance to the tyred inn and the parlors and rooms of that extraordinary place were quite like those of any other roadside hotel, but the method of conducting it and the singular things that were to be found in it made jimmieboy's brief stay there an experience long to be remembered. the bicycle idea was carried out in everything. if you wanted a bell boy you had to ring a bicycle bell. in place of an elevator or staircase they had a spiral pathway running up from the centre of the hall to the roof, upon which guests could either walk or ride, an electric bicycle built for two being provided for those who did not care to walk up, the elevator boy sitting on the front seat and managing the apparatus. from the parlor there came the most beautiful strains of music, as from a fine brass and string orchestra, all of which was managed by the merest bit of a midget sitting astride of a safety and working the pedals, which in turn worked the great musical instrument that occupied the whole of the lower end of the room. upon the walls were all sorts of curious pictures, and for a decoration of the ceiling there were automatic frescoes presenting a constantly moving bicycle scene. for instance, instead of a series of groups of rosebuds and cupids, there were about a hundred little plaster wheelmen racing about the edge of the ceiling, and every once in a while one of these would take a header, flying immediately back to his saddle again, however, and continuing on his way until the clockwork by which the frescoes were run forced him to take the header all over again. on and around they raced incessantly, and so varied were the things that they did that it did not seem to jimmieboy as if he could remember half of them in case he should ever want to tell his father or his brothers about it afterward. "that's a fine ceiling, isn't it?" asked the landlord, with a grin, as jimmieboy gazed overhead, his mouth wide open in wonderment. "i should say so," replied the boy, delightedly. "i wish i could have a ceiling like that in my room." "nonsense," said bikey. "you'd soon get tired of it. it wouldn't take long for a ceiling like that to drive a man crazy." "that's so," put in the landlord. "but there are lots of things that would drive a man crazy that wouldn't drive a boy crazy--like trumpets and whistles. when it comes to things like that, boys are much stronger than men. i've known a boy of five to stand banging on a drum for seven hours, when his father couldn't stand it for seven minutes. nobody need go crazy over my bicycle ceiling though," continued the landlord. "i just press a button and it's all over--see?" as the little man spoke he pressed a button on the side wall, and instantly the fresco bicycles stopped moving, the little plaster wheelmen jumped off and threw themselves down upon the soft grassy borders of the painted roadside and all was still. then the landlord pressed another button and they jumped up, mounted again and the race began once more. "that's my own invention," said the landlord, "and it's a very popular feature of my house. it brings children here. when the mothers of this neighborhood want to go off wheeling, and there's nobody to look after the children, they bring them here and leave them with me, and they're as good as pie as long as that ceiling goes. that's another of my ways of making money. i charge fifty cents an hour for letting the youngsters in here, and it's a very poor sort of a day that i don't clear $ on my kid account." "i should think so," said jimmieboy in a superior sort of way. "i think that if i were a child i should like to spend a day here myself." the landlord looked at jimmieboy with an amused expression. "say, mr. bike," he whispered to bikey. "what does he think he is, a telegraph pole? he said if he was a child. isn't he a child?" "yes," laughed bikey, "but he is a little old for his age, you know. had lots of experience." "ha--i see," said the landlord. then he turned to jimmieboy again and said:-- "now, mr. man, if you'll accompany me up stairs i'll show you my pantry." "good," said jimmieboy. "i must say i'm pretty hungry, and a pantry is just the sort of thing i'd like to see." mounting the "bikevator," as the printed sign over it called the arrangement that took guests to the upper floors, the party was soon transferred to the landing above. the landlord, after assisting jimmieboy to dismount, walked to the end of a long corridor and, taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, unlocked and opened a little door. "come in," he said, as he disappeared through the door. "i have to keep the pantry locked." jimmieboy and bikey entered as they were bid, and the landlord closed the door after them. the place was dimly lighted, but on the shelves, that rose one above another from floor to ceiling, all sorts of curious looking bottles and cakes and pies and biscuits could be seen, and jimmieboy's mouth watered at the sight. "what'll you have?" asked the landlord. "an air cake or a piece of fresh pneumatic mince pie?" "a little of both," said jimmieboy. "or a bite of my gutta percha gum?" suggested the landlord. "well, it's hard to say," said jimmieboy. "indeed, i don't know what an air cake or a pneumatic mince pie is, nor did i ever hear of gutta percha gum." "i know that mighty well," laughed the landlord. "nobody ever heard of these patent dainties of mine, but they're the best things for the digestion you ever saw, and they last forever. if people could only train themselves to eat my food they'd be able to save money in two ways--bakers' bills and doctors' bills." "i don't quite understand," said jimmieboy. "one of my pneumatic mince pies will show you in a jiffy," returned the landlord. "one pie if properly cared for will last a lifetime"-- "not with a real live boy in the house it won't," said jimmieboy, positively. "that may be all very true," said the landlord, "but if the real live boy ate one of those pies he would cease to be a real live boy. you see this pie is made of rubber, and all you've got to do is to blow it up with an air pump and serve it." "but you called it mince pie," said jimmieboy, very much disgusted. "well, it's my pie," said the landlord. "i guess i've got a right to call it what i please." "but you said it saved doctors' bills," put in bikey, who was no better pleased with this absurd invention than was jimmieboy. "and i said right," said the landlord, with a self-satisfied smile. "it's just this way:--if you eat mince pie it gives you indigestion and you have to send for the doctor, and then you get a bill for several dollars. now, with my pie it's different. you can't eat it, and therefore you can't get indigestion, and you don't have to send for a doctor. wherefore, as i said, it saves doctors' bills. this is the latest make--i make a new kind every year, just as the bicycle makers make new wheels every year. a safety pneumatic mince pie costs $ ; a pie i sell for $ . ." "and what is the difference?" asked jimmieboy, beginning to be amused. "the air in this year's pie is fresher, that's all," said the landlord. "i suppose your air biscuits are of the same kind?" asked bikey. "yes," said the landlord, "except that i flavor 'em. if you're fond of vanilla, or strawberry, or any other flavor, i perfume the air that is pumped into them. they're very nice." "what are those things on the top shelf?" asked jimmieboy. "they look like sausages." "they are sausages. i make 'em out of old tires, and they are very good and solid. then, over there in the icebox, i have rubber steaks and chickens--in fact, all kinds of pneumatic food. you have no idea how well they last, and how good they are for the digestion--if you could only get used to them. that's the greatest trouble i have, getting people used to them." "don't you have any real good food here?" asked bikey. "real? why, my dear fellow," ejaculated the landlord, "what could you ask more real than those rubber viands? you could drop a railway engine on one of those rubber sausages and it would be just as solid as ever." "but you can't live on air!" protested jimmieboy. "no more can you live without it," said the landlord, unlocking the door and opening it, some disappointment manifested in his countenance. "if you will come up to the hospital now, sir," he added, addressing bikey, "i'll see what can be done to repair your wounds. i am sorry you do not seem to appreciate the good things in my larder." "we'd appreciate 'em if we could see the good of 'em," said jimmieboy. "what on earth can you do with a rubber mince pie besides not eat it?" "oh! as for that, you might use it for a football," retorted the landlord sadly, as he locked the door behind them and started down the corridor to the hospital room. "i call it the hospital room," said he, "although i am aware that doesn't describe it. we don't take care of horses there, but as yet nobody has invented a word like bikepital, and so i do not use it. i have applied for a patent on that word, however, and as soon as i get it we'll change the name." with these words they entered the hospital, and if the pantry was queer the hospital was a marvel. v _in the hospital and home again_ "come right in," said the landlord, stepping into the hospital. "we'll fix bikey up in a jiffy, and as for young mr. jimmieboy, we'll see what can be done to improve his appetite for our gutta percha pies." jimmieboy glanced apprehensively at the old gentleman. he did not like the tone in which the remark was made. "thank you, mr. landlord," he said, after thinking for a moment, "but you needn't bother about me. i can get along very well without liking them. the kind of pies that we have at home are plenty good enough for me, and i don't really care to like yours, thank you." jimmieboy had tried to be at least polite. the landlord laughed unpleasantly. "humph!" he sneered, "that doesn't make any difference to us. article number seven, paragraph sixty-three, of the hotel laws of saturn requires that you shall like the food we serve at this hotel, whether you want to or not. therefore, what you want or don't want to like cuts no figure here. you will have to be operated upon, and that portion of your anatomy which does not welcome the best pneumatic pie that ever was made will be removed." jimmieboy immediately perceived that he was in trouble, for the landlord spoke with great determination and, what was more, had locked the door behind him, so that the boy was practically a prisoner. escape seemed impossible, and yet escape he must, for no one could relish the idea of becoming a patient at the bicycle hospital. to gain time to think, he observed as civilly as he could:-- "it seems to me, mr. landlord, that that is a curious law. just because a traveller doesn't like the food at your hotel he's got to go to a hospital and stay there until he does like it. isn't that a trifle queer?" "nothing queer about it at all," retorted the landlord savagely. "nothing queer about it at all. naturalest law in all the world. i'm not in business for fun, as i've already told you, and if i left any stone unturned to compel people to like my house i should be ruined. my guests have got to like everything, including me--i, myself, see? when i pay a big tax to the government for the privilege of doing business the government has got to do something to help me on in that business, and, fortunately for us, in saturn we've got a government that is just chock full of justice and common sense. "when i first started up here nobody liked the food i served, and after coming here once most of them never came again. ruin was staring me in the face, so i went to the capital and i told the government that they had to do something for me, and they did. they passed an act compelling people to like my food under penalty of $ a dislike, or six months in my hospital, where i am authorized to regard them as patients. now you can take your choice. you don't like the pie, you don't like the sausage, you don't like the rubber chops and the bicycle saddle stew you look upon with disfavor. there are four things you don't like. "now you can do any one of three things. eat all four of these dishes, pay a fine of $ , or stay here in the hospital and undergo a course of treatment. i don't care which. there's one thing certain. i'm not going to let you out of this place until you like everything about it." jimmieboy glanced uneasily at bikey, who was leaning carelessly against the wall as if he were not at all bothered by the situation. "but i've got to go to school to-morrow, mr. landlord," he put in. "can't you let me off long enough to finish my term at school, and then when vacation comes maybe i'll come back?" "no siree!" ejaculated the landlord. "i know what you are up to. you're nothing but a boy, and boys don't like schools any better than you like my pneumatic pies. you stay right here." "oh, tell him you like 'em, jimmieboy," put in bikey. "tell him they beat mince all holler and pumpkin isn't in it with 'em. tell him life would be a barren waste and every heart full of winter if it wasn't for 'em. pile it on and let's get out. i'm getting nervous." "well, so they are in a way," said jimmieboy. "the fact is, they're the finest pies ever made." the landlord's face brightened up. "to eat?" he asked eagerly. "n-n-o," stammered jimmieboy. "not to eat--but to play football with or to use for punching bags." the landlord froze up immediately. "that settles your case," he snapped. "i'll put you in the violent ward and to-morrow morning we'll begin a course of treatment that will make you wish you'd liked 'em from the beginning. and now for you, sir," the landlord added severely, turning to bikey. "how about you and my pneumatic pies?" "oh," said bikey, with a joyful fling of his right pedal. "i simply adore those pies. indeed, if there's anything i love in the world it is gutta percha food. have you any rubber neck clams?" the landlord beamed approval. "you are a bikleman of sense," said he. "i will order up a pneumatic rhubarb at once." bikey's saddle turned pale. "oh, please don't trouble yourself, mr. landlord," he said, pulling himself together. "i--ah--i should love to have it, for if there is one thing in the world i love more than rheumatic pneubarb--i mean rheubarbic pneumat pie--i don't know what it is, but my doctor has ordered me not to touch it for a year at least. 'mr. bike,' said he the last time i saw him, 'you are killing yourself by eating piebarb roobs--i mean roobarb pies--they are too rich for your tubes, mr. bike,' were his precise words. and he added that if i didn't quit eating them my pedals would be full of gout and that even my cyclometer would squeak." "under the circumstances," said the landlord, with an approving nod at bikey, "i shall not take it amiss if you refuse to eat them. but your young friend here must remain and be treated. meanwhile, i shall have your wounds repaired and let you go. mr. jimmieboy will be sent forthwith to the violent ward." "serves him good and right," jimmieboy was appalled to hear bikey reply. here he was off in a strange, wild place, in the hands of an enemy, who threatened him with all sorts of dreadful things, and his only friend had gone back on him. "bikey!" said he, reproachfully. "served you right," roared bikey. "not to like the good gentleman's pies. your father has told you again and again to always like what is put before you. you impolite child, you!" jimmieboy's pride alone kept him from bursting into tears, and he sorrowfully permitted himself without further resistance to be led away into the violent ward of the inn hospital. "to think that he should go back on me!" the boy sighed as he entered the prison. "on me who never did him any harm but break his handlebars and bust his tires unintentionally." but jimmieboy, in his surprise and chagrin had failed to note the wink in bikey's cyclometer, which all the time that he had been speaking was violently agitating itself in an effort to attract his attention and to let him know that his treachery was not real, but only seeming. "now," said the landlord kindly to bikey, as jimmieboy was led away, "let us attend to you. i'll call the doctor. doctor pump!" he added, calling the name loudly in a shrill voice. "here, sir," replied the head physician, running in from an adjoining room. "here's a chap who likes air pies so much that his doctor forbids him to eat them. i wish you'd fix him up at once," said the landlord. "he must be insane," said dr. pump, "i'll send him to the asylum." "not i!" cried bikey. "i'm merely punctured." "his wheels have gone to his head," said dr. pump, feeling the pulse in bikey's pedals. "nonsense," said bikey. "impossible. i haven't any head." "h'm!" returned dr. pump, scratching his chin. "very true. in making my diagnosis i had failed to observe the fact that you are an ordinary brainless wheel. let me look at your tires." bikey held them out. "do you prefer homeopathic or allopathic treatment?" asked dr. pump. "we are broadminded here and give our patients their choice." "what difference does it make in the bill?" asked bikey. "none," said dr. pump, grandly. "it is merely a difference in treatment. if you wish homeopathic treatment we will cure your tires, which seem to be punctured, with a porous plaster, since like cures like under that system. if, on the other hand, you are an allopath, we will pump you full of rubber." "i think i prefer what they call absent treatment," said bikey, meekly. "can't you cure me over the telephone? i'm a christian scientist." they had never heard of this at saturn, so bikey was compelled to submit to one of the two other courses of treatment, and he wisely chose the porous plaster to cure his puncture, since that required merely an external application, and did not involve his swallowing anything which might later have affected his general health. meanwhile poor jimmieboy was locked up in the violent ward. it was a long low-ceiled room filled with little cots, and the lad found no comfort in the discovery that there were plenty more patients in the room. "why, the room's full, isn't it?" he said, as he entered. "yes," replied the bicycle attendant, who had shown him in. "in fact, everybody who comes to this house ends up here. somehow or other, nobody likes the landlord's food, and nobody ever has money enough along to pay the fine. it is curious how little money bicyclists take along with them when they are out for a ride. in all my experience i haven't encountered one with more than a thousand dollars in his pocket." "how long does one have to stay here?" asked jimmieboy. "until one likes the food," said the attendant. "so far nobody has ever got out, so i can't say how long they stay in years." again the boy's heart sank, and he crawled into his cot, wretched in spirit and wholly unhappy. "i've given you a bed by the window," said the attendant, "because the air is fresher there. the landlord says you are the freshest boy he ever met, and we have arranged the air accordingly. i wouldn't try to escape if i were you, because the window looks out on the very edge of the ring of saturn, and it's a jump of about , , miles to anything solid. the jump is easy, but the solid at the other end is very, very hard." jimmieboy looked out of the window, and immediately drew back, appalled, for there was nothing but unfathomable space above, below, or beyond him, and he gave himself up to despair. but the boy had really reckoned without his friend bikey, who was as stanch and true as ever, as jimmieboy was soon to find out. he had lain in his little bed barely more than an hour, when from outside the window there came a whisper:--"hi, there, jimmieboy!" jimmieboy got up on his elbow to listen, but just then the door opened and dr. pump, accompanied by the landlord, walked in. so he lay back and the words at the window were not repeated. dr. pump walked to the side of jimmieboy's cot. "well, young man," said he, "what do you think of air pies up here, now?" "they're bully," said jimmieboy, weakly, and resolved to give in. "h'm," said dr. pump. "bad case, this. i can't say whether of insanity or compulsion. there's only one course. we'll order a pie. if he's insane he'll eat it. if he is acting under compulsion"---- "i won't eat it," roared jimmieboy, springing up from his pillow. "i won't; i won't; i won't. i'll take cod liver oil on my strawberries first!" his was evidently an awful case, for immediately dr. pump, the nurse and the landlord and every patient in the place fled from the room, shrieking with terror. "good for you! you've scared them silly," whispered the voice at the window. "now, jimmieboy, hurry. jump out. i'll catch you and we'll be off. be quick, for they'll be back in a moment. jump!" "who are you?" cried jimmieboy, for he was still the same cautious little traveller. "bikey! i only went back on you to help you!" he said. "jump!" and then the door opened again, and the landlord and dr. pump and the nurses and all the patients and a platoon of policemen crashed into the room. "catch him, quick!" cried the landlord. but jimmieboy had already jumped, landing upon the friendly saddle of bikey. in an instant he found himself speeding away through space. "are we still on saturn?" he gasped. "not we!" cried bikey. "that place is too hot for us. we're not on anything. i'm simply tumbling through the clouds and whirring my wheels for fun. i like to see the wheels go round. don't bother. we'll land somewhere." "but," cried jimmieboy, "where?" and then there was a crash. bikey made no reply, but---- * * * * * "here," said a well known and affectionate voice. "where's here?" asked jimmieboy, faintly, opening his eyes and gazing up into a very familiar face. "you interrupted me, my son," remarked the owner of the familiar face. "i was about to say, 'here now, jimmieboy, this business of falling out of bed has got to stop.' this is the fifth time in two weeks that i have had to restore you to your comfortable couch. where have you been this time?" "off with bikey," murmured jimmieboy, rubbing his eyes and gazing about his nursery. "nonsense," said his daddy, the owner of the familiar voice. "with bikey? why bikey has been in the laundry all night." which fact bikey never denied, but nowadays when the incident is mentioned he agitates his cyclometer violently, and shakes all over as if he thought it was a good joke on somebody. in all of which i am inclined to agree with him. the imp of the telephone i _jimmieboy makes his acquaintance_ the telephone was ringing, of that there was no doubt, and yet no one went to see what was wanted, which was rather strange. the cook had a great way of rushing up from the kitchen to where the 'phone stood in the back hall whenever she heard its sounding bells, because a great many of her friends were in the habit of communicating with her over the wire, and she didn't like to lose the opportunity to hear all that was going on in the neighborhood. and then, too, jimmieboy's papa was at work in the library not twenty feet away, and surely one would hardly suppose that he would let it ring as often as jimmieboy had heard it this time--i think there were as many as six distinct rings--without going to ask the person at the other end what on earth he was making all that noise about. so it was altogether queer that after sounding six times the bell should fail to summon any one to see what was wanted. finally it rang loud and strong for a seventh time, and, although he wasn't exactly sure about it, jimmieboy thought he heard a whisper repeated over and over again, which said, "hullo, jimmieboy! jimmieboy, hullo! come to the telephone a moment, for i want to speak to you." whether there really was any such whisper as that or not, jimmieboy did not delay an instant in rushing out into the back hall and climbing upon a chair that stood there to answer whoever it was that was so anxious to speak to somebody. "hullo, you!" he said, as he got his little mouth over the receiver. "hullo!" came the whisper he thought he had heard before. "is that you jimmieboy?" "yes. it's me," returned jimmieboy. "who are you?" "i'm me, too," answered the whisper with a chuckle. "some people call me hello hithere whoareyou, but my real name is impy. i am the imp of the telephone, and i live up here in this little box right over where your mouth is." "dear me!" ejaculated jimmieboy in pleased surprise. "i didn't know anybody ever lived in that funny little closet, though i had noticed it had a door with a key-hole in it." "yes, i can see you now through the key-hole, but you can't see me," said the imp, "and i'm real sorry you can't, for i am ever so pretty. i have beautiful mauve-colored eyes with eyelashes of pink, long and fine as silk. my eyebrows are sort of green like the lawn gets after a sun shower in the late spring. my hair, which is hardly thicker than the fuzzy down or the downy fuzz--as you prefer it--of a peach, is colored like the lilac, and my clothes are a bright red, and i have a pair of gossamer wings to fly with." "isn't there any chance of my ever seeing you?" asked jimmieboy. "why, of course," said the imp. "just the best chance in all the world. do you remember the little key your papa uses to lock his new cigar box with?" "the little silver key he carries on the end of his watch chain?" queried jimmieboy eagerly. "the very same," said the imp. "that key is the only key in this house that will fit this lock. if you can get it and will open the door you can see me, and if you will eat a small apple i give you when we do meet, you will smallen up until you are big enough to get into my room here and see what a wonderful place it is. do you think you can get the key?" "i don't know," jimmieboy answered. "i've asked papa to let me have it several times already, but he has always said no." "it looks hopeless, doesn't it?" returned the imp. "but i'll tell you how i used to do with my dear old father when he wouldn't let me have things i wanted. i'd just ask him the same old question over and over again in thirteen different ways, and if i didn't get a yes in answer to one of 'em, why, i'd know it was useless; but the thirteenth generally brought me the answer i wanted." "i suppose that would be a good way," said jimmieboy, "but i really don't see how i could ask for the key in thirteen different ways." "you don't, eh?" said the imp, in a tone of disappointment. "well, i am surprised. you are the first little boy i have had anything to do with who couldn't ask for a thing, no matter what it was, in thirteen different ways. why, it's as easy as falling up stairs." "tell me a few ways," suggested jimmieboy. "well, first there is the direct way," returned the imp. "you say just as plainly as can be, 'daddy, i want the key to your cigar box.' he will reply, 'no, you are too young to smoke,' and that will make your mamma laugh, which will be a good thing in case your papa is feeling a little cross when you ask him. there is nothing that puts a man in a good humor so quickly as laughing at his jokes. that's way number one," continued the imp. "you wait five minutes before you try the second way, which is, briefly, to climb upon your father's knee and say, 'there are two ends to your watch chain, aren't there, papa?' he'll say, 'yes; everything has two ends except circles, which haven't any;' then you laugh, because he may think that's funny, and then you say, 'you have a watch at one end, haven't you?' his answer will be, 'yes; it has been there fifteen years, and although it has been going all that time it hasn't gone yet.' you must roar with laughter at that, and then ask him what he has at the other end, and he'll say, 'the key to my cigar box,' to which you must immediately reply, 'give it to me, won't you?' and so you go on, leading up to that key in everything you do or say for the whole day, if it takes that long to ask for it thirteen times. if he doesn't give it to you then, you might as well give up, for you'll never get it. it always worked when i was little, but it may have been because i put the thirteenth question in rhyme every time. if i wanted a cream cake, i'd ask for it and ask for it, and if at the twelfth time of asking i hadn't got it, i'd put it to the person i was asking finally this way-- "i used to think that you could do most everything; but now i see you can't, for it appears that you can't give a creamy cake to me." "but i can't write poetry," said jimmieboy. "oh, yes you can!" laughed the imp. "anybody can. i've written lots of it. i wrote a poem to my papa once which pleased him very much, though he said he was sorry i had discovered what he called his secret." "have you got it with you?" asked jimmieboy, very much interested in what the imp was saying, because he had often thought, as he reflected about the world, that of all the men in it his papa seemed to him to be the very finest, and it was his great wish to grow up to be as like him as possible; and surely if any little boy could, as the imp had said, write some kind of poetry, he might, after all, follow in the footsteps of his father, whose every production, jimmieboy's mamma said, was just as nice as it could be. "yes, i have it here, where i keep everything, in my head. just glue your ear as tightly as you can to the 'phone and i'll recite it for you. this is it: "i've watched you, papa, many a day, and think i know you pretty well; you've been my chum--at work, at play-- you've taught me how to romp and spell. "you've taught me how to sing sweet songs; you've taught me how to listen, too; you've taught me rights; you've shown me wrongs; you've made me love the good and true. "sometimes you've punished me, and i sometimes have wept most grievously that yours should be the hand whereby the things i wished were kept from me. "sometimes i've thought that you were stern; sometimes i could not understand why you should make my poor heart burn by scoldings and by reprimand. "yet as it all comes back, i see my sorrows, though indeed most sore in those dear days they seemed to me, grieved you at heart by far the more. "the frowns that wrinkled up your brow, that grieved your little son erstwhile, as i reflect upon them now, were always softened by a smile "that shone, dear father, in your eyes; a smile that was but ill concealed, by which the love that in you lies for me, your boy, was e'er revealed." here the imp stopped. "go on," said jimmieboy, softly. "there isn't any more," replied the imp. "when i got that far i couldn't write any more, because i kind of got running over. i didn't seem to fit myself exactly. myself was too big for myself, and so i had to stop and sort of settle down again." "your papa must have been very much pleased," suggested jimmieboy. "yes, he was," said the imp; "although i noticed a big tear in his eye when i read it to him; but he gave me a great big hug for the poem, and i was glad i'd written it. but you must run along and get that key, for my time is very short, and if we are to see magnetville and all the wire country we must be off." "perhaps if the rhyme always brings about the answer you want, it would be better for me to ask the question that way first, and not bother him with the other twelve ways," suggested jimmieboy. "that's very thoughtful of you," said the imp. "i think very likely it would be better to do it that way. just you tiptoe softly up to him and say, "if you loved me as i love you, and i were you and you were me, what you asked me i'd surely do, and let you have that silver key." "i think that's just the way," said jimmieboy, repeating the verse over and over again so as not to forget it. "i'll go to him at once." and he did go. he tiptoed into the library, at one end of which his papa was sitting writing; he kissed him on his cheek, and whispered the verse softly in his ear. "why, certainly," said his papa, when he had finished. "here it is," taking the key from the end of his chain. "don't lose it, jimmieboy." [illustration: before him stood the imp.] "no, i'll not lose it. i've got too much use for it to lose it," replied jimmieboy, gleefully, and then, sliding down from his papa's lap, he ran headlong into the back hall to where the telephone stood, inserted the key in the key-hole of the little door over the receiver and turned it. the door flew open, and before him stood the imp. ii _in the imp's room_ "dear me!" ejaculated jimmieboy, as his eye first rested upon the imp. "that's you, eh?" "i believe so," replied the imp, standing on his left leg, and twirling around and around until jimmieboy got dizzy looking at him. "i was me when i got up this morning, and i haven't heard of any change since. do i look like what i told you i looked like?" "not exactly," said jimmieboy. "you said you had lilac-colored hair, and it's more like a green than a lilac." "you are just like everybody else naming your colors. people are very queer about things of that sort, i think. for instance," said the imp, to illustrate his point, "you go walking in the garden with one of your friends, and you come to a rose-bush, and your friend says, 'isn't that a pretty rose-bush?' 'yes,' say you; 'very.' then he says, 'and what a lovely lilac-bush that is over there.' 'extremely lovely,' say you. 'let's sit down under this raspberry-bush,' says he. well, now you think lilac is a delicate lavender, rose a pink, and raspberry a red--eh?" "yes," said jimmieboy. "that's the way they are." "well, maybe so; but that lilac-bush and rose-bush and raspberry-bush are all the same color, and that color is green, just like my hair; you must have thought i looked like a rainbow or a paint shop when i told you about myself?" "no," said jimmieboy. "i didn't think that, exactly. i thought, perhaps, you were like the pictures in my _mother goose_ book. they have lots of colors to 'em, and they are not bad looking, either." "well, if they are not bad looking," said the imp, with a pleased smile, "they must be very much like me. but don't you want to come in?" "i'm not small enough," said jimmieboy; "but i'll eat that apple you spoke about, and maybe it'll make me shrink, though i don't see how it can." "easy enough. haven't you seen a boy doubled up after eating an apple? of course you have; perhaps you were the boy. at any rate there is no reason why, if an apple can work that way, it can't work the other. it's a poor rule that won't work both ways, and an apple is pretty good, as a rule, and so you have it proved without trying that what i say is true. here's the apple; eat it as quickly as you can and give me the core." jimmieboy took the dainty piece of fruit in his hand and ate it with much relish, for it was a very sweet apple, and he was fond of that sort of thing. unfortunately, he liked it so well that he forgot to give the core to the imp, and, when in a moment he felt himself shrinking up, and the imp asked for the core, he was forced blushingly to confess that he had been very piggish about it, and had swallowed the whole thing. "i've half a mind not to let you in at all!" cried the imp, stamping his foot angrily upon the floor, so angrily that the bells rang out softly as if in remonstrance. "in fact, i don't see how i can let you in, because you have disobeyed me about that core." "i'm surprised at you," returned jimmieboy, slightly injured in feeling by the imp's behavior. "i wouldn't make such a fuss about an old apple-core. if you feel as badly about it as all that, i'll run down into the kitchen and get you a whole apple--one as big as you are." "that isn't the point at all," said the imp. "i didn't want the core for myself at all. i wanted it for you." "well, i've got it," said jimmieboy, who had now shrunk until he was no taller than the imp himself, not more than two inches high. "of course you have, and if you will notice it is making you grow right back again to the size you were before. that's where the trouble comes in with those trick apples. the outside makes you shrink, and the core makes you grow. when i said i wanted the core i meant that i wanted it to keep until we had had our trip together, so that when we got back you could eat it, and return to your papa and mamma just as you were in the beginning. just run to the parlor mirror now and watch yourself." jimmieboy hastened into the parlor, and climbing upon the mantel-piece gazed into the mirror, and, much to his surprise, noticed that he was growing fast. he was four inches high when he got there, and then as the minutes passed he lengthened inch by inch, until finally he found himself just as he had been before he ate the apple. "well, what are you going to do about it?" he asked, when he returned to the telephone. "i don't know," said the imp. "it's really too bad, for that's the last apple of that sort i had. the trick-apple trees only bear one apple a year, and i have been saving that one for you ever since last summer, and here, just because you were greedy, it has all gone for nothing." "i'm very sorry, and very much ashamed," said jimmieboy, ruefully. "it was really so awfully good, i didn't think." "well, it's very thoughtless of you not to think," said the imp. "i should think you'd feel very small." "i do!" sobbed jimmieboy. "do you, really?" cried the imp, gleefully. "real weeny, teeny small." "yes," said jimmieboy, a tear trickling down his cheek. "then it's all right," sang the imp, dancing a lovely jig to show how glad he felt. "because we are always the way we feel. if you feel sick, you are sick. if you feel good, you are good, and if you feel sorry, you are sorry, and so, don't you see, if you feel small you are small. the only point is, now, do you feel small enough to get into this room?" "i think i do," returned jimmieboy, brightening up considerably, because his one great desire now was not to be a big grown-up man, like his papa, who could sharpen lead-pencils, and go out of doors in snow-storms, but to visit the imp in his own quarters. "yes," he repeated, "i think i do feel small enough to get in there." "you've got to know," returned the imp. "the trouble with you, i believe, is that you think in the wrong places. this isn't a matter of thinking; it's a matter of knowing." "well, then, i know i'm small enough," said jimmieboy. "the only thing is, how am i to get up there?" "i'll fix that," replied the imp, with a happy smile. "i'll let down the wires, and you can come up on them." here he began to unwind two thin green silk-covered wires that jimmieboy had not before noticed, and which were coiled about two small spools fastened on the back of the door. "i can't climb," said jimmieboy, watching the operation with interest. "nobody asked you to," returned the imp. "when these have reached the floor i want you to fasten them to the newel-post of the stairs." "all right," said jimmieboy, grasping the wires, and fastening them as he was told. "what now?" "now i'll send down the elevator," said the imp, as he loosened a huge magnet from the wall, and fastening it securely upon the two wires, sent it sliding down to where jimmieboy stood. "there," he added, as it reached the end of the wire. "step on that; i'll turn on the electricity, and up you'll come." "i won't fall, will i?" asked jimmieboy, timidly. "that depends on the way you feel," the imp answered. "if you feel safe, you are safe. do you feel safe?" "not very," said jimmieboy, as he stepped aboard the magnetic elevator. "then we'll have to wait until you do," returned the imp, impatiently. "it seems to me that a boy who has spent weeks and weeks and weeks jumping off plush sofas onto waxed hard-wood floors ought to be less timid than you are." "that's true," said jimmieboy. "i guess i feel safe." "all aboard, then," said the imp, pressing a small button at the back of his room. there was a rattle and a buzz, and then the magnet began to move upward, slowly at first, and then with all the rapidity of the lightning, so that before jimmieboy had an opportunity to change his mind about his safety he was in the imp's room, and, much to his delight, discovered that he was small enough to walk about therein without having to stoop, and in every way comfortable. [illustration: "at last," ejaculated the imp.] "at last!" ejaculated the imp, grasping his hand and giving it an affectionate squeeze. "at last you are here. and now we'll close the door, and i'll show you my treasures." with this the door was closed, and for a moment all was dark as pitch; but only for a moment, for hardly had jimmieboy turned around when a flood of soft light burst forth from every corner of the room, and the little visitor saw upon every side of him the most wonderful books, toys, and musical instruments he had ever seen, each and all worked by electricity, and apparently subject to the will of the imp, who was the genius of the place. iii _electric cooking_ "hurrah!" cried jimmieboy, in ecstasy. "this is great, isn't it?" "pretty great," assented the imp, proudly. "that is, unless you mean large. if you mean it that way it isn't great at all; but if you mean great like me, who, though very, very small, am simply tremendous as a success, i agree with you. i like it here very much. the room is extremely comfortable, and i do everything by electricity--cooking, reading, writing--everything." "i don't see how," said jimmieboy. "oh, it's simply a matter of buttons and batteries. the battery makes the electricity, i press the buttons, and there you are. you know what a battery is, don't you?" "not exactly," said jimmieboy. "you might explain it to me." "yes, i might if i hadn't a better way," replied the imp. "i won't explain it to you, because i can have it explained to you in another way entirely, though i won't promise that either of us will understand the explanation. let's see," he added, rising from his chair and inspecting a huge button-board that hung from the wall at the left of the room. "where's the dictionary button? ah, here--" "the what?" queried the visitor, his face alive with wonderment. "the dictionary button. i press the dictionary button, and the dictionary tells me whatever i want to know. just listen to this." the imp pressed a button as he spoke, and jimmieboy listened. in an instant there was a loud buzzing sound, and then an invisible something began to speak, or rather to sing: "she's my annie, i'm her joe. little annie rooney--" "dear me!" cried the imp, his face flushing to a deep crimson. "dear me, i got the wrong button. that's my music-room button. it's right next the dictionary button, and my finger must have slipped. i'll just turn 'annie rooney' off and try again. now listen." again the imp touched a button, and jimmieboy once more heard the buzzing sound, followed by a squeaking voice, which said: "battery is a noun--plural, batteries. in baseball the pitcher and catcher is the battery; in electricity a battery is a number of leyden jars, usually arranged with their inner coatings connected, and their outer coatings also connected, so that they may be all charged and discharged at the same time." "understand that, jimmieboy?" queried the imp, with a smile, turning the dictionary button off. "no, i don't," said jimmieboy. "but i suppose it is all right." "perhaps you'd like an explanation of the explanation?" suggested the imp. "if it's one i can understand, i would," returned jimmieboy. "but i don't see the use of explanations that don't explain." "they aren't much good," observed the imp, touching another button. "this will make it clear, i think." "the dictionary doesn't say it," said another squeaking voice, in response to the touch of the imp on the third button; "but a battery is a thing that looks like a row of jars full of preserves, but isn't, and when properly cared for and not allowed to freeze up, it makes electricity, which is a sort of red-hot invisible fluid that pricks your hands when you touch it, and makes them feel as if they were asleep if you keep hold of it for any length of time, and which carries messages over wires, makes horse-cars go without horses, lights a room better than gas, and is so like lightning that no man who has tried both can tell the difference between them." here the squeaking voice turned into a buzz again, and then stopped altogether. "now do you understand?" asked the imp, anxiously. "i think i do," replied jimmieboy. "a battery is nothing but a lot of big glass jars in which 'lectricity is made, just as pie is made in a tin plate and custard is made in cups." "exactly," said the imp. "but, of course, electricity is a great deal more useful than pie or custard. the best custard in the world wouldn't move a horse-car, and i don't believe anybody ever saw a pie that could light up a room the way this is. it's a pretty wonderful thing, electricity is, but not particularly good eating, and sometimes i don't think it's as good for cooking as the good old-fashioned fire. i've had pie that was too hot, and i've had pie that was too electric, and between the two i think the too-hot pie was the pleasanter, though really nothing can make pie positively unpleasant." "so i have heard," said jimmieboy, with an approving nod. "i haven't had any sperience with pie, you know. that and red pepper are two things i am not allowed to eat at dinner." "you wouldn't like to taste some of my electric custard, would you?" asked the imp, his sympathies aroused by jimmieboy's statement that as yet he and pie were strangers. "indeed i would!" cried jimmieboy, with a gleeful smile. "i'd like it more than anything else!" "very well," said the imp, turning to the button-board, and scratching his head as if perplexed for a moment. "let's see," he added. "what is custard made of?" "custard?" said jimmieboy, who thought there never could be any question on that point. "it's made of custard. i know, because i eat it all up when i get it, and there's nothing but custard in it from beginning to end." the imp smiled. he knew better than that. "you are right partially," he said. "but there aren't custard-mines or custard-trees or custard-wells in the world, so it has to be made of something. i guess i'll ask my cookery-book." here he touched a pink button in the left-hand upper corner of the board. "milk--sugar--and--egg," came the squeaking voice. "three-quarters of a pint of milk, two table-spoonfuls of sugar, and one whole egg." "don't you flavor it with anything?" asked the imp, pressing the button a second time. "if you want to," squeaked the voice. "vanilla, strawberry, huckleberry, sarsaparilla, or anything else, just as you want it." jimmieboy's mouth watered. a strawberry custard! "dear me!" he thought. "wouldn't that be just the dish of dishes to live on all one's days!" "two teaspoonfuls of whatever flavor you want will be enough for one cup of custard," said the squeaky voice, lapsing back immediately into the curious buzz. "thanks," said the imp, returning to the table and putting down the receipt on a piece of paper. "you're welcome," said the buzz. "now, jimmieboy, we'll have two cup custards in two minutes," said the imp. "what flavor will you have?" "strawberry cream, please," said jimmieboy, as if he were ordering soda-water. "all right. i guess i'll take sarsaparilla," said the imp, walking to the board again. "now see me get the eggs." he pressed a blue button this time. the squeaky voice began to cackle, and in a second two beautiful white eggs appeared on the table. in the same manner the milk, flavoring, and sugar were obtained; only when the imp signalled for the milk the invisible voice mooed so like a cow that jimmieboy looked anxiously about him, half expecting to see a soft-eyed jersey enter the room. "now," said the imp, opening the eggs into a bowl, and pouring the milk and flavoring and sugar in with them, and mixing them all up together, "we'll pour this into that funnel over there, turn on the electricity, and get our custard in a jiffy. just watch that small hole at the end of the funnel, and you'll see the custard come out." "are the cups inside? or do we have to catch the custards in 'em as they come out?" asked jimmieboy. "oh, my!" cried the imp. "i'm glad you spoke of that. i had forgotten the cups. we've got to put them in with the other things." the imp rushed to the button-board, and soon had two handsome little cups in response to his summons; and then casting them into the funnel he turned on the electric current, while jimmieboy watched carefully for the resulting custards. in two minutes by the clock they appeared below, both at the same time, one a creamy strawberry in hue, and the other brown. [illustration: the electric custard.] "it's wonderful!" said jimmieboy, in breathless astonishment. "i wish i had a stove like that in my room." "it wouldn't be good for you. you'd be using it all day and eating what you got. but how is the custard?" "lovely," said jimmieboy, smacking his lips as he ate the soft creamy sweet. "i could eat a thousand of them." "i rather doubt it," said the imp. "but you needn't try to prove it. i don't want to wear out the stove on custard when it has my dinner still to prepare. what do you say to listening to my library a little while? i've got a splendid library in the next room. it has everything in it that has ever been written, and a great many things that haven't. that's a great thing about this electric-button business. nothing is impossible for it to do, and if you want to hear a story some man is going to tell next year or next century you can get it just as well as something that was written last year or last century. come along." iv _the library_ the imp opened a small door upon the right of the room, and through it jimmieboy saw another apartment, the walls of which were lined with books, and as he entered he saw that to each book was attached a small wire, and that at the end of the library was a square piece of snow-white canvas stretched across a small wooden frame. "magic lantern?" he queried, as his eye rested upon the canvas. "kind of that way," said the imp, "though not exactly. you see, these books in this room are worked by electricity, like everything else here. you never have to take the books off the shelf. all you have to do is to fasten the wire connected with the book you want to read with the battery, turn on the current, and the book reads itself to you aloud. then if there are pictures in it, as you come to them they are thrown by means of an electric light upon that canvas." "well, if this isn't the most--" began jimmieboy, but he was soon stopped, for some book or other off in the corner had begun to read itself aloud. "and it happened," said the book, "that upon that very night the princess tollywillikens passed through the wood alone, and on approaching the enchanted tree threw herself down upon the soft grass beside it and wept." here the book ceased speaking. "that's the story of pixyweevil and princess tollywillikens," said the imp. "you remember it, don't you?--how the wicked fairy ran away with pixyweevil, when he and the princess were playing in the king's gardens, and how she had mourned for him many years, never knowing what had become of him? how the fairy had taken pixyweevil and turned him into an oak sapling, which grew as the years passed by to be the most beautiful tree in the forest?" "oh, yes," said jimmieboy. "i know. and there was a good fairy who couldn't tell princess tollywillikens where the tree was, or anything at all about pixyweevil, but did remark to the brook that if the princess should ever water the roots of that tree with her tears, the spell would be broken, and pixyweevil restored to her--handsomer than ever, and as brave as a lion." "that's it," said the imp. "you've got it; and how the brook said to the princess, 'follow me, and we'll find pixyweevil,' and how she followed and followed until she was tired to death, and--" "full of despair threw herself down at the foot of that very oak and cried like a baby," continued jimmieboy, ecstatically, for this was one of his favorite stories. "yes, that's all there; and then you remember how it winds up? how the tree shuddered as her tears fell to the ground, and how she thought it was the breeze blowing through the branches that made it shudder?" said the imp. "and how the brook laughed at her thinking such a thing!" put in jimmieboy. "and how she cried some more, until finally every root of the tree was wet with her tears, and how the tree then gave a fearful shake, and--" "turned into pixyweevil!" roared jimmieboy. "yes, i remember that; but i never really understood whether pixyweevil ever became king? my book says, 'and so they were married, and were happy ever afterwards;' but doesn't say that he finally became a great potteringtate, and ruled over the people forever." "i guess you mean potentate, don't you?" said the imp, with a laugh--potteringtate seemed such a funny word. "i guess so," said jimmieboy. "did he ever become one of those?" "no, he didn't," said the imp. "he couldn't, and live happy ever afterwards, for kings don't get much happiness in this world, you know." "why, i thought they did," returned jimmieboy, surprised to hear what the imp had said. "my idea of a king was that he was a man who could eat between meals, and go to the circus whenever he wanted to, and always had plenty of money to spend, and a beautiful queen." "oh no," returned the imp. "it isn't so at all. kings really have a very hard time. they have to be dressed up all the time in their best clothes, and never get a chance, as you do, for instance, to play in the snow, or in summer in the sand at the seashore. they can eat between meals if they want to, but they can't have the nice things you have. it would never do for a king to like ginger-snaps and cookies, because the people would murmur and say, 'here--he is not of royal birth, for even we, the common people, eat ginger-snaps and cookies between meals; were he the true king he would call for green peas in wintertime, and boned turkey, and other rich stuffs that cost much money, and are hard to get; he is an impostor; come, let us overthrow him.' that's the hard part of it, you see. he has to eat things that make him ill just to keep the people thinking he is royal and not like them." "then what did pixyweevil become?" asked jimmieboy. "a poet," said the imp. "he became the poet of everyday things, and of course that made him a great poet. he'd write about plain and ordinary good-natured puppy-dogs, and snow-shovels, and other things like that, instead of trying to get the whole moon into a four-line poem, or to describe some mysterious thing that he didn't know much about in a ten-page poem that made it more mysterious than ever, and showed how little he really did know about it." "i wish i could have heard some of pixyweevil's poems," said jimmieboy. "i liked him, and sometimes i like poems." "well, sit down there before the fire, and i'll see if we can't find a button to press that will enable you to hear them. they're most of 'em nonsense poems, but as they are perfect nonsense they're good nonsense. "it is some time since i've used the library," the imp continued, gazing about him as if in search of some particular object. "for that reason i have forgotten where everything is. however, we can hunt for what we want until we find it. perhaps this is it," he added, grasping a wire and fastening it to the battery. "i'll turn on the current and let her go." the crank was turned, and the two little fellows listened very intently, but there came no sound whatever. "that's very strange," said the imp. "i don't hear a thing." "neither do i," observed jimmieboy, in a tone of disappointment. "perhaps the library is out of order, or the battery may be." "i'll have to take the wire and follow it along until i come to the book it is attached to," said the imp, stopping the current and loosening the wire. "if the library is out of order it's going to be a very serious matter getting it all right again, because we have all the books in the world here, and that's a good many, you know--more'n a hundred by several millions. ah! here is the book this wire worked. now let's see what was the matter." in a moment the whole room rang with the imp's laughter. [illustration: "no wonder it wouldn't say anything," he cried.] "no wonder it wouldn't say anything," he cried. "what do you suppose the book was?" "i don't know," said jimmieboy. "what?" "an old copy-book with nothing in it. that's pretty good!" at this moment the telephone bell rang, and the imp had to go see what was wanted. "excuse me for a moment, jimmieboy," he said, as he started to leave the room. "i've got to send a message for somebody. i'll turn on one of the picture-books, so that while i am gone you will have something to look at." the imp then fastened a wire to the battery, turned on the current, and directing jimmieboy's attention to the sheet of white canvas at the end of the library, left the room. v _the circus_ the pictures that now followed one another across the canvas were better than any circus jimmieboy ever went to, for the reason that they showed a water circus in which were the finest imaginable sea-monsters doing all sorts of marvellous things; and then, too, the book the imp had turned on evidently had some reading matter in it, for as the pictures passed before the little fellow's eyes he could hear verses describing what was going on, repeating themselves from a shelf directly back of him. first of all in the circus was the grand parade. a great big gilded band-wagon drawn by gayly caparisoned sea-horses went first, and then jimmieboy could judge how much better electric circus books were than those he had in his nursery, for this book was able to do what his had never done--it furnished music to go with the band--and such music as it was! it had all the pleasant features of the hand-organ; was as soft and sweet in parts as the music-box in the white-and-gold parlor, and once in a while would play deliciously out of tune like a real circus band. after the band-wagon there followed the most amusing things that jimmieboy ever saw, the trick oysters, twelve in number, and all on foot. next came the mounted scallops, riding ten abreast on superbly groomed turtles, holding the bridle of each of which walked lobsters dressed as clowns. then came the menagerie, with great sea-lions swimming in tanks on wheels; marine giraffes standing up to their necks in water forty feet deep; four-legged whales, like the oysters, on foot, and hundreds of other queer fish, all doing things jimmieboy had never supposed they could do. when the parade was over a great circus ring showed itself upon the canvas, and as strains of lovely music came from the left of the tent the book on the shelf began to recite: "the codfish walks around, the bass begins to sing; the whitebait 'round the terrapin's cage would better get out of the ring. the gudgeon is the fish that goes to all the shows, he swims up to the teredos and tweaks him by the nose." "that gudgeon must have been a sort of van amberg," thought jimmieboy. "he did brave things like that." then the book went on again: "the oyster now will please come forth and show the people here just how he stands upon his head and then doth disappear." this interested jimmieboy very much, and he watched the canvas intently as one of the trick oysters walked out into the ring, and after kissing his hand to jimmieboy and bowing to the rest of the audience--if there were any to bow to, and jimmieboy supposed there must be, for the oyster certainly bowed--he stood upon his head, and then without a word vanished from sight. "hooray!" shouted jimmieboy, whereupon the book resumed: "now watch the ring intently, for the sea-giraffe now comes, and without any effort turns a plum-cake into crumbs." "huh!" cried jimmieboy, as he watched the sea-giraffe turn the plum-cake into crumbs. "that isn't anything to do. i could do that myself, and make the plum-cake and the crumbs disappear too." the book, of course, could not reply to this criticism, and so went right on. "the lobster and the shark will now amuse the little folks by making here, before their eyes, some rhymes and funny jokes." when the book had said this there appeared on the canvas a really handsome shark clad in a dress suit and a tall hat on his head, followed closely by a lobster wearing a jester's coat and cap and bells, and bearing in his hand a little stick with punch's head on the end of it. "how do you do?" the lobster seemed to say, as he reached out his claw and grabbed the shark by his right fin. "sir," returned the shark, "if you would really like to know, i'm very glad to say that i am feeling pretty fine, and think 'twill snow to-day." [illustration: "i'm very glad to see you, sharkey," said the lobster.] "i'm very glad to see you, sharkey," said the lobster. "it is exceedingly pleasant to one who is always joking to meet a fish like you." "i pray excuse me, lobster dear, if i should ask you why? pray come and whisper in my ear, what your words signify." "certainly, my dear shark," replied the lobster. "it is always exceedingly pleasant for a droll person to tell his jokes to a creature with a mouth as large as yours, because your smile is necessarily a tremendous one. i never like to tell my jokes to people with small mouths, because their smiles are limited, while yours is as broad as the boundless ocean." "thank you," returned the shark. "that reminds me of a little song, and as i see you have a bass-drum in your pocket, i will sing it, if you will accompany me." here jimmieboy had the wonderful experience of seeing a lobster take a bass-drum out of his pocket. i shall not attempt to describe how the lobster did it, because i know you are anxious to hear the shark's song--as also was jimmieboy--which went as follows:--that is, the words did; the tune i cannot here reproduce, but any reader desirous of hearing it can do so if he will purchase a bass-drum set in g-flat, and beat it forty times to the second as hard as he knows how. "i find it most convenient to possess a mouth like this, why, twenty babes at one fell swoop i easily can kiss; and sixty pounds of apple pie, plus ten of orange pulp, and forty thousand macaroons i swallow at a gulp. "it's big enough for me without appearing like a dunce to stand upon a platform and say forty things at once. so large it is i have to wear of teeth a dozen sets, and i can sing all in a bunch some twenty-nine duets. "once i was captured by some men, who put me in a lake, where sadly i did weep all day-- all night i kept awake: and when the morning came at last, so weary, sir, was i, i yawned and swallowed up that pond, which left me high and dry. "then when my captors came to me, i opened both my jaws, and snapped each one of them right up without a moment's pause; i swallowed every single man in all that country round, and as i had the lake inside, they every one were drowned." here the shark stopped, and jimmieboy applauded. "and what became of you?" asked the lobster. "did you die then?" "well," returned the shark, with a puzzled expression on his face. "the song stops there, and i don't know whether i died or not. i presume i did, unless i swallowed myself and got into the lake again in that way. but, see here, lobby, you haven't got off any jokes for the children yet." "no, but i'm ready," returned lobby. "what's the difference between me and christmas?" "perhaps i'm very stupid, sometimes i'm rather slow-- but why you're unlike christmas i'm sure i do not know," replied the shark. "oh no, you aren't stupid," said the lobster. "it would be far stupider of you to guess the answer when it is my turn to make the little ones laugh. the reason i am different from christmas is just this--now don't lose this, children--with christmas comes santa claus, and with me comes lobster claws. now let me give you another. what is it that's brown like a cent, is bigger than a cent, is worth less than a cent, yet costs a cent?" "perhaps i do not know enough to spell c-a-t, cat-- and yet i really must confess i cannot answer that," returned the shark. "i am very glad of that," said the lobster. "i should have felt very badly if you could, because, you know, i want these children here to observe that while there are some things you can do that i can't do, there are also some things i can do that you can't do. now the thing that is brown like a cent, is bigger than a cent, is worth less than a cent, yet costs a cent, is a cent's worth of molasses taffy--which the terrapin will now pass around for sale, along with my photographs, for the benefit of my family." then the lobster bowed, the shark and he locked fin and arm again, and amid the strains of music from the band marched out of the ring, and jimmieboy looking up from the canvas for a moment saw that the imp had returned. vi _the circus continues_ "hullo," said jimmieboy. "back again?" "do i look it?" asked the imp. "yes, i think you do," returned jimmieboy. "unless you are your twin brother; are you your twin brother?" "no," laughed the imp, "i am not. i am myself, and i am back again just as i appear to be, and i've had a real dull time of it since i went away from you." "doing what?" asked jimmieboy. "well, first i had to tell your mother that the butcher couldn't send a ten-pound turkey, but had two six-pounders for her if she wanted them; and then i had to tell him for her that he could send mutton instead. after that i had to blow up the grocer for your father, whose cigars hadn't come, and then tell your father what wasn't so--that the cigars hadn't been ordered--for the grocer. after that, just as i was leaving, the cook came to the 'phone and asked me to tell your aunt susan's cook that her cousin in new york was very ill with a broken wheel on his truck, and that if she would meet her in town at eleven o'clock they could go to the matinée together, which she said she would do, and altogether it has been a very dull twenty minutes for me. have you enjoyed yourself?" "hugely," said jimmieboy; "and i hope now that you've come back i haven't got to stop enjoying myself in the same way. i'm right in the middle of the fish circus." "oh, are you," said the imp, with a smile. "i rather enjoy that myself. how far have you got?" "the shark and the lobster had just gone off when you came back." "good," returned the imp. "the best part of the performance is yet to come. move over there in the chair and make room for me. there--that's it. now let's see what's on next. oh yes. here comes the juggling clam; he is delightful. i like him better that way than if he was served with tomato ketchup." the book interrupted the imp at this point, and observed: "now glue your eyes upon the ring, and see the juggling clam transform a piece of purple string into a pillow-sham. "nor think that when he has done so his tricks are seen and done, for next he'll turn a jet-black crow into a penny bun. "next from his handsome heaven hat he'll take a piece of pie, a donkey, and a maltese cat, a green bluebottle fly; "a talking-doll, a pair of skates, a fine apartment-house, a pound of sweet imported dates, a brace of roasted grouse; "and should you not be satisfied when he has done all that, he'll take whatever you decide out of that beaver hat. "and after that he'll lightly spring into the atmosphere, and show you how a clam can sing if he but persevere. "when he has all this to you, if you applaud him well he'll be so glad he'll show you through his handsome pinky shell." jimmieboy didn't believe the clam could do all this, and he said so to the imp, but the imp told him to "wait and see," and when the boy did wait he certainly did see, for the clam did everything that was promised, and when jimmieboy, just to test the resources of the wonderful hat, asked the clam to bring out three dozen jam tarts, the clam brought out the three dozen jam tarts--only they were picture jam tarts, and jimmieboy could only decide that it was a wonderful performance, though he would have liked mightily to taste the tarts, and see if they were as good as they looked. "what comes next?" queried jimmieboy, as the clam bowed himself out of the ring. "listen, and the book will tell," returned the imp. the book resumed: "we now shall have the privilege of witnessing the whale come forth, and set our teeth on edge by standing on his tail. "when this is done, he'll open wide that wondrous mouth of his, and let us see how the inside of such great creatures is; "and those who wish to take a trip-- like jonah took one time-- can through his mammoth larynx slip for one small silver dime. "for dollars ten, he'll take you to the coast of labrador, the arctic ocean he'll go through for dollars twenty-four; "and should you wish to see the pole, he'll take you safely there, if you will pay the usual toll-- ten thousand is the fare." "i'd like to go to the north pole," said jimmieboy. "got ten thousand dollars in your pocket?" queried the imp, with a snicker. "no; but i've got a dollar in my iron bank," said jimmieboy; "perhaps he'd take me for that." [illustration: your ears would be frozen solid.] "very likely he would," said the imp. "these circus fellows will do almost anything for money; but when he got you there he would tell you you could stay there until you paid the other $ ; and think how awful that would be. why, your ears would be frozen solid inside of four weeks." "is it as cold as that at the pole?" said jimmieboy. "colder!" ejaculated the imp. "why, when i was there once i felt chilly in spite of my twenty-eight seal-skin sacques and sixty-seven mufflers, so i decided to build a fire. i got the fagots all ready, lit the match, and what do you suppose happened?" "what?" queried jimmieboy, in a whisper, for he was a little awed by the imp's manner. "wouldn't the match light?" "worse than that," replied the imp. "it lit, but before i could touch it to the fagots the flame froze!" jimmieboy eyed the imp closely. this seemed to him so like a fairy story, in which the first half is always untrue and the last half imaginary, that he did not exactly know whether the imp meant him to believe all he said or not. it did him no particular good, though, to scrutinize the imp's countenance, for that worthy gave not the slightest sign that there was any room for doubt as to the truth of this story; indeed, he continued: "why, the last time i went to the north pole i took forty-seven thermometers to register the coolth of it, and the mercury not only went down to the very bottom of every one of them, but went down so quickly that it burst through the glass bulb that marked below zero, and fell eight miles more before it even began to slow up. it was so cold that some milk i carried in a bottle was frozen so hard that it didn't thaw out for sixteen months after i got back, although i kept it in boiling water all the time, and one of the esquimaux who came up there in midsummer to shoot polar bears had to send for a plumber after his return home to thaw out his neck, which had frozen stiff." "maybe that is why the whale charges so much to take people there," suggested jimmieboy. "it is, exactly. there is no risk about it for him, but he has to eat so much hot coal and other things to warm him up, that really it costs him nearly as much as he gets to make the trip. i don't believe that he clears more than half a dollar on the whole thing, even when he is crowded," said the imp. "crowded?" echoed jimmieboy. "what do you mean by that?" "crowded? why, crowded is an english word meaning jamful and two more," said the imp. "but crowded with what?" queried jimmieboy. "why, passengers, of course. what did you suppose? ink bottles?" "then he takes more than one passenger at a time," said jimmieboy. "certainly he does. he'll hold twenty-five boys of your size in comfort, thirty-five in discomfort, forty-five in an emergency, and fifty at a pinch," said the imp. "but see here, we are losing a lot of circus. there goes the educated scallop out of the ring now. i'm sorry you missed him, for he is a tender." "a what?" "a tender. that is, he is ten times as marvellous as a wonder. why that scallop is the finest comic actor you ever saw. his imitation of a party of sharks off manning is simply the most laughable thing i ever saw," said the imp, enthusiastically. "i wish i could understand half of what you say," said jimmieboy, looking wistfully at the imp. "because if i did, you know, i might guess the rest." "what is it you don't understand now?" asked the imp. "what is a party of sharks off manning?" queried jimmieboy. "did you ever see a man fishing?" questioned the imp. "yes." "well, if a man can fish, why shouldn't a fish man? sharks can catch men just as easily as men can catch sharks, and the scallop shows how sharks behave when they catch men--that's all." "i wish i'd seen it; can't you turn back to that page in the book, and have it done all over again?" asked the boy. "no, i can't," said the imp. "it's against the rules of the library. it hurts a book to be turned back, just as much as it hurts your little finger to be turned back, and in nine cases out of ten turning back pages makes them dogeared; and dogs, or anything that even suggests dogs, are not allowed here. why, if the other imps who own this library with me knew that i had even mentioned dogs they would suspend me for a week. but, my dear boy, we really must stop talking. this time we missed the crab with the iron claw--why, that crab can crack hickory nuts with that claw when he's half asleep; and when he's wide awake he can hold a cherry stone a hundred miles a minute, and that's holding mighty fast, i can tell you. let's hear what the book has to say now." "bang!" said the book. "dear me!" cried the imp. "did you hear that!" "yes," said jimmieboy. "what does it mean?" "it means the circus is all over," said the imp. "that was the shutting of the book we heard. it's too bad; but there are other things quite as well worth seeing here. i'll tell you what we'll do--i'll find the pixyweevil poetry book, and turn that on, and while you are listening, i'll see who that is ringing, for i am quite sure the bell rang a minute ago." vii _the poetry book, and the end_ the imp then arranged the wires so that the poetry book could recite itself to jimmieboy, after which he went back to his office to see who it was that had been ringing the bell. "my first poem," said a soft silvery voice from the top shelf, towards which jimmieboy immediately directed his attention--"my first poem is a perfect gem. i have never seen anything anywhere that could by any possibility be finer than it is, unless it be in my new book, which contains millions of better ones. it is called, 'to a street lamp,' and goes this way: "you seem quite plain, old lamp, to men, yet 'twould be hard to say what we should do without you when night follows on the day; "and while your lumination seems much less than that of sun, i truly think but for your beams we would be much undone. "and who knows, lamp, but to some wight, too small for me to see, you are just such a wondrous sight as old sol is to me! "isn't that just terribly lovely?" said the soft silvery voice when the poem was completed. "yes; but i don't think it's very funny," said jimmieboy. "i like to laugh, you know, and i couldn't laugh at that." "oh!" said the silvery voice, with a slight tinge of disappointment in it. "you want fun do you? well, how do you like this? i think it is the funniest thing ever written, except others by the same author: "there was an old man in new york who thought he'd been changed to a stork; he stood on one limb 'til his eyesight grew dim, and used his left foot for a fork." "that's the kind," said jimmieboy, enthusiastically. "i could listen to a million of that sort of poems." "i'd be very glad to tell you a million of them," returned the voice, "but i don't believe there's electricity enough for me to do it under twenty-five minutes, and as we only have five left, i'm going to recite my lines on 'a sulphur match.' "the flame you make, o sulphur match! when your big head i chance to scratch, "appears so small most people deem you lilliputian, as you seem. "and yet the force that in you lies can light with brilliance all the skies. "there's strength enough in you to send great cities burning to their end; "so that we have a hint in you of what the smallest thing can do. "don't you like that?" queried the voice, anxiously. "i do hope you do, because i am especially proud of that. the word lilliputian is a tremendous word for a poet of my size, and to think that i was able, alone and unassisted, to lift it bodily out of the vocabulary into the poem makes me feel very, very proud of myself, and agree with my mother that i am the greatest poet that ever lived." "well, if you want me to, i'll like it," said jimmieboy, who was in an accommodating mood. "i'll take your word for it that it is a tremendous poem, but if you think of repeating it over again to me, don't do it. let me have another comic poem." "all right," said pixyweevil--for it was he that spoke through the book. "you are very kind to like my poem just to please me. tell me anything in the world you want a poem about, and i'll let you have the poem." "really?" cried jimmieboy, delighted to meet with so talented a person as pixyweevil. "well--let me see--i'd like a poem about my garden rake." "certainly. here it is: "i had a little garden rake with seven handsome teeth, it followed me o'er fern and brake, o'er meadow-land and heath. "and though at it i'd often scowl, and treat it far from right, my garden rake would never growl, nor use its teeth to bite." "elegant!" ejaculated jimmieboy. "say it again." "oh no! we haven't time for that. besides, i've forgotten it. what else shall i recite about?" queried pixyweevil. "i don't know; i can't make up my mind," said jimmieboy. "oh dear me! that's awful easy," returned pixyweevil. "i can do that with my eyes shut. here she goes: "shall i become a lawyer great, a captain of a yacht, a man who deals in real estate, a doctor, or a what? ah me! oh ho! i do not know. i can't make up my mind. "i have a penny. shall i buy an apple or a tart? a bit of toffee or a pie, a cat-boat or a cart? ah me! oh ho! i do not know. i can't make up my mind." "splendid!" cried jimmieboy. "that's harder--much harder," said pixyweevil, "but i'll try. how is this: "i bought one day, in winnipeg, a truly wondrous heavy egg; and when my homeward course was run i showed it to my little son. 'dear me!' said he, when he did see, 'i think that hen did splen-did-ly!' "i saw a bird--'twas reddish-brown-- one day while in a country town, which sang, 'oh, johnny, get your gun;' and when i told my little son, in tones of glee said he, 'dear me! i think that wren did splen-did-ly!" "that's the best i can do with splendid," said pixyweevil. "well, it's all you can do now, anyhow," came a voice from the doorway, which jimmieboy immediately recognized as the imp's; "for jimmieboy's mamma has just telephoned that she wants him to come home right away." "it was very nice, mr. pixyweevil," said jimmieboy, as he rose to depart. "and i am very much obliged." "thank you," returned pixyweevil. "you are very polite, and exceedingly truthful. i believe myself that, as that 'splendid' poem might say, if it had time, "i've truly ended splen-did-ly." and then jimmieboy and the imp passed out of the library back through the music and cookery room. the imp unlocked the door, and, fixing the wires, sent jimmieboy sliding gleefully down to the back hall, whence he had originally entered the little telephone closet. [illustration: "hullo!" said his papa. "where have you been?"] "hullo!" said his papa. "where have you been?" "having a good time," said jimmieboy. "and what have you done with the key of my cigar-box?" "oh, i forgot," said jimmieboy. "i left it in the telephone door." "what a queer place to leave it," said his papa. "let me have it, please, for i want to smoke." and jimmieboy went to get it, and, sure enough, there it was in the little box, and it unlocked it, too; but when his father came to open the door and look inside, the imp had disappeared. caught in toytown _caught in toytown_ it came about in this way. jimmieboy had been just a wee bit naughty, and in consequence had to sit in the night nursery all alone by himself for a little while. now, the night nursery was not an altogether attractive place for a small boy to sit in all by himself, because all the toys were kept in the day nursery, and beyond the bureau drawers there was absolutely nothing in the room which could keep a boy busy for more than five minutes. so it happened that at the end of ten minutes jimmieboy was at his wits' ends to find out what he should do next. at the end of fifteen minutes he was about to announce to a waiting world outside that he'd make an effort to behave himself, and not tease his small brother any more, when his eye caught sight of a singular little crack in one corner of the room. it was the funniest looking crack he ever saw, as it went zigzagging on its way from floor to ceiling, and then, as he gazed at it it grew even queerer than ever, for it seemed to widen, and then what should appear at the bottom of it but a little iron gate! "that's the curiousest thing i've seen yet!" said jimmieboy, crawling on his hands and knees over to the gate and peering through it. then he suddenly started back, somewhat frightened, for as he looked through the bars a great gruff voice cried out:-- "that's five dollars you owe. pay up--now. quick, or the 'bus will go without me." and then a funny little old man that looked as if he had stepped out of a brownie book came to the other side of the gate and thrust his hand through the bars in front of jimmieboy. "hear what i said?" the little old man cried out. "five dollars--hurry up, or the 'bus'll go without me, and it gets lost every time it does and then there's a fearful row and i'm discharged." "i haven't got five dollars," said jimmieboy. "and, besides, if i had i wouldn't give it to you, because i don't owe it to you." "you don't owe me five dollars?" cried the little old man angrily. "well, i like that. then you mean to say you are a view stealer, do you?" "i don't know what you mean," said jimmieboy. "i never stole anything." "yes you did, too," shrieked the little old man. "you just took a look through these bars, and that look doesn't belong to you. this country belongs to us. you've used our view and now you say you won't pay for it." "oh, i see," said jimmieboy, who began to understand. "you charge for the view--is that it?" "yes," said the little old man more quietly. "we have to make a small charge to keep the view in repair, you know. there was a man here last week who spoiled one of our most beautiful bits of scenery. he looked at it so hard that it was simply used up. and another fellow, with two very sharp eyes, bored a hole through another view further along only yesterday. he gave it a quick, piercing, careless glance, and pop!--his left eye went right through it; and that's the reason we have to make people pay. sightseers do a deal of damage." "well, i'm very sorry," said jimmieboy. "i didn't know there was any charge or i wouldn't have looked." "then we're square," said the little old man. "i have instructions to collect five dollars or an apology from every one who uses our views until our wizard has invented some way of enabling people to put back the views they take without meaning to. won't you come in and look about you and see what an interesting country we have? you can pay for all you see with apologies, since you have no money." the little old man turned the key on his side of the gate and opened it. "thanks ever so much," said jimmieboy. "i'd like to come in very much indeed," and in he walked. "what is this place?" he asked, as he gazed about him and observed that all the houses were made of cake and candy, and that all the trees were fashioned like those that came with his toy farm. "this," said the little old man, clanging the gate and locking it fast, "is toyland, and you are my prisoner." "your what?" cried jimmieboy, taking instant alarm. "my prisoner is what i said," retorted the little old man. "i keep a toy shop in toyland and i'm going to put you in my show window and sell you to the first big toy that wants to buy you for a christmas present for his little toy at home." "i d-don't understand," stammered jimmieboy. "well, you will in a minute," said the little old man. "we citizens of toyland keep christmas just as much as you people do, only our toys are children just as your toys are toys. you sell us when you can catch us, and we sell you when we catch you--and, what is more, the boy who is kind to his toys in your country finds his toy master in toyland kind to him. i am told that you are very good to your toys and keep them very carefully, so you needn't be afraid that you will be given to one of our rough toys, who will drag you around by one leg and leave you standing on your head in the closet all night." "but i don't want to be sold," said jimmieboy. "well, you'd better, then," retorted the little old man, "because if some one doesn't buy you we'll pack you up in a box and send you out to china to the missionaries. step right in here, please." jimmieboy did not wish to obey in the least, but he didn't dare rebel against the commands of his captor, so, with an anxious glance down the street, he started to do as he was told, when a singular sight met his eye. in glancing down the street he had caught sight of the toy-shop window, and what should he see there but his friends whitty and billie and johnnie and sweet little bettie perkins who lived across the way, and half a dozen others of his small friends. "fine display, eh?" said the little old man. "great haul of children, eh?" he added. "best window in town, and they'll sell like hot cakes." "you've got all my friends except tommy hicks," said jimmieboy. "i know it," said the little old man. "we had tommy this morning, too, but a plush rabbit living up on main street came in and bought him to put in his little toy stocking. i don't envy tommy much. he used to treat a plush rabbit he had very badly, and the one that bought him seemed to know it, for as he took tommy out he kept punching him in the stomach and making him cry like a doll, calling 'mam-mah' and 'pah-pah' all the time. he gave me a dollar for tommy, but i'll charge ten for you. they'll have to pay a good price for whitty, too, because there's so much goes with him. he's got a collection of postage stamps in one pocket, a muffin ring and a picture book in another, and the front of his blouse is stuffed chock full of horse chestnuts and marbles. whitty makes a singularly rich toy, and i think he'll sell as quickly as any of you." "how did you capture him?" asked jimmieboy, who felt better now that he saw that he was not alone in this strange land. "did he come through that crack that i came by?" "no, indeed," said the little old man. "he came in through the pantry door. he climbed into his mamma's pantry after some jam, and while he was there i just turned the pantry around, and when he'd filled up on jam he walked right through the door into the back of my shop, and before he knew it i had him priced and sitting in the window. there was a wax doll in here this afternoon who wanted to buy him for her daughter flaxilocks, but she only had $ , and i'm not going to let whitty go for less than $ , considering all the things he's brought with him." then jimmieboy entered the shop, and it was indeed a curious place. instead of there being toys on the shelves waiting to be bought, there were piles of children lying there, while the toys were to be seen walking up and down the floor, pricing first a boy and then a baby and then a little girl. the salesmen were all brownies, and most obliging ones. it didn't seem to be a bit of trouble to them to show goods, and they were very kind to the little toys that had come in with their mothers, punching the children they had to sell in the stomach to make them say what they were made to say; and making them show how easily and gracefully they could walk, and, in short, showing off their wares to the very best advantage. jimmieboy was too interested in what he saw to feel very anxious, and so, when the bazaar door had closed behind them, he asked the little old man very cheerfully what he should do. "step right into the window and sit down," said the little old man. "smile cheerfully and once in a while get up and twirl around on your right leg. that will attract the attention of the toys passing on the street, and maybe one of 'em will come in and buy you. do you sing?" "yes," said jimmieboy. "why?" "nothing. i only wanted to know so that i could describe you properly on the placard you are to wear," said the little old man. "how would you like to be called the automatic-musical-jimmieboy?" "that would be first rate," said jimmieboy. "only i couldn't begin to remember it, you know." "you don't have to," said the little old man. "nobody will ask you what you are, because the placard will tell that. only whenever anybody wants to see you, and i take you out of the window, you must sing of your own accord. that's what i mean by calling you an automatic-musical-jimmieboy. it means simply that you are a jimmieboy that sings of its own accord." so the placard was made, and jimmieboy put it on, and got into the window, where, for hours, he was stared at by rag babies, tin soldiers, lead firemen, woolen monkeys and all sorts of other toys, who lived in this strange land, and who were walking in throngs on the sugared sidewalk without. one woolen monkey called in to price him, and jimmieboy sang a german kindergarten song for him, but the monkey found him too expensive, for, as you may already know, it rarely happens that woolen monkeys have as much as $ in their pockets. a little later a wooden noah, out of an ark across the street, came in, and purchased whitty, and jimmieboy began to feel tired and lonesome. the novelty of it all wore off after awhile, and some of the toys in the street bothered him a good deal by making faces at him, and a plaster lion said he thought he'd go in and take a bite of him, he looked so good, which jimmieboy didn't like at all, though it was meant to be complimentary. finally he was sold to a rubber doll with a whistle in its head, and the first thing he knew he was wrapped up in a bundle and put in a pasteboard box to be sent by express to the rubber doll's cousin, who lived in the country. jimmieboy didn't like this at all, and as the little old man tied the string that fastened him in the box he resisted and began to kick, and he kicked so hard that something fell over with a crash, and, freeing his arms from the twine and the box and the paper, he sprang up and began laying about him with his fists. the little old man fled in terror. the rubber doll changed his mind and said he didn't think he cared for so violent a toy as the automatic-musical-jimmieboy after all, and started off. jimmieboy, noting the terror that he inspired by his resistance, grabbed up three of the brownies who were trying to hide in the fire extinguisher, and rushed shouting out of the shop and landed--where do you suppose? slap, bang in his own nursery! how the nursery got there or what became of the brownies he does not know to this day, but he remembers every detail of his experience very well and it is from him that i got the story. the queerest thing about it, though, is that whitty has no recollection of the adventure at all, which is really very strange, for whitty has a marvellous memory. i have known both whitty and jimmieboy to remember things that never happened at all, which makes whitty's loss of memory on this occasion more wonderful than ever. at any rate, this story tells you exactly what happened to jimmieboy that day at the beginning of the christmas vacation, and i am convinced that few of you have ever had anything at all like it happen to you, which is why i have told you all about it. totherwayville; the animal town _totherwayville; the animal town_ "what place is this?" said jimmieboy, as the express train came to a full stop. "i didn't know fast trains stopped at funny little places like this--and _do_ look! why there is a horse sitting in a wagon driving a pair of men up hill." "better not try to know too much about diss yere place, mistah," said the colored porter of the car jimmieboy was travelling in. "hit's a powahful funny sort o' place, but hit's just as well fo' you to stay on de kyar an' not go foolin' outside less you's asked." "i should say it was queer," returned jimmieboy, "but i can't help feeling that i'd like to know all about it. what is it called?" "totherwayville," returned the porter. "hit's called like dat because everything in it's done the other way from how you'd do it. if you walked outside on de platform ob de station likely as not some little dog would come up and tie you to a chain an' go leadin' you round town; 'nd you, you couldn't say a woyd. you'd only bark like as though you only was a dog and dey'd give you bones to eat when dey didn't forget it--less dey thought you was a cat, an' den dey'd most likely forget to feed you on milk, de way you does with yo' cat." "i haven't got any cat," said jimmieboy. "dat's lucky fo' de cat," returned the porter. "not dat i tinks yo' ain't as good an' kind a little boy as ebber lived, sah, but just because ebbery body dat owns cats sort of don't treat 'em as well as dey'd treat a baby for instance. de kindest heartedest little boy in de worl' would forget to gib his cat its dinner if he had a new toy to play wid, or a new suit o' party dress to put on to show his poppy when he come home." the porter was called away for a minute by an old lady at the other end of the car who wanted to know what time the seven ten train generally started, and while he was gone jimmieboy gazed wonderingly out of the window; and i can't say that i blame him for doing so, for totherwayville was indeed a most singular place. there were very few men, women or children in the streets and those that were there appeared to live in a state of captivity. small dogs led boys around by a string or a chain; some of the boys wore muzzles. here and there were men tied to hitching posts, and all about were animals which jimmieboy had always hitherto supposed were to be found only in the wild countries, or in circuses and zoological gardens. off in a field a hundred or more yards from the station were a lot of monkies playing baseball, and drollest of all, in front of the totherwayville hotel, stood a huge lion smoking a cigar and talking with an elephant. "well i never!" said jimmieboy. "this seems to be a regular wild animal place." just as he spoke a baby elephant came running down to the station holding a small envelope in his trunk. when he got to the platform he looked anxiously about him and then walking up to a funny looking baboon, who appeared to be depot master, engaged him in earnest conversation. the baboon took the envelope, read the address written upon it and said "he would see." then he walked to the end of jimmieboy's car and called for the porter. "well, whad yo' want?" asked the porter. "here's an invitation from the mayor to a young man who is said to be on this car," said the baboon. "if he is, will you give it to him?" "certainly," said the porter, his face wreathing with smiles. "certainly. he's hyah." jimmieboy watched all this with interest, little thinking that the invitation was for no less a person than himself. he soon discovered the fact, however, for the porter came to him instantly and handed him the envelope. it was addressed simply to: master jimmieboy, care of the porter, express train, no. . kindness of thomas baby elephant. "for me?" cried jimmieboy. "yassir," said the porter. "hit's for you." hurriedly tearing the envelope open, jimmieboy took from it a delicately scented card on which was engraved: the wild animals request your presence at their wonderful exhibition of trained hagenbecks, this afternoon at two absolute safety guaranteed. r. s. v. p. "dear me!" cried jimmieboy, excitedly, "i couldn't think of going. i should be afraid." "oh, you needn't be afraid," said the porter. "dey'se promised you absolute safety, and i'll tell yo' just one thing. animals soldom makes promises, but when dey does, dey keeps 'em. dey's sort ob different from people in dat. hit's twice as hard to get 'em to make promises but dey seems to be able to keep 'em twice as easy as people. i'd go if i were you. de conductor'll keep de train waitin' fo' you. dere's on'y one man aboard dat's in a hurry an' he's travellin' on a free pass, so de road ain't liable fo' any delays to him. i'll go wid you." "but how do you know it'll be safe," added jimmieboy. "i want to go very much, but----" "howdiknow?" said the porter. "ain't i took little folks to see de show befo? oh co'se i has an' dey've had de best time in de worl', an' come back cryin' cause dey couldn't stay a week." "very well, then," said jimmieboy, "you can tell the baboon that i'll be very glad to go." the porter informed the baboon who in turn acquainted the baby elephant with the fact, whereupon the baby elephant took off his hat and bowing politely to jimmieboy hastened back to the mayor's office with the little boy's reply. shortly after the porter returned and said that he had fixed it with the conductor and that the train would wait, and so jimmieboy and his chestnut colored friend started off. on the way he was gazed at curiously by more wild animals than he had ever seen before, but they were all very respectful to him, many of them bowing politely. indeed the only incivility he encountered at all was from a rude little boy who was being led around by a handsome st. bernard dog. the little boy snapped at him as he passed, but he was promptly muzzled by his master, and deprived of the bone he was eating for his luncheon. after walking along for about five minutes they came to a great circular building, upon the outside of which was a huge sign. the trained hagenbecks. matinee to-day. admission: grown animals cents. cubs, puppies, etc. dollars. jimmieboy laughed. "that's funny. they charge less for grown animals than they do for baby animals." "not so funny as your plan, mister," said a gruff voice at jimmieboy's side, very respectfully however. jimmieboy looked around to see who it was that spoke and was a little startled at first to see that it was a fine specimen of a tiger that had addressed him. "don't shrink," said the tiger, seeing that the little boy was somewhat frightened. "i won't hurt you. i'm wild, but i'm kind. let me show you my smile--you'll see what a big smile it is, and some day you'll learn that an animal with a fine open countenance like mine is when i smile can't be a bad animal. but to come back to what you think is a funny scheme. we charge more for cubs than for grown animals because they are more trouble. we talked it all over when we started the show and we found that there was ten times as much mischief in a cub or a puppy as there is in a grown up bear or dog, so we charged more; only as we don't mind a little mischief we make the babies pay only eight times as much as the others. it's simple and very natural, i think." "that's true," said jimmieboy. "it isn't so odd after all." and then they went inside, where jimmieboy was received by the mayor, a very handsome lion, and his wife the lioness. all the other animals cheered and the little boy soon came to feel that he was surrounded by friends; strange friends perhaps, but faithful ones. he sat in the front of the mayor's box and watched the cage-enclosed ring in which the hagenbecks were to perform. a monkey band played several popular tunes in the gallery, after which the performance began. first a baboon came out and announced a performance by six trained clowns, who he said would crack jokes and turn somersaults and make funny grimaces just as they did in their native lair. the monkey band struck up a tune and in ran the clowns. to jimmieboy's eyes they were merely plain everyday circus clowns, but the way the baboon made them prance around was wonderful. one of the clowns was a trifle sulky and didn't want to crack his joke, but the baboon kept flicking him with the end of his whip until finally he did crack it, although he might better not have done so for he did it so badly that he spoiled it. after this a pelican walked out and announced with a proud air that he would now exhibit his flock of trained dudes, who would dance and sing, and wear beautiful clothes and put the heads of their canes in their mouths as intelligently as though they were pelicans and not dudes. jimmieboy was delighted with them, for after all he was quite like other boys and was accustomed to lavish a great deal of admiration upon such things as chewing gum and dudes. the most interesting feature of the dude exhibition was their chrysanthemum drill. it must have taken the pelican a long time to teach those dudes to pick up their chrysanthemums and place them in their little button-holes with such military precision as they displayed. everybody applauded this wildly and a great roar of laughter greeted the dudes' acknowledgment of the applause, for the magnificent way in which they took off their silk hats and bowed was truly droll. "it's hard to believe they are merely human!" said the tiger to jimmieboy. "their intelligence is more that of the pelican than of the human kind." "with a slight mixture of the monkey mind i should say, too," said the elephant. "i'm told these dudes are very imitative." "the jumping billikins!" cried the manager of the exhibition. "what on earth is a jumping billikins?" asked jimmieboy, who had never heard of an animal of that kind before. "wait and see," said the tiger, with a laugh. "most people call him a nerve centre, but you wouldn't understand that, so i say wait and see." as jimmieboy could do nothing else he waited and in a minute the jumping billikins appeared, followed by six men. the jumping billikins was nothing more than a pretty little boy, about five years of age, and what he did chiefly was to jump. the six men would put sofas about the ring and the jumping billikins would jump from one to the other as easily as though he were a real chamois-skin goat. then he gave a remarkable exhibition of his hopping powers. he hopped up and down on one leg for twenty-eight minutes, much to the wonderment of the elephant, who strong as he was couldn't hop on one leg at all. "now watch the men," whispered the tiger. "the jumping billikins is going to have a romping match with them, and you'd hardly believe it but he'll have them worn out in less than five minutes and yet he'll be as fresh as a rose when he gets through." jimmieboy watched, and such a romp as followed he never had seen before. the jumping billikins was everywhere all the time. one second he'd be riding pickaback on one man, the next you'd find him sitting on another man's head trying to put his feet into the vest pockets of the third and fourth men, while with his hands he'd be playing tag with the others. there was no describing that romp, but as the tiger had said, before five minutes the men were exhausted and the jumping billikins, fresh as ever, was bowing his thanks to the audience for their applause. then he walked proudly from the ring and the worn-out men were carried off by the baboon's assistants. the next thing on the programme was a talking contest between a parrot and a chatterbox, but this jimmieboy never saw, for a sudden shriek from the engine waiting with the train at the station for his return called him away. the animals expressed their regret at his early departure and requested him to come again sometime, which the little fellow promised to do. "_i_ doan tink yo'll go again, mistah," said the porter, with a smile, as the train drew away from the station. "why not?" asked jimmieboy. "because----" said the porter. "be-cause----" and then, strange to say, he faded out of sight and jimmieboy, rubbing his eyes, was astonished to find that he wasn't on a railway train at all but in his papa's lap, where he had been all along. an electrical error _an electrical error_ jimmieboy's father and mother had occasion to go to the city for a couple of days recently, and inasmuch as jimmieboy is such a very movey young person they did not deem it well to leave him at home in the care of the nurse, who had as much as she could do taking care of his brothers, and so they took him along with them. one evening, having to go out to dinner, they invited a young man in jimmieboy's father's employ to come up to the hotel and stay about and keep the little fellow amused until his bedtime, and to look out for him as well after that time until their return, which fred was very willing to do since he received $ reward for his trouble. he said afterward that he earned the two dollars in the first ten minutes playing waterloo with jimmieboy, in which pleasing game jimmieboy was wellington and fred was napoleon, but once a year he didn't mind earning a dollar or two extra in that way. after the game of waterloo was over and the napoleonic fred had managed to collect the buttons which had been removed from his vest in the first half of the game, the wellingtonian jimmieboy decided that he was tired enough to go to bed, and inasmuch as fred didn't oppose him very hard, to bed he went, and a half hour later both the boys, young and old, were snoring away as though their lives depended on it. it was quite evident that neither of them was as yet sufficiently strong to stand the game of waterloo for more than an hour--and i don't really wonder at it, for my own experience has led me to believe that even bonaparte and wellington themselves would have been wearied beyond endurance by an hour's play at that diversion, however well they may have stood up under the anxieties of the original battle. in my first game with jimmieboy i lost five pounds, eight buttons, a necktie, two handfuls of hair and a portion of my temper. so, as i say, i do not wonder that they were exhausted by their efforts and willing to rest after them, though how either of them could sleep with the other snoring as loud as a factory whistle i could never understand. fred must have been unusually weary, for, as you will see, he slept more than jimmieboy did--in fact, it wasn't later than nine o'clock when the latter waked up. "say, fred," he cried. fred answered with a deeper snore than ever. "fred!" cried jimmieboy again. "i want a drink of water." "puggrrh," snored fred. "stop your growling and ring the telephone for some ice water," said jimmieboy, and again fred answered with a snore, and in his sleep muttered something that sounded like "it'll cost you $ next time," the meaning of which jimmieboy didn't understand, but which i think had some reference to what it would cost his father to secure fred as a companion for jimmieboy on another occasion. "guess i'll have to ring it up myself," said jimmieboy, and with that he jumped out of bed and rushed to that delightful machine which is now to be found in most of the modern hotels, by means of which you can ring up anything you may happen to want, by turning a needle about on a dial until it points to the printed description of the thing you desire and pushing a red button. "wonder how they spell ice water," said jimmieboy. "e-y-e spells i, and s-e spells sss-e-y-e-s-e, ice." but he looked in vain for any such thing on the dial. "o, well," he said, after searching and searching, "i'll ring up anything, and when the boy comes with it i'll order the ice water." so he gave the needle an airy twist, pushed the button, and sat down to wait for the boy. meanwhile he threw a pillow at fred, who still lay snoring away on the sofa, only now he was puffing like a freight train engine when its wheels slip on an icy railway track. "lazybones," snickered jimmieboy, as the pillow landed on fred's curly head. but fred answered never a word, which so exasperated jimmieboy that he got up with the intention of throwing himself at his sleeping companion, when he heard a queer noise over by the fireplace. "hullo, down there, . is that you?" cried somebody. jimmieboy stared at the chimney in blank amazement. "hurry up below there, . is that you?" came the voice again. "this room is ," replied jimmieboy, realizing all of a sudden that it was no doubt to him that these words were addressed. "well, then, look sharp, will you? turn off the fire--put it out--do something with it. you can't expect me to come down there with the fire burning, can you? i'm not fireproof, you know," returned the voice. "there isn't any fire here," said jimmieboy. "nonsense," cried the voice. "what's that roaring i hear?" "oh--that," jimmieboy answered. "that's fred. he's snoring." "ah! then i will come down," came the voice, and in an instant there was a small fall of soot, a rustling in the chimney, and a round-faced, fat-stomached, white-bearded little old gentleman with a twinkling eye, appeared, falling like a football into the grate and bounding like a tennis ball out into the middle of the floor. "santa claus, at your service," he said, bowing low to jimmieboy. the boy looked at him breathless with astonishment for a moment. "well--well----" put in the old man impatiently. "what is it you want with me? i'm very busy, so pray don't detain me. is it one of my new conversational brownies you are after? if so, say so. fine things, these conversational brownies." "i never heard of 'em," said jimmieboy. "coz why?" laughed santa claus, twirling airily about on the toes of his left foot. "coz why? bee-coz there ain't never been any for you to hear about. i invented 'em all by myself. you have brownies in books that don't move. good. i like 'em, you like 'em, we all like 'em. you have brownies out of books. better--but they can't talk and all bee-coz they're stuffed with cotton. it isn't their fault. it's the cotton's fault. take a man and stuff him with cotton and he wouldn't be able to say a word, but stuff him with wit and anecdotes and he'll talk. wherefore i have invented a conversational brownie. he's made of calico, but he's stuffed with remarks, and he has a little metal hole in his mouth, and when you squeeze him remarks oozes out between his lips and there you are. eh? fine?" "bully," said jimmieboy. "was that what you rang for? quick, hurry up, i haven't any time to waste at this season of the year." "well, no," jimmieboy answered. "not having ever heard of 'em, of course." "oh, then you wanted one of my live wood doll babies," said santa claus. "of course. they're rather better than the conversational brownies, perhaps, i guess; i don't know. still, they last longer, as long as you water 'em. was it one of those you wanted?" "what is a live wood doll baby?" asked jimmieboy. "one o' my newest new, new things," replied santa claus. "'stead o' making wooden dolls out of dead wood, i makes 'em out o' live wood. keep some o' the roots alive, make your doll, plant it proper, water it, and it'll grow just like a man. my live oak dolls that i'm making this year, a hundred years from now will be great giants." "splendid idea," said jimmieboy. "but how about the leaves. don't they sprout out and hide the doll?" "of course they do, if you don't see that they're pulled off," retorted santa claus. "you don't expect me to give you toys and look after 'em all at the same time, do you?" "no," said jimmieboy. "well, it's good you don't," said santa claus, turning a somersault backward. "it's werry good you don't, for should you had have you'd have been disappointed. but, i say, was that what you wanted, or were you after one of my new patent typewriters that you wind up? don't keep me waiting all night----" "i never heard of your new patent typewriters that you wind up," jimmieboy answered. "that isn't the question," interrupted santa claus nervously, "though i suppose it's the answer, for if you had heard of my windable writer it would have been the thing you wanted. it's a grand invention, that machine. you take a key, wind the thing up, having first loaded it with paper, and what do you suppose it does?" "writes?" asked jimmieboy. "exactly," replied santa claus. "it writes stories and poems and jokes. there are five keys goes with each machine--one poetry key, one joke key, one fairy tale key, a story of adventure key, and a solemn sunday school story key that writes morals and makes you wonder whether you're as good as you ought to be." "well," said jimmieboy, "now that i know about that, that's what i want, though as a matter of fact i rang you up for a glass of ice water." "what!" cried santa claus, indignantly, bounding about the room like a tennis ball again. "me? do you mean to say you've summoned me away from my work at this season of the year just to bring you a glass of ice water?" "i--i didn't mean for you to bring it," said jimmieboy, meekly. "i--i must have made a mistake----" "it's outrageous," said santa claus, stamping his foot, "you hadn't oughter make mistakes. i won't bring you anything on christmas--no, not a thing. you----" a knock at the door interrupted the little old man, and jimmieboy, on going to see who was there, discovered the hall boy with the pitcher of water. "what's that?" asked santa, as jimmieboy returned. "it's the water," replied the little fellow. "so i couldn't have made a mistake after all." "hum!" said santa, stroking his beard slowly and thoughtfully. "i guess--i guess the wires must be crossed--so it wasn't your fault--and i will bring you something, but the man who ought to have looked after those wires and didn't won't find anything in his stocking but a big hole in the toe on christmas." the old fellow then shook hands good-by with the boy, and walked to the chimney. "let's see--what shall i bring you?" he asked, pausing. "the windable writer," said jimmieboy. "all right," returned santa, starting up the chimney. "you can have one if i get it finished in time, but i am afraid this annoying delay will compel me to put off the distribution of those machines until some other year." and with that he was gone. meanwhile jimmieboy is anxiously waiting for christmas to see if it will bring him the windable writer. i don't myself believe that it will, for the last i heard santa had not returned to his workshop, but whether he got stuck in the hotel chimney or not nobody seems to know. in the brownies' house _in the brownies' house_ jimmieboy, like every other right-minded youth, was a great admirer of the brownies. they never paid any attention to him, but went about their business in the books as solemnly as ever no matter what jokes he might crack at their expense. nor did it seem to make any difference to them how much noise was being made in the nursery, they swam, threw snow-balls, climbed trees, floated over niagara, and built houses as unconcernedly as ever. nevertheless jimmieboy liked them. he didn't need to have any attention paid to him by the little folk in pictures. he didn't expect it, and so it made no difference to him whatever whether they noticed him or not. the other day, however, just before the christmas vacation had come to an end jimmieboy had a very queer experience with his little picture book acquaintances. he was feeling a trifle lonesome. his brothers had gone to a party which was given by one of the neighbors for the babies, and jimmieboy at the last moment had decided that he would not go. he wasn't a baby any more, but a small man. he had pockets in his trousers and wore suspenders exactly like his father's, only smaller, and of course a proper regard for his own dignity would not permit him to take part in a mere baby party. "i'll spend my afternoon reading," he said in a lordly way. "i don't feel like playing 'here we go round the mulberry bush' now that i wear suspenders." so he went down into his father's library where his mother had put a book-case for him, on the shelves of which he kept his treasured books. they were the most beautiful fairy books you ever saw; brownie books and true story books by the dozen; books of funny poetry illustrated by still funnier pictures, and, what i fancy he liked best of all, a half dozen or more big blank books that his father had given him, in which jimmieboy wrote poems of his own in great capital letters, some of which stood on their heads and others on their sides, but all of which anybody who could read at all could make out at the rate of one letter every ten minutes. i never read much of jimmieboy's poetry myself and so cannot say how good it was, but his father told me that the boy never had the slightest difficulty in making massachusetts rhyme with potato, or jacksonville with lemonade, so that i presume they were remarkable in their way. arrived in the library jimmieboy seated himself before his book-case, and after gloating over his possessions for a few moments, selected one of the brownie books, curled himself up in a comfortable armchair before the fire, and opened the book. "why!" he cried as his eye fell upon one of the picture pages. "that's funny. i never saw that picture before. there isn't a brownie in it; nothing but an empty house and a yard in front of it. where can the brownies have gone?" he hadn't long to wait for an answer. he had hardly spoken when the little door of the house opened and the dude brownie poked his head out and said softly: "'tis not an empty house, my dear. the brownies all have come in here. we've played so long to make you smile we thought we'd like to rest awhile. we're every one of us in bed with night-caps on each little head, and if you'll list you'll hear the roar with which the sleeping brownies snore." jimmieboy raised the book to his ear and listened, and sure enough, there came a most extraordinary noise out of the windows of the house. it sounded like a carpenter at work with a saw in a menagerie full of roaring lions. "well, that is funny," said jimmieboy as he listened. "i never knew before that brownies ever got tired. i thought they simply played and played and played all the time." the dude brownie laughed. "now there, my boy, is where you make a really elegant mistake," he said, and then he added, "if you will open wide the book we'll let you come inside and look. no other boy has e'er done that. come in and never mind your hat." "i wouldn't wear my hat in the house anyhow," said jimmieboy. "but i say, mr. brownie, i don't see how i can get in there. i'm too big." "your statement makes me fancy that you really don't know where you're at; for, though you're big and tall and wide, already, sir, you've come inside," replied the dude brownie, and jimmieboy, rubbing his eyes as if he couldn't believe it, looked about him and discovered that even as the dude brownie had said, he had without knowing it already accepted the invitation and stood in the hall of the brownie mansion. and o! such a mansion! it was just such a house as you would expect brownies to have. there were no stairs in it, though it was three stories high. on the walls were all sorts of funny pictures, pictures of the most remarkable animals in the world or out of it, in fact most of the pictures were of animals that jimmieboy had never heard of before, or even imagined. there was the brownie elephant, for instance, the cunningest little animal you ever saw, with forty pairs of spectacles running all the way down its trunk; and a brownie pug-dog with its tail curled so tightly that it lifted the little creature's hind legs off the floor; and most interesting of all, a brownie bear that could take its fur off in hot weather and put on a light flannel robe instead. jimmieboy gazed with eyes and mouth wide open at these pictures. "what queer animals," he said. "do you really have such animals as those?" "excuse me," said the dude brownie anxiously, "but before i answer, must i answer in poetry or in prose? i'll do whichever you wish me to, but i'm a little tired this afternoon, and poetry is such an effort!" "i'm very fond of poetry," said jimmieboy, "especially your kind, but if you are tired and would rather speak the other way, you can." the dude brownie smiled gratefully. "you're a very kind little man," he said. "this time i'll talk the other way, but some day when i get it written i'll send you my book of poetry to make up for it. you like our animals, do you?" "very much," said jimmieboy. "i'd like to see a brownie zoo some time." "i'll attend to that," said the dude brownie. "i'll make a note of it on the wall so that we won't forget it." here he seized a huge pencil, almost as big as himself, and wrote something on the wall which jimmieboy could not read, but which he supposed was the brownie's memorandum. "won't you spoil your wall doing that?" queried the little visitor. "oh no," said the brownie. "all these walls are made of slate and we use 'em to write on. it saves littering the house all up with paper, and every tuesday we have a house-cleaning bee and rub all the writing off. it's a very good scheme and i wonder your grown-up people don't have it, particularly in your nurseries. i've noticed children writing things on nursery walls lots of times and then they've been scolded for doing it because their nurses said it spoiled the paper. i can't understand why they don't have slate walls instead that can't be spoiled. it's such a temptation to write on a wall, but it does spoil paper. but to come back to our animals, they're really lovely, and have such wonderfully sweet dispositions. there is the brownie elephant, for instance--he's the most light hearted creature you ever saw, and he has holes bored through his trunk like a flute and at night he plays the most beautiful music on it, while we brownies sit around and listen to him." "what does he wear so many pairs of spectacles for?" asked jimmieboy. "he has weak eyes," said the brownie. "that is, he has at night. he can't see his notes to play tunes by when it is dark, and so we've provided him with those spectacles to help him out. then the bear is very self-sacrificing. if anyone of us wants to go out anywhere in the cold he'll let us have his robe just for the asking. the pug-dog isn't much use but he's playful and intelligent. if you tell him to go to the post-office for your mail he'll rush out of the front door, down the road to the grocer's and bring you back an apple or an orange, because he always knows that there isn't any mail. one of your hired men wouldn't know that, but would waste his time going to the post-office to find it out if you told him to." jimmieboy expressed his admiration of the intelligence of the brownie dog and the good nature of the other animals, and then asked if he mightn't go upstairs he was so curious to see the rest of the house. "certainly," said the dude brownie, "only you'll have to slide up the banisters. we haven't any stairs." "don't think i know how," said jimmieboy. "i can slide down banisters, but i never learned to slide up 'em." "you don't have to learn it," returned the brownie. "all you have to do is to get aboard and slide. it's a poor banister that won't work both ways. the trouble with your banisters is that they are poor ones. climb aboard and let yourself go." the boy did as he was told, and pop! the first thing he knew he was in the midst of the brownies on the second floor. much to his surprise, while they were unquestionably snoring, they were all reading, or writing, or engaged in some other occupation. "well this beats everything!" said jimmieboy. "i thought you said they were asleep?" "they are," said the dude brownie. "so am i, for that matter, but we don't waste our time just because we happen to be asleep. some of us do our best work while we are resting. the chinese brownie washes all our clothes while he's asleep, and the dutch brownie does his practising on his cornet at the same time. if people like you did the same thing you'd get twice as much work done. it's all very well and very necessary too to get eight hours of sleep every day, but what's the use of wasting that time? take your sleep, but don't loaf while you're taking it. when i was only a boy brownie i used to play all day and go to school after i'd gone to bed. in that way i learned a great deal and never got tired of school. you don't get tired while you are asleep." "it's a wonderful plan," said jimmieboy, "and i wish i knew how to work it. i'm not very fond of school myself and i'd a great deal rather play than go there in the daytime. can't you tell me how it's done so that i can tell my papa all about it? maybe he'd let me do it that way if i asked him." "of course i'll tell you," said the dude brownie. "it's just this way. you go to bed, pull the covers up over you, shut your eyes, fall asleep, and then--" alas! the sentence was never finished, for as the brownie spoke a gong in the hallway below began to clang fearfully, and in an instant the whole brownie troupe sprang to the banisters, slid down into the hall and rushed out into the yard. their play time had come, and their manager had summoned them back to it. jimmieboy followed, but he slid so fast that it made him dizzy. he thought he would never stop. down the banisters he slid, out through the hall to the yard, over the heads of the brownies he whizzed and landed with a thud in the soft embrace of the armchair once more, and just in time too, for hardly had he realized where he was when in walked his father and mother, and following in their train were his two baby brothers, their mouths and hands full of sweetmeats. "hullo," said jimmieboy's father. "where have you been, jimmieboy?" "in the brown----" began the boy, but he stopped short. it seemed to him as if the dude brownie in the book tipped him a wink to be silent, and he returned the wink. "i've been here, looking at my brownie book," he said. "indeed?" said his father. "and do you never get tired of it?" "no," said jimmieboy quietly, "it seems to me i see something new in it every time i open it," and then in spite of the brownie's wink he climbed out of the chair into his papa's lap and told him all that occurred, and his papa said it was truly wonderful, especially that part which told about how much could be done by an intelligent creature when fast asleep. jimmieboy--and something _jimmieboy--and something_ it was a warm, summer afternoon--just the sort of an afternoon for a drowse, and when the weather was just right for it jimmieboy was a great drowser. in fact, a little golden-haired fairy with a silver wand had just whispered to a butterfly that when it came to drowsing in an interesting way there was nobody in the world who could excel jimmieboy in that accomplishment. jimmieboy had overheard this much himself, but he had never told anybody about it, because he found drowsing so very easy, and the pleasures of it so great, that he was a little afraid somebody else might try it and make him divide up his fun with him. it was somewhat selfish of him to behave this way, perhaps, but then no one ever pretended that jimmieboy was absolutely perfect, not even the boy himself. it so happened, that upon this particular afternoon, jimmieboy was swinging idly in the hammock under the trees. on one side of him babbled a little mountain stream, while on the other lay a garden full of beautiful flowers, where the bees hummed the whole day through, and whence when day was done and the night shadows were coming over all even the sun's rays seemed sorry to go. in the house, a hundred feet away, jimmieboy's mamma was playing softly on a zithern, and the music, floating out through the flower-scented air, set the boy to thinking, which with him is always the preliminary to a doze. his right eye struggled hard to keep awake, long after the left eye had given up the fight, and it was due possibly to this that jimmieboy was wide enough awake at the time to hear a quaint little voice up in the tree calling to the tiger lilies over near the house. "say, tige," the little voice cried, "what time is it?" "i can't see the clock," returned the lily. "but," it added, dropping into verse: "i judge from sundry tinkles of the bell upon the cow that if it isn't later, it is pretty nearly now." "thank you," said the voice up the tree, "i was afraid i'd miss my train." "so! you are going away?" said another voice, which, if his ears did not deceive jimmieboy, came this time from the rose bush. "yes," said the voice up in the tree. "yes, i'm going away. i don't know where exactly, because i haven't bought my ticket yet. i may be going to the north pole, or i may only be coming here. in fact, if my ticket turns out to be a return ticket, it will amount to that, which makes me wonder what's the use of going any way." "but when does your train go?" asked the voice in the rose bush. "a week from next thursday," said the tree voice. "i didn't know but that it was then now. you see i always get mixed up as to what time it is or what day it is. this isn't a date tree, and i haven't any calendar." "i guess you've got plenty of time," chuckled the tiger lily, nodding its head gleefully at the holly-hock. "it won't be a week from next thursday for several days yet." "heigho," sighed the voice up in the tree. "several days to wait, eh? i'm sure i don't know what i shall do to pass the time away." "oh, as for that," observed the holly-hock; "i know an easy scheme for passing time. i learned it from a fairy i met once. "'sit still and never raise your hands,' advised the little elf, 'pay no attention to the clock, and time will pass itself.' "you have nothing to do with it doing it that way," the holly-hock added. "that's a good idea," said the voice up in the tree. "it's queer i never thought of it, and i've been thinking and thinking ever so many years, trying to get up a scheme to pass the time." "you're not very deep, i'm afraid," said the rose bush. "you can't think very valuable thoughts, can you?" "i'm sure i don't know," the voice up the tree replied. "i've never tried to sell them, so of course i can't tell whether they are valuable or not. do you sell what you think?" "certainly i do," returned the rose bush. "i suggested the idea of making honey to the bees. wasn't that a great thing to do?" "yes, indeed," returned the voice. "it was splendid. i've never had any honey, but i'm told it's fine. it's very sticky, isn't it?" "very," said the rose bush. "i guess honey is about as sticky as anything can be." "and very useful for that reason," said the voice up in the tree, kindly. "very useful. i suppose, really, if it wasn't for honey, people couldn't make postage stamps stay on letters. you ought to be very happy to think that one of your thoughts has given people the idea of mucilage. do they ever use honey for anything else but its stickiness?" "hoh!" jeered the rose bush. "don't you know anything?" "not much," said the tree voice. "i know you, and me, and several other things, but that's not much, is it? it's really queer how little i know. why, would you believe it, a sparrow asked me the other day what was the difference between a robin's egg and a red blackberry, and i didn't know." "what did you tell him?" asked the holly-hock. "i told him i couldn't tell until i had eaten them." "and what did he say?" put in the tiger lily, with a grin. "he said that wasn't the answer; that one was blue and the other was green, but how a red blackberry can be green i can't see," replied the voice up in the tree. jimmieboy smiled quietly at this, and the voice up the tree continued: "then he asked me what color blueberries were, and i told him they were blue; then he said he'd bet a mosquito i couldn't tell him what color huckleberries were, and when i said they were of a delicate huckle he laughed, and said i owed him a mosquito. i may owe him a mosquito, but i haven't an idea what he was laughing at." "that's easy," said the holly-hock. "he was laughing because there isn't any such color as huckle." "i don't think that's funny, though," said the voice in the tree. "indeed, i think it's sad, because it seems to me that a very pretty color could be made out of huckle. why do you suppose there isn't any such color?" the lily and the rose and holly-hock bushes were silent for a moment, and then they said they didn't know. "i'm glad you don't," said the tree voice. "i'm glad to find that there are some things you don't know. just think how dreadful it would be if you knew everything. why, if you knew everything, nobody could tell you anything, and then there'd never be any news in the world, and when you heard a joke you couldn't ever laugh because you'd have known it before." here jimmieboy, impressed by the real good sense of this remark, leaned out of the hammock and peered up into the tree to see if possible who or what it was that was speaking. "don't," cried the voice. "don't try to see me, jimmieboy, i haven't got my company clothes on, and you make me nervous." "but i want to see who you are," said jimmieboy. "well you needn't want that any more," said the voice. "i'll tell you why. nobody knows what i am. i don't even know myself." "but what do you look like?" asked jimmieboy. "i don't know that, either. i never saw myself," replied the voice. "i'm something, of course, but just what i don't know. it may be that i am a horse and wagon, only i don't think i am, because horses, and wagons don't get up in trees. i saw a horse sitting on a whiffletree once, but that was down on the ground and not up here, so, of course, you see the chances are that i'm not that." "what do you think you are?" asked jimmieboy. "i haven't thought much about it. but i'll tell you what i'll do. i'll tell you what, perhaps, i am, and maybe that will help you to find out, and if you do find out i beg that you will tell me, because i've some curiosity on the subject myself." "go ahead," said jimmieboy. "you give me the perhapses and i'll try to guess." "well," began the voice, slowly, as if, whatever it was, the thing was trying to think. let me see. "perhaps i am a house and lot, perhaps i am a pussy cat, perhaps i am a schooner yacht, or possibly an inky spot, perhaps a beaver hat." "i've never seen any of those up a tree," said jimmieboy. "i guess you aren't any of those." "very likely not," said the voice, "but i can try a few more. "perhaps i am a picture book, it maybe i'm a candy box, perhaps i am a trolling-hook, a tennis bat, or fancy cook, perhaps a pair of socks. "perchance i am a pair of shears, perhaps a piece of kindling-wood, perhaps i am a herd of deers, perhaps two crystal chandeliers, or some old lady's hood. "no man can say i'm not a pad on which a poet scribbles verse, it may be i'm a nice fresh shad, or something else not quite as bad, or maybe something worse." "but none of these things ever go up trees," protested jimmieboy. "can't you tell me some of the things that perhaps you are that are found up in trees?" "no," said the voice, sadly. "i can't. i don't know what kind of things go up trees--unless it's pollywogs or noah's arks." "they don't go up trees," said jimmieboy, scornfully. "well i was afraid they didn't, and that's why i didn't mention them before. but you see," the voice added with a mournful little tremor, "you see how useless it is to try to guess what i am. why, if you really guessed, i wouldn't know if you'd guessed right--so what's the use?" "i guess there isn't any use," said jimmieboy. "if i could only see you once, though, maybe i could tell." here he leaned far out of the hammock, in a vain effort to see the creature he was talking to. he leaned so far out, in fact, that he lost his balance and fell head over heels on to the soft green turf. the mountain brook seemed to laugh at this mishap, and went babbling on to the great river that bore its waters to the sea, while jimmieboy, somewhat dazed by his afternoon's experience, walked wonderingly back to the house to make ready for supper. he was filled with regret that he had not been able to catch a glimpse of the strange little being in the tree, for he very much wished to know what manner of creature it was, so stupid and yet so kindly--as, indeed, would i, for really i haven't any more idea as to who or what it was than he. what do _you_ think it was? jimmieboy's fireworks _jimmieboy's fireworks_ it was a very great misfortune indeed that jimmieboy should make the acquaintance of the bumblebee at that particular time--that is to say, everybody thought it was. the bumblebee, as a rule, was one of the jolliest bees in the hive, and passed most of his days humming away as if he were the happiest of mortals; but at the particular moment when jimmieboy, who wasn't looking where he was going, ran into him, the bee was mad about something, and he settled down on jimmieboy's cheek and stung him. he was a very thorough bee, too, unhappily, and he never did anything by halves, which is why it was that the sting was about as bad a one and as painful as any bee ever stang. i use the word "stang" here to please jimmieboy, by the way. it is one of his favorites in describing the incident. now, it is bad enough, i have found, to be stung by a bee at any time, but when it happens on the night of july fourth, and is so painful that the person stung has to go to bed with a poultice over his cheek and eye, and so cannot see the fireworks he has been looking forward to for weeks and weeks, it is about the worst affliction that a small boy can have overtake him--at least it seems so at the time--and that was exactly poor jimmieboy's case. he had thought and thought and thought about those fireworks for days and days and days, and here, on fourth of july night, he found himself lying in bed in his room, with one side of his face covered with a bandage, and his poor little other blue eye gazing at the ceiling, while his ears listened to the sizzling of the rockets and pin wheels and the thunderous booming of the bombs. "mean old bee!" he said, drowsily, as his other blue eye tried to peer out of the window in the hope of seeing at least one rocket burst into stars. "i didn't mean to upset him." "i know you didn't," sobbed a little voice at his side. "and i didn't mean to sting you, only i didn't know it was you, and i was mad because somebody's picked a rose i'd had my eye on for a week, and you ran into me and spilled all the honey i'd gug--gathered, and then i--i was so irritated i stuck my stingers out and stang you. can't you forgive me?" jimmieboy withdrew his other blue eye from the window in wonderment. he was used to queer things, but this seemed the queerest yet. the idea of a bumblebee coming to apologize to a boy for stinging him made him smile in spite of his disappointment and his pain. "who are you?" he said, looking toward the foot of the bed, whence the voice had come. "i used to be a bumblebee," sobbed the little voice, "but i've changed my first letter from 'b' to 'h.' i'm only an humble-bee now, and all because i've treated you so badly. i really didn't mean to, and i've come to help you have a good time to-night, so that you won't miss the fireworks because of my misbehavior." "don't mention it," said jimmieboy, kindly. "it was my fault, after all. i hadn't ought to have run into you." "yes, you had ought to have, too," moaned the little bee. "you were just right in running into me. i hadn't ought to have got in your way." "well, anyhow, it's all right," said jimmieboy. "you're forgiven--though you did hurt me like everything." "i know it," sobbed the bee. "i almost wish you'd get a pin and stick it into me once, so as to sort of just even things up. it would hurt me, i know, but then i'd feel better after i got well." "indeed i won't," said jimmieboy, with a determined shake of his head. "that won't do any good, and what's the use anyhow, as long as you didn't mean it?" "i'm sure i don't know," the bee answered. "i'm only a bug, after all, you know, and so i don't understand things that human beings which has got brains can understand. i've noticed, though, that sometimes when a boy gets hurt it sort of makes him feel better if he hurts back." "i wouldn't mind a bit if i could see the fireworks," said jimmieboy. "that's what hurts the most." "well, i'll tell you what you do," said the bee; "if that's all you feel bad about, we can fix it up in a jiffy. do you know what a jiffy is?" "no, i don't," said jimmieboy. "well, i'll tell you," said the bee, "but don't you ever tell: "sixty seconds make a minute, sixty minutes make an hour; but a second has within it sixty jiffies full of power. "in other words, a jiffy is just the same thing to a second as the second is to the minute or the minute to the hour; and, dear me, what billions of things can happen in a jiffy! why, they're simply enormous." "they must be," said jimmieboy, "if, as you say, you can fix me up in regard to the fireworks in a jiffy." "there isn't any if about it," returned the bee. "just turn over and put your face into the pillow, and see what you can see." "i can't see anything with both eyes in my pillow, much less with one," said jimmieboy. "well--try it," said the bee. "i know what i'm buzzing about." so jimmieboy, just to oblige his strange little friend, turned over and buried his face in the pillow. at first, as far as he could see, there was nothing going on in the pillow to make it worth while; but all of a sudden, just as he was about to withdraw his face, a great golden pin wheel began to whizz and whirr right in front of him, only instead of putting forth fire it spouted jewels and flowers, and finally right out of the middle of it there popped a tiny bit of a creature all dressed in spangles, looking for all the world like a brownie. he bowed to jimmieboy politely and requested him to open his mouth as wide as he could. "what for?" asked jimmieboy, naturally a little curious to know the meaning of this strange proceeding. "i am going to set off the sugar-plum bomb," the little creature replied. "but of course if you don't want the sugar-plums you can keep your mouth closed." "can't i catch 'em in my hands?" said jimmieboy. "you can if you want to, but they won't be of any use if you do," returned the little creature. "you see, this bomb shoots out candy instead of sparks, but the candy is so delicate that, like the sparks in fire fireworks, it goes out just as soon as it comes down. if you catch 'em in your hands you won't be able to see how good they taste, don't you see?" "yeh," said jimmieboy, opening his mouth as wide as he could, and so speaking with difficulty. "hire ahay!"--by which i presume he meant fire away, only he couldn't say it plainly with his mouth open. and then the little creature set off the sugar-plum bomb, and the candies it put forth were marvelous in number and sweetness, and, strange to say, there wasn't one of them that, in falling, came down anywhere but in the mouth of the small boy who had been "stang." "got any cannon crackers?" asked jimmieboy, delighted with what he had already seen, as soon as the sweet taste from the sugar-plums died away. "i'm fond of noise, too." "well," said the little creature, "we have great big crackers, only they don't break the silence in just the way you mean. they make a noise, but it isn't just a plain ordinary crash such as your cannon crackers make. we call 'em our grand opera crackers. i'll set one off and let you see what i mean." so the little creature opened a big chest that in some way happened to come up out of the ground beside him, and with difficulty hauled from it a huge thing that looked like the ordinary giant crackers that jimmieboy was used to seeing. it was twice as big as the little creature, but he got it out nevertheless. "my!" cried jimmieboy. "that's fine. that ought to make lots of noise." "it will," returned the little creature, touching a match to the fuse. "just listen now." the fuse burned slowly along, and then, with a great puff of smoke, the cracker burst, but not into a mere crash as the little creature had hinted, but into a most entrancing military march, that was inspiring enough to set even the four legs of the heaviest dinner-table to strutting about the room. jimmieboy could hardly keep his own feet still as the music went on, but he did not dare draw his face away from the pillow so that he might march about the room, for fear that by so doing he would lose what might remain of this wonderful exhibition, whose like he had never even dreamed of before, and alongside of which he felt that the display he had missed by having to go to bed must be as insignificant as a pin compared to cleopatra's great stone needle. "that was fine!" he cried, ecstatically, as the last echoes of the musical cracker died away. "i wouldn't mind having a hundred packs of those. have you got any music torpedoes?" "no," returned the little creature. "but we've got picture torpedoes. look at this." the little creature here took a small paper ball from the chest, and, slamming it on the ground with all his might, it exploded, and the spot whereon it fell was covered with a gorgeous little picture of jimmieboy himself, all dressed in sailor's clothes and dancing a hornpipe. "that's a very good picture of you," said the little creature, looking at the dancing figure. "it's so full of motion, like you. here's another one," he added, as the picture from the first torpedo faded away. "this shows how you'd look if you were a fairy." the second torpedo was slammed down upon the ground just as the first had been, and jimmieboy had the pleasure of seeing himself in another picture, only this time he had gossamer wings and a little wand, and he was flying about a great field of poppies and laughing with a lot of other fairies, among whom he recognized his little brothers and a few of his playmates. he could have looked at this all night and not grown weary of it, but, like a great many other good things, the picture could not last forever, and just at the most interesting point, when he saw himself about to fly a race across the poppy-field with a robin, the picture faded away, and the little creature called out: "now for the finest of the lot. here goes the fairy-book rocket!" with a tremendous whizz, up soared the most magnificent rocket you ever saw. it left behind it a trail of golden fire that was dazzling, and then, when it reached its highest point in the sky, it burst as all other rockets do, but, instead of putting forth stars, all the people in jimmieboy's favorite fairy tales jumped out into the heavens. there was a glittering jack chasing a dozen silver giants around about the moon; there was a dainty little cinderella, with her gorgeous coach and four, driving up and down the milky way; puss-in-boots was hopping about from one cloud to another, as easily as if he were an ordinary cat jumping from an ordinary footstool on to an ordinary sofa. they were all there cutting up the finest pranks imaginable, when suddenly jack of the beanstalk fame appeared at the side of the little creature who had set the rocket off, and planted a bean at his feet, and from it there immediately sprang forth a huge stalk covered with leaves of gold and silver, dropping showers of rubies and pearls and diamonds to the ground, as it grew rapidly upwards to where the fairy-land folk were disporting themselves in the skies. these, when the stalk had reached its full growth, rushed toward it, and in a moment were clambering back to earth again, and then, when they were all safely down, they ranged themselves in a row, sang a beautiful good-night song to the boy with his face in the pillow, and disappeared into the darkness. "there!" said the little voice back of jimmieboy. "that's what one jiffy will do." jimmieboy turned about and smiled happily at the bee--for it was the bee who had spoken. "sometime we'll have another," the bee added. "but now i must go--i've got to get ready for to-morrow, which will be bright and sunshiny, and in every way a great day for honey. good-by!" and jimmieboy, as the bee flew out of the window, was pleased to notice that the pain in his cheek was all gone. with a contented smile on his face he turned over and went to sleep, and when his papa came in to look at him as he lay there in his little bed, noticing the smile, he turned to his mamma and said, "well, he doesn't look as if he'd missed the fireworks very much, after all, does he?" "no," said his mamma. "he seems to be just the same happy little fellow he always was." and between us, i think they were both right, for we know that he didn't miss the fireworks, and as for being happy, he was just as much so as are most boys who know what it is to be contented, and who, when trials come upon them, endeavor to make the best of them, anyhow. high jinks in the barn _high jinks in the barn_ it was unquestionably a hot day; so hot, indeed, that john, the hired man, said the thermometer had had to climb a tree to get high enough to record the degree of the heat. jimmieboy had been playing out under the apple-trees for two or three hours, and now, "just for greens," as the saying went, he had climbed into the old barouche in the barn, where it was tolerably cool and there was a soft cushion to lie off on. he closed his eyes for a moment, and then a strange thing happened. the wheelbarrow over by the barn door unmistakably spoke. "say," it said to the farm wagon, "there's one thing i like about you." "what's that?" said the wagon. "you have such a long tongue, and yet you never say an unkind word about anybody," replied the barrow, with a creak of its wheel that sounded very much like a laugh. "that may be so," said the big gray horse that was used with the fat old bay to pull the farm wagon. "it may be just as you say, but that tongue has come between me and one of my best friends many a time, i tell you." "i couldn't help that," retorted the wagon. "the hired man made me do it; besides, i have a grudge against you." "what's the grudge?" queried the horse. "you kicked me and my friend the whiffletree that day you ran away down in the hay field," replied the wagon. "i was dreadfully upset that day." "i should say you were," put in the rake. "and when you were upset you fell on me and knocked out five of my teeth. i never had such a time." "you needed to have something done to those teeth, anyhow," said the sickle. "they were nearly all gone when that happened." "oh, were they?" retorted the rake. "and why were they nearly all gone? do you know that?" "i do not. i suppose you had been trying to crack chestnuts with them. was that it?" "no, it wasn't," retorted the rake. "they were worn out cleaning up the lawns after you pretended to have finished them off." "you think you're bright, don't you?" replied the sickle, with a sneer. "well, if i was as dull as you are," returned the rake, angrily, "i'd visit the grindstone and get him to put a little more edge on me." "come, come; don't be so quarrelsome," said the hose. "if you don't stop, i'll drown the whole lot of you." "tut!" retorted the rake. "you look for all the world like a snake." "he is a snake," put in the curry-comb. "he's a water-snake. aren't you, hosey?" "i'd show you whether i am or not if the faucet hadn't run dry." "dear me!" laughed the sled. "hear hosey talk! the idea of a faucet running! it hasn't moved an inch since it came here. why, i've got two runners that'll beat it out of sight on the side of a hill." "yes, the down side," said the pony. "anything can run down hill. even a stupid old millstone can do that. but when it comes to running up hill, i'm ahead of you all. why, the biggest river or avalanche in the world couldn't run up hill beside me." "that's so," put in the riding-whip. "and you and i know who makes you do it--eh?" "i didn't say anything about that," said the pony. "but i'll tell you one thing: if you'll come down here where i can reach you with one of my hind legs, i'll show you what nice shoes i wear." "much obliged," said the whip. "i don't wear shoes myself, and am not interested in the subject. but if any man who is interested in bugs wants to know how to make a horse fly, i can show him." "you are a whipper-snapper," said the pony angrily. "ho! ho!" jeered the whip. "anybody call me?" queried the hoe, from the corner where he had been asleep while all this conversation was going on. then they all burst out laughing, and peace was restored. "they say the fence is worn out," put in the sickle. "i should think it would be," replied the rake. "it's been running all around this place night and day without ever stopping for the last twenty years." "how many miles is that?" queried the wagon. "well, once around is half a mile, but if it has gone around every night and every day for twenty years," said the grindstone, "that's one mile every twenty-four hours-- miles a year-- , miles in ten years, and , miles in twenty years. quite a record, eh?" "that's a good way for a picket-fence to go," said the wheelbarrow. "it would kill me to go half that distance." "well, if you live until you do go half that distance," put in the hose, "you'll never die." "ho! ho!" jeered the barrow. "somebody did call me that time!" cried the hoe, waking up again. "i'm sure i heard my name." "yes, you did," said the rake. "we waked you up to tell you that breakfast would be ready in about a month, and to say that if you wanted any you'd do well to go down to the river and see if you can't buy its mouth, because if you don't, nobody knows how you can eat it." here the loud and prolonged laugh caused jimmieboy once more to open his eyes, and as his papa was standing by the side of the carriage holding out his hands to help him down and take him into the house to supper, the little fellow left the quarrelsome tools and horses and other things to themselves. jimmieboy's valentine _jimmieboy's valentine_ jimmieboy had been watching for the postman all day and he was getting just a little tired of it. it was valentine's day, and he was very naturally expecting that some of his many friends would remember that fact and send him a valentine. still the postman, strange to say, didn't come. "he'll be later than usual," said jimmieboy's mamma. "the postman always is late on valentine's day. he has so many valentines to leave at people's houses." "well, i wish he'd hurry," said jimmieboy, "because i want to see what my valentimes look like." jimmieboy always called valentines valentimes, so nobody paid any attention to that mistake--and then the front door bell rang. "i guess, maybe, perhaps that's the postman--though i didn't hear his whistle," said jimmieboy, rushing to the head of the stairs and listening intently, but no one went to the door and jimmieboy became so impatient that he fairly tumbled down the stairs to open it himself. "howdy do," he said, as he opened the door, and then he stopped short in amazement. there was no one there and yet his salutation was returned. "howdy do!" something said. "i'm glad you came to the door, because i mightn't have got in if the maid had opened it. people who don't understand queer things don't understand me, and i rather think if the girl had opened that door and had been spoken to by something she couldn't see she'd have started to run and hide, shrieking lawk, meanwhile." "i've half a mind to shriek lawk, myself," said jimmieboy, a little fearfully, for he wasn't quite easy about this invisible something he was talking to. "who are you, anyhow?" "i'm not a who, i'm a what," said the queer thing. "i'm not a person, i'm a thing--just a plain, homely, queer thing. i couldn't hurt a fly, so there's no reason why you should cry lawk." "well, what kind of a queer thing are you?" asked jimmieboy. "are you the kind of a queer thing i can invite into the house or would it be better for me to shut the door and make you stay outside." "i don't like to say," said the queer thing, with a pathetic little sigh. "i think i'm very nice and that anybody ought to be glad to have me in the house, but that's only my opinion of myself. somebody else might think differently. in fact somebody else has thought differently. you know rhinoceroses and crocodiles think themselves very handsome, and that's why they sit and gaze at themselves in the water all the time. everybody else though knows that they are very ugly. now that's the way with me. as i have said, i'm sure in my own mind that i am perfectly splendid, and yet your uncle periwinkle, who thought of me, wouldn't write me and send me to you." "you must be very wise if you know what you mean," said jimmieboy. "i don't." "oh, no--i'm not so wise--i'm only splendid, that's all," said the other. "you see i'm a valentine, only i never was made. i was only thought of. your uncle periwinkle thought of me and was going to send me to you and then he changed his mind and thought you'd rather have a box of candy; so he didn't write me and sent you a box of chocolate creams instead. the postman's got 'em and if he doesn't find out what they are and eat 'm all up you'll receive them this afternoon. won't you let me come in and tell you about myself and see if you don't like me? i want to be liked--oh ever so much, and i was awfully disappointed when your uncle decided not to send me. i cried for eight minutes and then resolved to come here myself and see if after all he wasn't wrong. let me come in and if you don't like me i'll go right out again and never come back." "i like you already, without knowing what kind of a valentime you are," said jimmieboy, kindly. "of course you can come in, and you can stay as long as you want to. i don't believe you'll be in anybody's way." "thank you very much," said the valentine, gratefully, as it moved into the house, and, to judge from where its voice next came, settled down on the big sofa cushion. "i hoped you'd say that." "what kind of a valentime are you?" asked jimmieboy in a moment. "are you a funny one or a solemn one, with paper frills all over it in a box and a little cupid peeping out from behind a tree?" "i am almost afraid to tell you," said the valentine, timidly. "i am so afraid you won't like me." "oh, yes i will," said jimmieboy, hastily. "i like all kinds of valentimes." "well, that's a relief," said the other. "i'm comic." "hooray!" cried jimmieboy, "i just love comic valentimes with red and blue pictures in 'em and funny verses." "do you really?" returned the valentine, cheerfully. "then i can say hooray, too, because that's what i was to be. i was to be a picture of a boy with red trousers on, sitting crosswise on a great yellow broomstick, galloping through a blue sky, toward a pink moon. how do you like that?" "it _is_ splendid, just as you said," returned jimmieboy, with a broad smile. "those are my favorite colors." "you like those colors better than you do chocolate cream color?" asked the valentine. "oh, my yes," said jimmieboy. "probably you wouldn't be so good to eat as a chocolate cream, but for a valentime, you're much better. i don't want to eat valentimes, i want to keep 'em." "you don't know how glad you make me," said the pathetic little valentine, its voice trembling with happiness. "now, if you like my verses as well as you do my picture, i will be perfectly content." "i guess i'll like 'em," said jimmieboy. "can you recite yourself to me?" "i'm not written--didn't i tell you?" returned the valentine. "that's the good part of it. i can tell you what i might have been and you can take your choice." "that's good," said jimmieboy. "then i'm sure to be satisfied." "just so," said the valentine. "now let me think what i might have been! hum! well, what do you think of this: "if i had a cat with a bright red tail, and a parrot whose voice was soft and low i'd put 'em away in a water pail, and send 'em to where the glowworm's glow. "and then i would sit on an old whisk broom and sail through the great, soft starlit sky, to where the bright moonbeams gaily froom their songs to the parboiled gemini. "and i'd say to the frooming moonbeams that, i'd come from the home of the sweet woodbine, deserting my parrot and red-tailed cat, to ask if they'd be my valentine." "i guess that's good," said jimmieboy. "only i don't know what frooming is." "neither do i," said the valentine, "but that needn't make any difference. you see, it's a nonsense rhyme any how, and i couldn't remember any word that rhymed with broom. froom isn't a bad word, and inasmuch as it's new to us we can make it mean anything we want to." "that's true," said jimmieboy. "but why do you send the cat and the parrot off?" "they aren't in the picture," said the valentine, "and so of course we have to get rid of them before we have the boy start off on the broomstick. it would be very awkward to go sailing off through the sky on a broomstick with a parrot and cat in tow. then to show the moonbeams how much the boy thinks of them you have to have him leave something behind that he thinks a great deal of, and that something might just as well be a parrot and a cat as anything else." "and what does it all mean?" asked jimmieboy. "is the boy supposed to be me?" "no," explained the valentine. "the boy is supposed to be uncle periwinkle, and you are the moonbeams. in putting the poem the way i've told you it's just another and nonsense way of saying that he'll be your valentine and will take a great deal of trouble and make sacrifices to do it if necessary." "i see," said jimmieboy. "and i think it very nice indeed--though i might like some other verse better." "of course you might," said the valentine. "that's the way with everything. no matter how fine a thing may be, there may be something else that might be better, and the thing to do always is to look about and try to find that better thing. how's this: "'the broom went around to jimmieboy's, and cried, 'oh, jimmieboy b., come forth in the night, desert your toys, and take a fine ride with me. "i'll take you off through the starlit sky, we'll visit the moon so fine, if you will come with alacrity, and be my valentine.'" "that isn't so bad, either," said jimmieboy. "i sort of wish a broomstick would come after me that way and take me sailing off to the moon. i'd be its valentime in a minute if it would do that. i'd like to take a trip through all the stars and see why they twinkle and----" "why they twinkle?" interrupted the valentine. "why they twinkle? hoh! why, i can tell you that--for as a secret just between you and me, _i_ know a broomstick that has been up to the stars and he told me all about them. the stars twinkle because from where they are, they are so high up, they can see all that is going on in the world, and they see so many amusing things that it keeps 'em laughing all the time and they have to twinkle just as your eyes do when they see anything funny." "that's it, is it?" said jimmieboy. "yes, _sir_!" said the valentine, "and it's fine, too, to watch 'em when you are feeling sad. you know how it is when you're feeling sort of unhappy and somebody comes along who feels just the other way, who laughs and sings, how you get to feel better yourself right off? well, remember the stars when you don't feel good. how they're always twinkling--watch 'em, and by and by you'll begin to twinkle yourself. you can't help it--and further, jimmieboy," added this altogether strange valentine, "when anybody tries to make you think that this world has got more bad things than good things in it, look at the stars again. they wouldn't twinkle if that was so and until the stars stop twinkling and begin to frown, don't you ever think badly of the world." "i won't," said jimmieboy. "i always did like the world. as long as i've been in it i've thought it was a pretty fine place." "it is," said the valentine. "nobody can spoil it either--unless you do it yourself--but, i say, if you'd like to have me i'll introduce you to my broomstick friend sometime and maybe some day he'll give you that ride." "will you?" cried jimmieboy with delight. "that will be fine. you are the dearest old valentime that ever was." saying which, forgetting in his happiness that the valentine was not to be seen and so could not be touched, jimmieboy leaned over to hug him affectionately as he sat on the sofa cushion. which may account for the fact that when jimmieboy's papa came home he found jimmieboy clasping the sofa cushion in his arms, asleep and unconscious of the fact that the postman had come and gone, leaving behind him six comic valentines, four "solemn ones," and a package of chocolate creams from uncle periwinkle. when he waked he was rejoiced to find them, but he has often told me since that the finest valentine he ever got was the one uncle periwinkle thought he wouldn't like as well as the candy; and i believe he still has hopes that the invisible valentine may turn up again some day, bringing with him his friend the broomstick who will take jimmieboy off for a visit to the twinkling stars. the magic sled _the magic sled_ when jimmieboy waked up the other morning the ground was white with snow and his heart was rejoiced. like many another small youth jimmieboy has very little use for green winters. he likes them white. somehow or other they do not seem like winters if they haven't plenty of snow and he had been much afraid that the season was going to pass away without bringing to him an opportunity to use the beautiful sled santa claus had brought him at christmas. it was a fine sled, one of the finest he had ever seen. it had a red back, yellow runners and two swan heads standing erect in front of it to tell it which way it should go. on the red surface of the back was painted its name in very artistic blue letters, and that name was nothing more nor less than "magic." "hooray," he cried as he rushed to the window and saw the dazzling silver coating on the lawn and street. "snow at last! now i can see if magic can slide." he dressed hastily--so hastily in fact that he had to undress again, because it was discovered by his mother, who came to see how he was getting along, that he had put on his stocking wrong side out, and that his left shoe was making his right foot uncomfortable. "don't be in such a hurry," said his mamma. "there was a man once who was always in such a hurry that he forgot to take his head down town with him one day, and when lunch time came he hadn't anything with him to eat his lunch with." "but i want to slide," said jimmieboy, "and i'm afraid there'll be a slaw come along and melt the snow." jimmieboy always called thaws slaws, so his mother wasn't surprised at this remark, and in a few minutes the boy was ready to coast. "come along, magic!" he said, gleefully catching up the rope. "we'll see now if uncle periwinkle was right when he said he didn't think you'd go more'n a mile a minute, unless you had a roller-skate on both your runners." and then, though jimmieboy did not notice it, the left-hand swan-head winked its eye at the other swan-head and whispered, "humph! it's plain uncle periwinkle doesn't know that we are a magic sled." "well, why should he?" returned the other swan-head, with a laugh. "he never slode on us." "i'm glad i'm not an uncle," said the left-hand head. "uncles don't know half as much as we do." "and why should they!" put in the other. "they haven't had the importunities we have for gaining knowledge. a man who has lived all his days in one country and which has never slad around the world like us has, don't see things the way us would." and still jimmieboy did not notice that the swan-heads were talking together, though i can hardly blame him for that, because, now that he was out of doors he had to keep his eyes wide open to keep from bumping his head into the snow balls the hired man was throwing at him. in a few minutes, however, he did notice the peculiar fact and he was so surprised that he sat plump down on the red back of the sled and was off for--well, where the sled took him, and of all the slides that ever were slid, that was indeed the strangest. no sooner had he sat down than with a leap that nearly threw him off his balance, the swans started. the steel runners crackled merrily over the snow, and the wind itself was soon left behind. "c-can you sus-swans tut-talk?" jimmieboy cried, in amazement, as soon as he could get his breath. "oh, no, of course not," said the right-hand swan. "_we_ can't talk, can we swanny?" "no, indeed, swayny," returned the other with a laugh. "you may think we talk, you may even hear words from our lips, we might even recite a poem, but that wouldn't be talk--oh, no, indeed. certainly not." "it's a queer question for him to ask, eh swanny?" said the right-hand head. "extraordinary, swayny," said the one on the left. "might as well ask a locomotive if it smokes." "well, i only wanted to know," said jimmieboy. "he only wanted to know, swanny," said swayny. "i presume that was why he asked--as though we didn't know that," said swanny. "he'd ask a pie-man with a tray full of pies, if he had any pies, i believe." "yes, or a cat if he could miaou. queer boy," returned swayny. and then he added: "i think a boy, who'd waste his time in asking questions such as that, would ask a man, who dealt in rhyme if he'd a head inside his hat." jimmieboy laughed. "you know poetry, don't you," he said. "well, rather," said swayny. "that is to say, i can tell it from a church steeple." "which reminds me," put in swanny, as strange to say, this wonderful sled began to slide up a very steep hill, "of a conundrum i never heard before. what's the difference between writing poetry the way some people do and building a steeple as all people do?" "i can't say," said swayny, "though if you'll tell me the answer now next time you ask that conundrum i'll be able to inform you." "some people who write poetry run it into the ground," said swanny, "and all people who build steeples, run 'em up into the air." "that's not bad," said jimmieboy, with a smile. "no," said swanny, "it is not--but you don't know why." "i don't indeed," observed jimmieboy. "why?" "because my conundrums never are," said swanny. "europe!" cried swayny. "_five minutes for refreshments._" "what _do_ you mean?" said jimmieboy, as the sled came to a standstill. "what does any conductor mean when he calls out the name of a station?" said swayny scornfully. "he means that's where you are at of course. which is what i mean. we've arrived at europe. that's the kind of a fast mail sled we are. in three minutes we've carried you up hill and down dale, over the sea to europe." "really?" cried jimmieboy, dumfounded. "certainly," said swanny. "you are now in europe. that blue place you see over on the right is germany, off to the left is france and that little pink speck is switzerland. see that glistening thing just on the edge of the pink speck?" "yes," said jimmieboy. "that's an alp," said swanny. "it's too bad we've got to get you home in time for breakfast. if we weren't in such a hurry, we'd let you off so that you could buy an alp to take home to your brother. you could have snow-balls all through the summer if you had an alp in your nursery, but we can't stop now to get it. we've got to runaway immediately. ready swayny?" "yes," said swayny. "all aboard for england. passengers will please keep their seats until the sled comes to a standstill in the station." and then they were off again. "how did you like europe?" asked swanny, as they sped along through a beautiful country, which swayny said was france. "very nice what i saw of it," said jimmieboy. "but, of course i couldn't see very much in five minutes." "hoh! hear that, swayny?" said swanny. "couldn't see much in five minutes. why you could see all europe in five minutes, if you only looked fast enough. you kept your eye glued on that alp, i guess." "that's what he did," said swayny. "and that's why it was so hard to get the sled started. i had to hump three times before i could get my runner off and it was all because he'd glued his eye on the alp! don't do it again, jimmieboy. we haven't time to unglue your eye every time we start." "i don't blame him," said swanny. "those alps are simply great, and i sometimes feel myself as if i'd like to look at 'em as much as forty minutes. i'd hate to be a hired man on an alp, though." "so would i," said swayny. "it would be awful if the owner of the alp made the hired man shovel the snow off it every morning." "i wasn't thinking of that so much as i was of getting up every morning, early, to push the clouds away," said swanny. "people are very careless about their clouds on the alps, and they wander here and there, straying from one man's lawn onto another's, just like cows where jimmieboy lives. i knew a man once who bought the top of an alp just for the view, and one of his neighbor's clouds came along and squatted down on his place and simply killed the view entirely, and i tell you he made his hired man's life miserable. scolded him from morning until night, and fed him on cracked ice for a week, just because he didn't scare the cloud off when he saw it coming." "i don't see how a man could scare a cloud off," said jimmieboy. "easy as eating chocolate creams," said swayny. "you can do it with a fan, if you have one big enough--but, i say, swanny, put on the brakes there quick, or we'll run slam-bang into----" "london!" cried swanny, putting on the brakes, and sure enough that's where they were. jimmieboy knew it in a minute, because there was a lady coming out of a shop preceded by a band of music, and wearing a big crown on her head, whom he recognized at once as the great and good queen, whose pictures he had often seen in his story books. "howdy do, little boy," said the queen, as her eye rested on jimmieboy. "i'm very well, thank you, ma'am," said jimmieboy, holding out his hand for her majesty to shake. "what are you doing here?" she asked. "i'm sliding until breakfast is ready," he replied. "until breakfast is ready?" she cried. "why, what time do you have breakfast?" "eight o'clock, so's papa can catch the : train, ma'am," said jimmieboy. "but--it is now nearly one o'clock!" said the queen. "that's all right, your roily highnishness," said swanny. "this is an american boy and he breakfasts on the american plan. it isn't eight o'clock yet where he lives." "oh, yes--so it isn't," said the queen. "i remember now. the sun rises earlier here than it does in america." "yes, ma'am," put in swayny. "it has to in order to get to america on time. america is some distance from here as you may have heard." and before the queen could say another word, the sled was sliding merrily along at such a rapid pace that jimmieboy had to throw his arms about swayny's neck to keep from falling overboard. "w-where are we g-g gug-going to now?" he stammered. "china," said swanny. "egypt," said swayny. "i said china," cried swanny, turning his eyes full upon swayny and glaring at him. "i know you did," said swayny. "i may not show 'em, but i have ears. i, on the other hand said egypt, and egypt is where we are going. i want to show jimmieboy the pyramids. he's never seen a pyramid and he has seen chinamen." "no doubt," said swanny. "but this time he's not going to egypt. i'm going to show him a mandarin. he can build a pyramid with his blocks, but he never in his life could build a mandarin. therefore, ho for china." "you mean bah! for china," said swayny, angrily. "i'm not going to china, mr. william g. swanny and that's all there is about that. last time i was there a chinaman captured me and tied me to his pig-tail and i vowed i'd never go again." "and when i was in egypt last time, i was stolen by a mummy, who wanted to broil and eat me because he hadn't had anything to eat for two thousand years. so _i_'m not going to egypt." whereupon the two strange birds became involved in a dreadful quarrel, one trying to run the sled off toward china, the other trying, with equal vim, to steer it over to egypt. the runners creaked; the red back groaned and finally, there came a most dreadful crash. swanny flew off with his runner to the land of flowers, and swayny, freed from his partner, forgetting jimmieboy completely, sped on to egypt. and jimmieboy. well, jimmieboy, fell in between and by some great good fortune, for which i am not at all prepared to account, landed in a heap immediately beside his little bed in the nursery, not dressed in his furs at all but in his night gown, while out of doors not a speck of snow was to be seen, and strangest of all, when he was really dressed and had gone down stairs, there stood magic and the two swan heads, as spick and span as you please, still waiting to be tried. the stupid little apple-tree _the stupid little apple-tree_ jimmieboy was playing in the orchard, and, as far as the birds and the crickets and the tumble-bugs could see, was as happy as the birds, as lively as the crickets, and as tumbly as the tumble-bugs. in fact, one of the crickets had offered to bet an unusually active tumble-bug that jimmieboy could give him ten tumbles start and beat him five in a hundred, but the tumble-bug was a good little bug and wouldn't bet. "i'm put here to tumble," said he. "that's my work in life, and i'm going to stick to it. other creatures may be able to tumble better than i can, but that isn't going to make any difference to me. so long as i do the best i can, i'm satisfied. if you want to bet, go bet with the dandelions. they've got more gold in 'em than we tumble-bugs have." now, whether it was the sweet drowsiness of the afternoon, or the unusual number of tumbles he took on the soft, carpet-like grass in and out among the apple-trees, neither jimmieboy nor i have ever been able to discover, but all of a sudden jimmieboy thought it would be pleasant to rest awhile; and to accomplish this desirable end he could think of nothing better than to throw himself down at the foot of what he had always called the stupid little apple-tree. it was a very pretty tree, but it was always behind-time with its blossoms. all the other trees in the orchard burst out into bloom at the proper time, but the stupid little apple-tree, like a small boy in school who isn't as smart as some other boys, was never ready, when the others were, and that was why jimmieboy called it stupid. "jimmieboy! jimmieboy!" he turned about to see who had addressed him, but there was nothing in sight but a huge bumblebee, and he was entirely too busy at his daily stint to be wasting any time on jimmieboy. "who are you? what do you want?" jimmieboy asked. "i'm--i'm a friend of yours," said the voice. "oh, a splendid friend of yours, even if i am stupid. do you want to earn an apple?" "yes," said jimmieboy. "i'm very fond of apples--though i can get all i want without earning 'em." "that's true enough," returned the voice; "but an apple you have given you isn't half so good as one you really earn all by yourself--that's why i want you to earn one. of course i'll give you all the apples i've got, anyhow, but i'd like to have you earn one of 'em, just to show you how much better it tastes because you have earned it." "all right," said jimmieboy, politely. "i'm very much obliged to you, and i'll earn it if you'll tell me how. but, i say," he added, "i can't see you--who are you?" "can't see me? that's queer," said the voice. "i'm right here--can't you see the stupid little apple-tree that's keeping the sun off you and stretching its arms up over you?" "yes," jimmieboy replied. "i can see that, but i can't see you." "why, i'm it," said the voice. "it's the stupid little apple-tree that's talking to you. i'm me." jimmieboy sat up and looked at the tree with a surprised delight. "oh! that's it, eh?" he said. "you can talk, can you?" "certainly," said the tree. "you didn't think we poor trees stood out here year in and year out, in cold weather and in warm, in storm and in sunshine, never lying down, always standing, without being allowed to talk, did you? that would be dreadfully cruel. it's bad enough not to be able to move around. think how much worse it would be if we had to keep silent all that time! you can judge for yourself what a fearfully dull time we would have of it when you consider how hard it is for you to sit still in school for an hour without speaking." "i just simply can't do it," said jimmieboy. "that's the only thing my teacher don't like about me. she says i'm movey and loquacious." "i don't know what loquacious means," said the tree. "neither do i," said jimmieboy, "but i guess it has something to do with talking too much when you hadn't ought to. but tell me, mr. tree, how can i earn the apple?" "don't be so formal," said the tree. "don't call me mr. tree. you've known me long enough to be more intimate." "very well," said jimmieboy. "i'll call you whatever you want me to. what shall i call you?" "call me stoopy," said the tree, softly. "stoopy for short. i always liked that name." jimmieboy laughed. "it's an awful funny name," he said. "stoopy! ha-ha-ha! what's it short for?" "stupid," said the tree. "that is, while it's quite as long as stupid, it seems shorter. anyhow, it's more affectionate, and that's why i want you to call me by it." "very well, stoopy," said jimmieboy. "now, about the apple. have you got it with you?" "no," returned the tree. "but i'm making it, and it's going to be the finest apple you ever saw. it will have bigger, redder cheeks than any other apple in the world, and it'll have a core in it that will be just as good to eat as marmalade, and it'll be all for you if you'll do something for me to-morrow." "i'll do it if i can," said jimmieboy. "of course--that's what i mean," said stoopy. "nobody can do a thing he can't do; and if you find that you can't do it, don't do it; you'll get the apple just the same, only you won't have earned it, and it may not seem so good, particularly the core. i suppose you know that to-morrow is decoration day?" "yes, indeed," said jimmieboy. "mamma's going to send a lot of flowers to the committee, and papa's going to take me to see the soldiers, and after that i'm going over to the semingary to see them decorate the graves." "that's what i thought," said the tree, with a sigh. "i wish i could go. there's nothing i'd like to do better than to go over there and drop a lot of blossoms around on the graves of the men who went to war and lost their lives so that you might have a country, and we trees could grow in peace without being afraid of having a cannon-ball shot into us, cutting us in two--but i want to tell you a little story about all that. you didn't know i was planted by a little boy who went to the war and got killed, did you?" "no," returned jimmieboy, softly. "i didn't know that. i asked papa one day who planted you, and he said he guessed you just grew." "well, that's true, i did just grow," said stoopy, "but i had to be planted first, and i was planted right here by a little boy only ten years old. he was awfully good to me, too. he used to take care of me just as if i were a little baby. i wasn't more than half as tall as he was when he set me out here, and i was his tree, and he was proud as could be to feel that he owned me; and he used to tell me that when i grew big and had apples he was going to sell the apples and buy nice things for his mother with the money he got for 'em. we grew up together. he took such good care of me that i soon got to be taller than he was, and the taller i became the prouder he was of me. oh, he was a fine boy, jimmieboy, and as he grew up his mother and father were awfully proud of him. and then the war broke out. he was a little over twenty years old then, and he couldn't be kept from going to fight. he joined the regiment that was raised here, and after a little while he said good-by to his mother and father, and then he came out here to me and put his arms around my trunk and kissed me good-by too, and he plucked a little sprig of leaves from one of my branches and put it in his buttonhole, and then he went away. that was the last time i saw him. he was killed in his first battle." here stoopy paused for an instant, and trembled a little, and a few blossoms fell like trickling tear-drops, and fluttered softly to the ground. "they brought him home and buried him out there in the semingary," the tree added, "and that was the end of it. his father and mother didn't live very long after that, and then there wasn't anybody to take care of his grave any more. when that happened, i made up my mind that i'd do what i could; but around here all the apple-blossoms are withered and gone by the time decoration day comes, and nobody would take plain leaves like mine to put on a soldier's grave, so i began to put off blossoming until a little later than the other trees, and that's how i came to be called the stupid little apple-tree. nobody knew why i did it, but i did, and so i didn't mind being called stupid. i was doing it all for him, and every year since then i've been late, but on decoration day i've always had blossoms ready. the trouble has been, though, that nobody has ever come for 'em, and i've had all my work and trouble so far for nothing. it's been a great disappointment." "i see," said jimmieboy, softly. "what you want me to do is to take some of your blossoms over there to-morrow and put 'em--put 'em where you want 'em put." "that's it, that's it!" cried the stupid little apple-tree, eagerly. "oh, if you only will, jimmieboy!" "indeed i will," said jimmieboy. "i'll come here in the morning and gather up the blossoms, and take every one you have ready over in a basket, and i'll get papa to find out where your master's grave is, and he'll have every one of them." "thank you, thank you," returned stoopy; "and you'll find that all i've said about your apple will come true, and after this i'll be _your_ tree forever and forever." jimmieboy was about to reply, when an inconsiderate tumble-bug tripped over his hand, which lay flat on the grass, and in an instant all of the boy's thoughts on the subject fled from his mind, and he found himself sitting up on the grass, gazing sleepily about him. he knew that he had probably been dreaming, although he is by no means certain that that was the case, for, as if to remind him of his promise, as he started to rise, a handful of blossoms loosened by the freshening evening breezes came fluttering down into his lap, and the little lad resolved that, dream or no dream, he would look up the whereabouts of the young soldier-boy's grave, and would decorate it with apple-blossoms, and these from the stupid little apple-tree only. and that is why one long-forgotten soldier's grave in the cemetery across the hills back of jimmieboy's house was white and sweetly fragrant with apple-blossoms when the sun had gone down upon decoration day. as for the stupid little apple-tree, it is still at work upon the marvelously red-cheeked apple which jimmieboy is to claim as his reward. distributed proofreading canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net (this file was produced from images generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) [transcriber's note: original spelling and grammar has been retained except in the following instances: on page , "four hundred vears" was changed to "four hundred years", on page , "book are transscriptions" was changed to "book are transcriptions", and on page , "united states received the territorry" to "united states received the territory". the original contains both 'dooryard' and 'door-yard' as well as 'stage coach' and 'stage-coach'.] children's stories in american literature by the same author children's stories in american literature, - . one vol., mo. $ . children's stories in american literature, - . one vol., mo. $ . children's stories of american progress. one vol., mo. illustrated $ . children's stories in american history. one vol., mo. illustrated $ . children's stories of the great scientists. one vol., mo. illustrated $ . children's stories in english literature. from taliesin to shakespeare. one vol., mo. $ . children's stories in english literature. from shakespeare to tennyson. one vol., mo. $ . the princess lilliwinkins and other stories. one vol., mo. illustrated $ . children's stories in american literature - by henrietta christian wright new york charles scribner's sons copyright, , by charles scribner's sons. contents chapter i page the early literature, chapter ii john james audubon-- - , chapter iii washington irving-- - , chapter iv james fenimore cooper-- - , chapter v william cullen bryant-- - , chapter vi william h. prescott-- - , chapter vii john greenleaf whittier-- - , chapter viii nathaniel hawthorne-- - , chapter ix george bancroft-- - , chapter x edgar allan poe-- - , chapter xi ralph waldo emerson-- - , chapter xii henry wadsworth longfellow-- - , chapter xiii john lothrop motley-- - , chapter xiv harriet beecher stowe-- - , chapter xv james russell lowell-- - , chapter xvi francis parkman-- - , chapter xvii oliver wendell holmes-- - , chapter i the early literature one sunday morning, about the year , a group of indians was gathered around a noble-looking man, listening to a story he was reading. it was summer and the day was beautiful, and the little indian children who sat listening were so interested that not even the thought of their favorite haunts by brookside or meadow could tempt them from the spot. the story was about the life of christ and his mission to the world, and the children had heard it many times, but to-day it seemed new to them because it was read in their own language, which had never been printed before. this was the mohegan tongue, which was spoken in different dialects by the indians generally throughout massachusetts; and although it had been used for hundreds of years by the tribes in that part of the country its appearance on paper was as strange to them as if it had been a language of which they knew not a single word. it was just as strange to them, in fact, as if they had heard one of their war cries or love songs set to music, or had seen a picture of their dreams of the happy hunting grounds in that invisible western world where the sun went every night, and which they expected to see only after death. the man who was reading the old story was john eliot, an english missionary, who had devoted his life to the indians, and whose ambition it was to leave behind him as his greatest gift the bible translated into their own tongue. with this in view he set about making them familiar with the christian faith, and established sunday-schools among them, where men, women, and children alike were instructed. from time to time they heard read stories from the new testament which eliot had translated, and in which he was greatly helped by one or two indians who had gifts as translators, and could express the english thought into indian words more fitting and beautiful than eliot himself could have done. in all his earlier missionary work he also had the assistance of the great sachem waban, because, as it happened, the first sermon eliot ever preached to the indians was delivered in waban's wigwam. the text was from the old poetic words of ezekiel--"say to the wind, thus saith the lord god," etc. the indian name for wind was waban, the old sachem's name, and he thought the sermon was addressed to him. he became an ardent convert and helped eliot greatly in his work of christianizing the tribes, and in particular in his trouble to keep peace among the sachems, who objected to the freedom of thought which the new religion taught, thinking that it interfered with their own authority over their people. in a little book in which eliot describes these grievances of the chiefs he calls them _pills for the sachems_, and says they were much harder to swallow than even the nauseous doses of their medicine men. for the better instruction of the indian children eliot prepared a small primer, which was printed in , eight years after the new testament was printed. it was a curious little book, having the alphabet in large and small letters on the fly-leaf, and containing the apostles' creed, the catechism, and the lord's prayer, with other religious matter. out of this primer the indian youth learned to read and to spell in words of one syllable. when he was able to master the whole bible, which was printed in , his education was considered complete. this old indian bible, which eliot was ten years in translating, was printed at cambridge and bound in dark blue morocco, it being the first bible and one of the first books ever printed in america. two hundred copies were made, and a second edition contained a dedication to charles ii. of england, praising him for his goodness in distributing the word of god among his colonies, which had not yielded him gold and silver as the spanish colonies had yielded their sovereign, but which would nevertheless redound to his immortal glory as the first-fruits of christianity among those heathen tribes. the dedication took up two pages, which was about all the english the old book contained, the rest being in that curious, half-musical, half-guttural tongue of the mohegans, which cotton mather said had been growing since the time of the confusion of tongues at the tower of babel. certainly some of the words are of such mighty length and awful sound that we may well believe the same old preacher when he says that he knew from personal knowledge that demons could understand latin, greek, and hebrew, but that they were utterly baffled by the speech of the american indians. very few of these bibles now exist, and those are of priceless value to lovers of old books. one of the earliest books that may be claimed as belonging to american letters was a volume descriptive of the early settlements in virginia by captain john smith. it has great value as a representation of indian life before its contact with white civilization. smith had followed the army of england through the greater part of europe and asia and knew the life of a soldier of fortune. he had fought with turks, hunted tartars, and had always been the hero of the occasion. the indian to him was but another kind of heathen to subdue, and the book is full of adventures, in which he describes himself as always intrepid and victorious. this is the earliest book that brings the indians of the colonies closely before our eyes, and its style is good, and shows that strong, terse, english fibre which characterized the writings of the adventurous englishman of that time. in another book smith gives a charming description of inland virginia, whose birds, flowers, wild animals, rivers, and scenery are discussed in a poetic fashion that throws a new light on the character of the adventurous soldier. there is in both volumes a richness of description in the details of indian life that possesses a rare value to the student. the story of smith's visit to powhatan, the father of pocahontas, reads like a bit of oriental fairy lore, and the great indian chief, seated upon his couch of skins, with his savage guard around him, is brought as vividly before our eyes as the hero of a romance. and so smith's books stand for good literature, though written only with the idea of familiarizing the people at home with the condition of the new colony, and they make no mean showing as the beginning of american letters. in new england literature from the first partook inevitably of the puritan character. there were long journals of the pilgrim fathers, books on books of sermons, and volume after volume of argument on the burning religious questions that had been heard in england since the first puritan defied the king and openly declared for freedom of conscience. among the most celebrated of these old books is the _bay psalm book_ of , in which the psalms of david were done into metre for the use of congregations. this book, in which the beautiful hebrew poetry is tortured into the most abominable english, is a fair example of the religious verse-making of the day. a curious book was the first almanac, published at cambridge in , and which contained prognostications of the weather, dates of historical events, general news of the world, and bits of poetry, having also blank spaces for the use of the owner, who could either utilize them for preserving his own verses, as cotton mather did, or keep therein his accounts with his wig maker and hair-dresser, as did that worthy puritan thomas prince. perhaps the greatest poet of those early times was anne bradstreet, who wrote her famous poems on the assyrian, persian, grecian, and roman monarchies, and who was called the tenth muse by an admiring public. these works are long and learned, but they show less the poetic spirit of the age than do the short but pointed ballads that sprang up from time to time and which indicated the popular feeling over the events that were making the history of new england. these ballads were on every conceivable subject, from the day of judgment to the sale of a cow. the war between england and france for the possession of canada gave rise to many ditties the tunes of which remained popular long afterward. the indian wars also furnished material for many. they were printed in almanacs, or loose sheets, and sometimes not printed at all. they served as news-venders long before the first newspaper was published (in ) and they expressed, as nothing else could have done, the attitude of the people toward the church, the state, the governor, and even the "tidy man" (tithing-man), whose duty it was to tickle with a hazel rod any youngster who was unlucky enough to fall asleep in church. later, in revolutionary times, the ballad became a power second to none. here first appears that great hero yankee doodle, who comes, like will-o'-the-wisp, from no one knows where, although many learned pages have been written to show his nationality. he seems to have been as great a traveller as marco polo or baron munchausen, and, like them, he must have seen many strange sights and countries. perhaps he may have a trace of the gypsy in him and could recall, if he liked, strange wanderings through the far east. he may have been a camp-follower through the german and flemish wars. it is more than probable that he hobnobbed with the italian banditti, and took an elfish delight in depriving honest travellers of their wits and purses. we know that he lived for a time in holland, where he seems to have preferred a peaceful life and was content with the humdrum existence of those worthy dutch farmers who invited him to their feasts, welcomed him to their roofs, and sang his praises in their harvest-fields in such stirring words as these: yanker didel doodel down, didel dudel lanter; yanke viver voover vown, botermilk un tanther; which means that if the lads and lassies reaped and gleaned faithfully they should be rewarded by a tenth of the grain, and an unlimited supply of buttermilk. afterward yankee doodle seems to have tired of pastoral life, for we find him in the midst of roundhead and cavalier upon the battle-fields of england during the civil war. no doubt such a jolly comrade felt a tinge of sadness at the misfortunes of the unlucky charles i., and he could not have found the long-faced puritans, with their nasal voices, very good company for such a happy-go-lucky as himself. at any rate he never became an englishman, and seems only to have paused in england while making up his mind where to settle down and spend his old age. he probably made his first bow in america in , and it is evident that he took a fancy to the new country, and was pleased, and perhaps flattered, by the reception he met. with his old abandon he threw himself heart and soul into the conflict, and became, in fact, the child of the revolution. he was a leading spirit everywhere. throwing all recollections of english hospitality to the winds, he chased the red coats at bunker hill, gave them a drubbing at bennington, and remained bravely in the rear to watch their scouts while washington retreated from long island. many a time he was the sole support of the faithful few stationed to guard some important outpost; many a time he marched along with the old continentals, grim and faithful, expecting every moment would reveal danger and perhaps death. he crossed the delaware with washington on that eventful christmas night, in , though the italian blood in him must have shrunk a little from the cold. he stood shoulder to shoulder with the great leader through all the misery and hopelessness of valley forge. he was joyously welcomed by the soldiers in all their daring escapades when breaking loose from the restraints of camp life; and the women and children who had to remain home and suffer danger and privation alone, never saw his honest face without a smile. such devotion met with its reward. when the war was over the old veteran retired from the service with full military rank, and was brevetted an american citizen besides. it is pleasant to think that he has at last found a resting place among a people who will always honor and love him. two other ballads very popular at that time were _the battle of trenton_ and _the massacre of wyoming_, while innumerable ones of lesser note were sung by fireside and camp-fire, all through the colonies. in new york the first liberty pole raised in the country was planted by the sons of liberty, a band of patriotic americans, who set it up again and again as it was cut down by the tories, accompanying their work by singing every imaginable kind of ballad that would irritate the breast of the british sympathizers. during the war of , came the _star spangled banner_, written to the accompaniment of shot and shell, while the author, francis s. key, was a prisoner on shipboard watching the bombardment of fort mchenry by the british, in the harbor of baltimore. the song was born in the darkness of a night of terrible anxiety, and when the dawn broke and found the flag still floating over the fort, an earnest of the victory to come, its triumphant measures seemed the fitting pæan of american liberty. the ballad of the camps had developed into the national anthem. chapter ii john james audubon - in the days when louisiana was a province of spain a little dark-eyed boy used to wander among the fields and groves of his father's plantation studying with eager delight the works of nature around him. lying under the orange-trees watching the mocking-bird, or learning from his mother's lips the names of the flowers that grew in every corner of the plantation, he soon came to feel that he was part of that beautiful world, whose language was the songs of birds and whose boundaries extended to every place where a blossom lifted its head above the green sod. to him, as he said years afterward, the birds were playmates and the flowers dear friends, and before he could distinguish between the azure of the sky and the emerald of the grass he had formed an intimacy with them so close and endearing that whenever removed from their presence he felt a loneliness almost unbearable. no other companions suited him so well, and no roof seemed so secure as that formed of the dense foliage under which the feathered tribes resorted, or the caves and rocks to which the curlew and cormorant retired to protect themselves from the fury of the tempest. in these words, recorded by himself, we read the first chapter of the life history of john james audubon, the american naturalist and the author of one of the early classics of american literature. in those early days his father was audubon's teacher, and hand in hand they searched the groves for new specimens, or lingered over the nests where lay the helpless young. it was his father who taught him to look upon the shining eggs as 'flowers in the bud,' and to note the different characteristics which distinguished them. these excursions were seasons of joy, but when the time came for the birds to take their annual departure the joy was turned to sorrow. to the young naturalist a dead bird, though beautifully preserved and mounted, gave no pleasure. it seemed but a mockery of life, and the constant care needed to keep the specimens in good condition brought an additional sense of loss. was there no way in which the memory of these feathered friends might be kept fresh and beautiful? he writes that he turned in his anxiety to his father, who in answer laid before him a volume of illustrations. audubon turned over the leaves with a new hope in his heart, and although the pictures were badly executed the idea satisfied him. although he was unconscious of it, it was the moment of the birth of his own great life work. pencil in hand he began to copy nature untiringly, although for a long time he produced what he himself called but a family of cripples, the sketches being burned regularly on his birthdays. but no failure could stop him. he made hundreds of sketches of birds every year, worthless almost in themselves because of bad drawing, but valuable as studies of nature. meantime for education the boy had been taken from louisiana to france, the home of his father, who wished him to become a soldier, sailor, or engineer. for a few hours daily audubon studied mathematics, drawing, and geography, and then would disappear in the country, returning with eggs, nests, or curious plants. his rooms looked like a museum of natural history, while the walls were covered with drawings of french birds. learning mathematics with difficulty audubon became easily proficient in fencing and dancing, and learned to play upon the violin, flute, flageolet, and guitar. his drawing lessons were his greatest delight, the great french artist, david, being his teacher and critic. once, on the elder audubon's return from a long sea-voyage, he was chagrined to find that although his son had probably the largest amateur natural-history collection in france, he had neglected his equations, angles, and triangles, and the lad was sent to his father's station, given one day to visit the ships and fortifications, and then set to the study of mathematics, and mathematics only. for one year he wrestled with problems and theorems, counting himself happy if by any chance he could fly to the country for an hour to take up his acquaintance with the birds; and then the father admitted his son's unfitness for military pursuits and sent him to america to take charge of some property. audubon was then seventeen years of age, and had but one ambition in life--to live in the woods with his wild friends. as his father's estate was rented by a very orderly minded quaker there was little for audubon to do except enjoy himself. hunting, fishing, drawing, and studying english from a young english girl he afterward married, filled the day, while he never missed the balls and skating parties for which the neighborhood was famous. he was the best marksman in the region, able to bring down his quarry while riding at full speed. he was the best skater to be found; at balls and parties he was the amateur master of ceremonies, gayly teaching the newest steps and turns that obtained in france. in the hunt it was audubon--dressed, perhaps, in satin breeches and pumps, for he was a great dandy--who led the way through the almost unbroken wilderness. add to this that he was an expert swimmer, once swimming the schuylkill with a companion on his back; that he could play any one of half a dozen instruments for an impromptu dance; that he could plait a set of picnic dishes out of willow rushes; train dogs, and do a hundred other clever things, and it is easy to see why he was a general favorite. his private rooms were turned into a museum. the walls were covered with festoons of birds' eggs, the shelves crowded with fishes, snakes, lizards, and frogs; the chimney displayed stuffed squirrels and opossums, and wherever there was room hung his own paintings of birds. it was the holiday of life for the young lover of nature, and he enjoyed it with good will. here the idea of his great work came to him as he was one day looking over his drawings and descriptions of birds. suddenly, as it seemed to him, though his whole life had led to it, he conceived the plan of a great work on american ornithology. he began his gigantic undertaking as a master in the school of nature wherein he had been so faithful a student, for he now saw with joy that the past, which had often seemed idle, had been in reality rich with labors that were to bear fruit. he began at once to put his work into scientific form, and nothing better illustrates his energy and ambition than the fact that he entered on it alone and unaided, though none knew better than he the toil and ceaseless endeavor necessary for its completion. except in a very immature form, american ornithology at that time did not exist; it was a region almost as unknown to human thought as the new world which columbus discovered. season after season, from the gulf to canada and back again, these winged creatures of the air wended their way, stopping to hatch and breed their young, becoming acquainted with louisiana orange-groves and new england apple-orchards, now fluttering with kindly sociability round the dwellings of men and again seeking lonely eeries among inaccessible mountain tops, pursuing their course at all times almost without the thought and cognizance of man. it was audubon who was the conqueror, if not the discoverer of this aërial world of song, of which he became the immortal historian. it was his untiring zeal which gave thus early to american literature a scientific work of such vast magnitude and importance that it astonished the scientists of europe and won for itself the fame of being the most gigantic biblical enterprise ever undertaken by a single individual. to do this meant a life of almost constant change, and audubon can hardly have had an abiding place after his first serious beginning. the wide continent became his home and he found his dwelling wherever the winged tribes sought shelter from the wind and storm. his pursuit was often interrupted by occupations necessary for the support of his family, for at his father's death he had given to his sister his share of the estate and so became entirely dependent upon his own efforts for a livelihood; but at all times, no matter what his situation, his heart was in the wild retreats of nature. travelling through the west and south in search of fortune as well as of specimens his experiences were often disenchanting. at louisville and new orleans he would be forced to make crayon portraits of the principal citizens in order to raise the money for family expenses. again he taught drawing; he served as tutor in private families, and in order to secure funds for the publication of his work he earned $ , by dancing lessons, the largest sum he had ever earned. many business speculations enlisted audubon's hopes, but all failed utterly. once he embarked his money in a steam mill, which, being built in an unfit place, soon failed. at another time he bought a steamboat, which, proving an unlucky speculation, was sold to a shrewd buyer who never paid the purchase money. again he was cheated in the clearing of a tract of timber. but his studies in natural history always went on. when he had no money to pay his passage up the mississippi he bargained to draw the portrait of the captain of the steamer and his wife as remuneration. when he needed boots he obtained them by sketching the features of a friendly shoemaker, and more than once he paid his hotel bills, and saved something besides, by sketching the faces of the host and his family. on the other hand, his adventures in search of material for his work were romantic enough to satisfy the most ambitious traveller. from florida to labrador, and from the atlantic to the then unknown regions of the yellowstone he pursued his way, often alone, and not seldom in the midst of dangers which threatened life itself. he hunted buffalo with the indians of the great plains, and lived for months in the tents of the fierce sioux. he spent a season in the winter camp of the shawnees, sleeping, wrapped in a buffalo robe, before the great camp-fire, and living upon wild turkey, bear's grease, and opossums. he made studies of deer, bears, and cougars, as well as of wild turkeys, prairie hens, and other birds. for days he drifted down the ohio in a flat-bottomed boat, searching the uninhabited shores for specimens, and living the life of the frontiersman whose daily food must be supplied by his own exertions. sometimes his studies would take him far into the dense forests of the west, where the white man had never before trod, and the only thing that suggested humanity would be the smoke rising miles away from the evening camp-fire of some indian hunter as lonely as himself. once as he lay stretched on the deck of a small vessel ascending the mississippi he caught sight of a great eagle circling about his head. convinced that it was a new species, he waited patiently for two years before he again had a glimpse of it, flying, in lazy freedom, above some butting crags where its young were nested. climbing to the place, and watching like an indian in ambush until it dropped to its nest, audubon found it to be a sea-eagle. he named it the washington sea eagle, in honor of george washington. waiting two years longer, he was able to obtain a specimen, from which he made the picture given in his work. this is but one example of the tireless patience with which he prosecuted his studies, years of waiting counting as nothing if he could but gain his end. some of his discoveries in this kingdom of the birds he relates with a romantic enthusiasm. throughout the entire work there runs the note of warmest sympathy with the lives of these creatures of the air and sunshine. he tells us of their hopes and loves and interests, from the time of the nest-making till the young have flown away. the freedom of bird life, its happiness, its experiences, and tragedies appeal to him as do those of humanity. the discovery of a new species is reported as rapturously as the news of a new star. once in labrador, when he was making studies of the eggers, his son brought to him a great hawk captured on the precipice far above his head. to audubon's delight, it was that rare specimen, the gerfalcon, which had heretofore eluded all efforts of naturalists. while the rain dripped down from the rigging above, audubon sat for hours making a sketch of this bird and feeling as rich as if he had discovered some rare gem. after twenty years the work was published. every specimen, from the tiny humming-bird to the largest eagles and vultures, was sketched life size and colored in the tints of nature. there were four hundred and seventy-five of these plates, furnishing a complete history of the feathered tribes of north america, for they showed not only the appearance of the birds but represented also the manners and home life of this world of song. the humming-bird poised before the crimson throat of the trumpet flower, the whippoorwill resting among the leaves of the oak, the bobolink singing among the crimson flowers of the swamp maples, the snow-bird chirping cheerily among the snow-touched berries of the holly, were not sketches merely but bits of story out of bird history. so also are those pictures of the swan among the reeds of the great lakes, of the great white heron seizing its prey from the waters of the gulf, and of the golden eagle winging its way toward the distant heights that it inhabits. the work was published by subscription in london in under the title, "the birds of north america." the price was eighty guineas. later on a smaller and cheaper edition was issued. the work now is very rare. audubon had the gratification of knowing that his labors were understood and appreciated by the world of science. when he exhibited his plates in the galleries of england and france, whither he went to obtain subscriptions, crowds flocked to see them, and the greatest scientists of the age welcomed him to their ranks. _the birds of america_ was his greatest work, though he was interested somewhat in general zoölogy and wrote on other subjects. audubon died in new york in . the great zoölogist cuvier called _the birds of north america_ the most magnificent monument that art has ever erected to ornithology. the scotch naturalist wilson said that the character of audubon was just what might have been expected from the author of such a work, brave, enthusiastic, self-sacrificing, and capable of heroic endurance. chapter iii washington irving - "left his lodging some time ago and has not been heard of since, a small elderly gentleman, dressed in an old black coat and cocked hat, by the name of knickerbocker. . . . any information concerning him will be thankfully received." such was the curious advertisement that appeared in the _evening post_ under the date of october , , attracting the attention of all new york. people read it as they sat at supper, talked of it afterward around their wood fires, and thought of it again and again before they fell asleep at night. and yet not a soul knew the missing old gentleman or had ever heard of him before. still he was no stranger to them, for he was a knickerbocker, and everyone was interested in the knickerbockers, and everyone felt almost as if a grandfather or great-grandfather had suddenly come back to life and disappeared again still more suddenly without a word of explanation. those who could remember their childhood sent their wits back into the past and gathered up memories of these old knickerbockers. they saw the old burghers again walking through the streets dressed in their long-waisted coats with skirts reaching nearly to the ankles, and wearing so solemnly their low-crowned beaver hats, while their small swords dangled by their sides to show their importance. they saw their wives in their close-fitting muslin caps, with their dress-skirts left open to show their numerous petticoats of every color, their gay stockings, and their low-cut, high-heeled shoes. they entered the quaint gabled houses made of brick brought from holland, and sat in the roomy kitchen whose floor had just been sprinkled with sand brought from coney island, and on whose walls hung deer antlers and innumerable dutch pipes. they passed into the parlor, whose chief ornament was the carved bedstead upon which reposed two great feather-beds covered with a patch-work quilt. they sat in the fireplace and drank from the huge silver tankard while listening to stories of indian warfare. in the streets they saw groups of indians standing before the shop windows, and passed by the walls of the old fort wherein cows, pigs, and horses were feeding. they noticed the queerly rigged ships in the bay, the windmills scattered everywhere, and the canal passing right through the town and filled with dutch canal boats. they saw the dutch maidens standing around the ponds washing the family linen, and visited the bowerie or country house of some honest burgher, and sat with him in his little garden where cabbages and roses flourished side by side. such were the scenes that the strange advertisement called up, and more than one new yorker dreamed that night that he was a child again, living over those long past days. for some time nothing was heard of diedrich knickerbocker, and then another advertisement appeared in the _post_ saying he had been seen twice on the road to albany. some time again elapsed, and finally the paper stated that the landlord of the inn at which he stopped gave up hope of ever seeing his guest again, and declared that he should sell the manuscript of a book that mr. knickerbocker had left behind and take the proceeds in payment of his bill. people were really excited about the fate of the old gentleman, and one of the city officials was upon the point of offering a reward for his discovery when a curious thing happened. it was found that there was no old gentleman by the name of knickerbocker who had wandered away from his lodging; that there was no inn at which he had lived, and no manuscript he had left behind, and that in fact, mr. knickerbocker was simply the hero of a book which the author had taken this clever means of advertising. the book claimed to be the true history of the discovery and settlement of new york, and began with an account of the creation of the world, passing on to the manners, customs, and historical achievements of the old hollanders from their first voyage in the celebrated ark the good vrow, to the shores of new jersey. here we read how, as the indians were given to long talks and the dutch to long silences, they had no trouble about the settlement of the land, but all lived peacefully together. how oloffe van kortlandt took his perilous journey from new jersey as far north as harlem and decided to build a city on manhattan island. then we read of the golden reign of the first dutch governor, wouter van twiller, who was exactly five feet six inches in height, and six feet five inches in circumference, and who ate four hours a day, smoked eight, and slept twelve, and so administered the affairs of the colony that it was a marvel of prosperity. next we hear of governor keift, of lofty descent, since his father was an inspector of windmills--how his nose turned up and his mouth turned down, how his legs were the size of spindles, and how he grew tougher and tougher with age so that before his death he looked a veritable mummy. and then we see the redoubtable peter stuyvesant stumping around on his wooden leg adorned with silver reliefs and follow him in his expedition against the neighboring swedish colonies, when the entire population of the city thronged the streets and balconies to wave farewell to him as he left, and to welcome his return as a victorious conqueror. lastly we see him, furious with rage, menacing the british fleet which has come to take possession of the town, threatening vengeance dire upon the english king, and still cherishing his wrath with fiery bravery when the enemy finally occupy the old dutch town and proceed to transform it into an english city. the book was read with interest, admiration, or amazement as the case might be. some said it appeared too light and amusing for real history, others claimed that it held stores of wisdom that only the wise could understand; others still complained that the author was no doubt making fun of their respectable ancestors and had written the book merely to hold them up to ridicule. only a few saw that it was the brightest, cleverest piece of humor that had yet appeared in america, and that its writer had probably a career of fame before him. the author was washington irving, then a young man in his twenty-seventh year and already known as the writer of some clever newspaper letters, and of a series of humorous essays published in a semi-monthly periodical called _salmagundi_. irving was born in new york on april , , and was named after george washington. the revolution was over, but the treaty of peace had not yet been signed, and the british army still remained in the city, which had been half burned down during the war. new york was then a small town, with a population of about one seven-hundredth of what it now has; beyond the town limits were orchards, farms, country houses, and the high road leading to albany, along which the stage coach passed at regular times. there were no railroads, and irving was fourteen years old before the first steam-boat puffed its way up the hudson river, frightening the country people into the belief that it was an evil monster come to devour them. all travelling was done by means of sailing vessels, stage coaches, or private conveyances; all letters were carried by the stage-coach, and every one cost the sender or receiver twenty-five cents for postage. the telegraph was undreamed of, and if any one had hinted the possibility of talking to some one else a thousand miles away over a telephone wire he would have been considered a lunatic, or possibly a witch. in fact new york was a quiet, unpretentious little town, whose inhabitants were still divided into english or dutch families according to their descent, and in whose households were found the customs of england and holland in full force. in irving's family, however, there was doubtless greater severity practised in daily life than in the neighboring households. the father was a scotch presbyterian who considered life a discipline, who thought all amusement a waste of precious time, and who made the children devote one out of the two half weekly holidays to the study of the catechism. they were also obliged to attend church three times every sunday, and to spend any spare moments left in reading some religious book, a discipline which had such an effect upon irving that, to avoid becoming a presbyterian, he went secretly to trinity church and was confirmed. naturally irving's love of fun was sedulously hid from such a father, and, as fun he must have, he sought amusement outside his own home. forbidden to attend the theatre, he would risk his neck nightly by climbing out of his window to visit the play for an hour or so, and then rush home in terror lest his absence had been discovered and his future fun imperilled. many a night when sent early to bed he would steal away across the adjacent roofs to send a handful of stones clattering down the wide, old-fashioned chimney of some innocent neighbor, who would start from his dreams to imagine robbers, spooks, or other unpleasant visitors in his bed-chamber; and often when irving was supposed to be fast asleep he was far away in the midst of a group of truant boys concocting some scheme of mischief which was meant to startle the neighborhood and bring no end of fun to the daring perpetrators. irving went to school kept by an old revolutionary soldier, with whom he was a great favorite and who always called him _general_. he was not particularly brilliant in his studies, but he distinguished himself as an actor in the tragedies which the boys gave at times in the school-room; at ten years of age he was the star of the company, which did not even lose respect for him when once, being called suddenly upon the stage through a mistake, he appeared with his mouth full of honey-cake, which he was obliged to swallow painfully while the audience roared at the situation. afterward, when he rushed around the stage flourishing a wooden sabre, he was not a tragedian to be trifled with. the glory of it even paid him for the cruelty of having to run away to see a real play. it was a favorite amusement with him after school to wander down to the wharves, where he would spend hours in watching the ships load and unload, and dream of the day when he, too, should visit those beautiful regions that lay only in reach of their white sails; for, fond as he was of boyish sports, he was much given to day-dreams, and the romantic past of the old world held a great charm for him. his favorite books were "robinson crusoe," "the arabian nights," "gulliver's travels," and all stories of adventure and travel. the world beyond the sea seemed a fairyland to him; a little print of london bridge and another of kensington gardens, that hung up in his bed-room, stirred his heart wistfully, and he fairly envied the odd-looking old gentlemen and ladies who appeared to be loitering around the arches of st. john's gate, as shown in a cut on the cover of an old magazine. later his imagination was also kindled by short excursions to the then wild regions of the hudson and mohawk valleys. drifting up the hudson in a little sloop, day after day the picturesque beauty of the highlands and catskills impressed itself more deeply upon him, while his mind dwelt fondly upon the traditions which still lingered around the mountains and rivers forever associated with the struggles of the early settlers. years afterward we find the remembrance of these days gracing with loving touch the pages of some of his choicest work, and it is this power of sympathy, so early aroused, that gives irving one of his greatest charms as a writer, and makes the period of which he writes seem as real as if a part of to-day. at seventeen irving left school and began to study for the bar. but his health, which had always been delicate, made it necessary for him to take a long rest from study, and he accordingly left america for two years of travel abroad. he visited england, france, and italy, taking great delight in seeing those lands he had so often dreamed of, in meeting the famous people of the day, and, above all, in indulging in frequent visits to the theatre and opera, becoming in this way acquainted with all the great singers and actors whose reputation had reached america. it was after his return home that he brought out his knickerbocker history, a work which made him so famous that when he returned to england some time afterward he found himself very well known in the best literary circles. the results of this second visit are found in the volumes comprising _geoffrey crayon's sketch book_, _bracebridge hall_, _tales of a traveller_ and other miscellany, in which occur charming descriptions of english country life, delightful ghost stories, the famous description of an english christmas, the immortal legend of _rip van winkle_, and an account of a visit to the haunts of robin hood, whose exploits had so fascinated him as a boy that he once spent his entire holiday money to obtain a copy of his adventures. _abbotsford_ is an account of a visit that irving paid to sir walter scott. it is a charming revelation of the social side of scott's character, who welcomed irving as a younger brother in art, became his guide in his visit to yarrow and melrose abbey, and took long rambling walks with him all around the country made so famous by the great novelist. irving recalled as among the most delightful hours of his life those walks over the scottish hills with scott, who was described by the peasantry as having "an awfu' knowledge of history," and whose talk was full of the folk-lore, poetry, and superstitions that made up the interest of the place. in the evening they sat in the drawing-room, while scott, with a great hound, maida, at his feet, read to them a scrap of old poetry or a chapter from king arthur, or told some delightful bit of peasant fairy lore, like that of the black cat who, on hearing one shepherd tell another of having seen a number of cats dressed in mourning following a coffin, sprang up the chimney in haste, exclaiming: "then i am king of the cats," and vanished to take possession of his vacant kingdom. from this time irving's life was one of constant literary labor for many years, all of which were spent abroad. his works on the companions of columbus, and the alhambra, were written during his residence in spain, where he had access to the national archives and where he became as familiar with the life of the people as it was possible for a stranger to become. he was at home both in the dignified circles of higher life and among the picturesque and simple peasantry, whose characteristics he draws with such loving grace. after seventeen years' absence irving returned to america, where he was welcomed as one who had won for his country great honors. he was the first writer to make american literature respected abroad, and his return was made the occasion of numerous fêtes given in his honor in new york and other cities. he now built sunnyside, on the hudson, the home that he loved so dearly and that will ever be famous as the abode of america's first great writer. his principal works following the spanish histories were _astoria_, the history of the fur-trading company in oregon founded by the head of the astor family; _captain bonneville_, the adventures of a hunter in the far west; the _life of goldsmith_ and the _lives of mahomet and his successors_. he returned to spain in as ambassador, and remained four years. in the _legends of the conquest of spain_ irving tells the story of the conquest of spain by the moors, as related in the old spanish and moorish chronicles. the pages are full of the spirit of the warfare of the middle ages. here we see the great arab chieftain, taric, the one-eyed, with a handful of men cruising along the spanish coast to spy out its strength and weakness, and finally making a bold dash inland to capture and despoil a city and return to africa laden with plunder to report the richness of the land. "behold!" writes taric's chief in a letter to the caliph, "a land that equals syria in its soil, arabia in its temperature, india in its flowers and spices, and cathay in its precious stones." and at this news the caliph wrote back in haste that god was great, and that it was evidently his will that the infidel should perish, and bade the moors go forward and conquer. in these delightful chapters we follow taric in his conquests from the taking of the rock of calpe, henceforth called from him gibraltar, the rock of taric, to the final overthrow of the christians and the establishment of the moorish supremacy in spain. the whole story is a brilliant, living picture of that romantic age. the spanish king goes to battle wearing robes of gold brocade, sandals embroidered with gold and diamonds, and a crown studded with the costliest jewels of spain. he rides in a chariot of ivory, and a thousand cavaliers knighted by his own hand surround him, while tens of thousands of his brave soldiers follow him, guarding the sacred banners emblazoned with the cross. the moorish vanguard, riding the famous horses of arabia, advance to the sound of trumpet and cymbal, their gay robes and snowy turbans and their arms of burnished gold and steel glittering in the sunshine, which reflects in every direction the sacred crescent, the symbol of their faith. the surroundings are equally picturesque and romantic. the famous plain of granada, adorned with groves and gardens and winding streams, and guarded by the famous mountains of the sun and air, forms the foreground to the picture, while in the distance we see the gloomy mountain passes, the fortified rocks and castles, and the great walled cities, through which the moors passed, always victorious and never pausing until their banners floated from every cliff and tower. scattered through the narrative of battles and sieges we find also many legends that abounded at that time both in the moslem and christian faiths, translated with such fidelity from the old chroniclers that they retain all the supernatural flavor of the original. here we learn how arab and christian alike beheld portents, saw visions, received messages from the spirits, and were advised, encouraged, and comforted by signs and warnings from heaven, the whole narrative being most valuable as presenting in fine literary form the every-day life and intense religious fervor of the soldier of the middle ages. for eight hundred years the moors held spain. they built beautiful cities and palaces, the remains of which are marvels to this day; they made the plain of granada a garden of flowers; they preserved classical literature when the rest of europe was sunk in ignorance; they studied the sciences, and had great and famous schools, which were attended by the youth of all nations; they rescued the jewish people from the oppression of the spaniards, and made them honorable citizens; and they impressed upon their surroundings an art so beautiful that its influence has extended throughout christendom. their occupation of spain at that time probably did more for the preservation of literature, science, and art than any other event in history. in his chapters on the alhambra, the beauties of that celebrated palace, the favorite abode of the moorish kings, is described by irving as seen by him during a visit in . even at that date, nearly four hundred years after its seizure by the spaniards, the alhambra retained much of its original magnificence. the great courts, with their pavements of white marble, and fountains bordered with roses, the archways, balconies, and halls decorated with fretwork and filigree and incrusted with tiles of the most exquisite design; the gilded cupolas and panels of lapis lazuli, and the carved lions supporting the alabaster basins of the fountains, all appealed to irving so strongly that when he first entered the palace it seemed, he relates, as if he had been transported into the past and was living in an enchanted realm. irving remained some months in the alhambra, living over again the scenes of moorish story, and so catching the spirit of the lost grandeur of the old palace, that his descriptions read like a bit of genuine arabian chronicle, which had been kept safe until then in the grim guardianship of the past. the chapters of the _alhambra_ are also full of delightful legends, the fairy tales which time had woven around the beautiful ruin, and which the custodians of the place related gravely to irving as genuine history. it calls up a pleasant picture to think of irving sitting in the stately hall or in his balcony, listening to one of these old tales from the lips of his tattered but devoted domestic, while the twilight was gathering and the nightingale singing in the groves and gardens beneath. he himself said that it was the realization of a day-dream which he had cherished since the time when, in earliest boyhood on the banks of the hudson, he had pored over the story of granada. in his work, _the conquest of granada_, irving relates the story of the retaking of granada by ferdinand and isabella, during a war which lasted ten years and which held nothing but disaster for the moors. ferdinand and isabella took the field with an army composed of the nobles of spain and their followers, and which represented the chivalry of europe, for all christendom hastened to espouse the holy cause of driving the infidel from the land. the spanish camps glittered with the burnished armor and gold-embroidered banners of foreign knights; and whether on the march, in the field, or in camp, the whole pageant of the war as depicted by irving passes before our eyes like a brilliant panorama. we see the moorish king looking down from the towers of the alhambra upon the plains once green and blooming but now desolate with fire and sword by the hand of ferdinand. we follow the moors as they rush from their walls in one of their splendid but hopeless sallies, to return discomfited, and hear the wail of the women and old men--"woe! woe! to granada, for its strong men shall fall by the sword and its maidens be led into captivity." we watch the spaniards, tireless in endeavor, building the fortified city of santa fé, the city of holy faith, to take the place of the camp destroyed by fire, and which has remained famous as the place where columbus received from isabella his commission to sail westward until india was reached. and in the end we see the moors in their retreat looking sadly from the hill which is called to this day, the last sigh of the moor, upon the beautiful valley and mountains lost to them forever. so graphically is the scene described that irving must ever remain the historian of the moors of spain, whose spirit seemed to inspire the beautiful words in which he celebrated their conquests, their achievements, and their defeats. a favorite among irving's books was the _life of washington_, based upon the correspondence of the great statesman. it is an appreciative story of the life work of washington, written by one whose own work connected the past and present, and who, as a child, had felt the hand of the nation's hero laid upon his head in blessing. in the _chronicle of wolfert's roost_ irving follows in imagination old diedrich knickerbocker into the famous region of sleepy hollow, where much of the material for the celebrated knickerbocker's history was said to have been collected. this chronicle, it was claimed, was written upon the identical old dutch writing desk that diedrich used; the elbow chair was the same that he sat in; the clock was the very one he consulted so often during his long hours of composition. in these pages old diedrich walks as a real person and irving follows him with faithful step through the region that he loved so fondly all his life. everything here is dwelt upon with lingering touch; the brooks and streams, the meadows and cornfields, the orchards and gardens, and the groves of beech and chestnut have each their tribute from the pen of one who found their charms ever fresh, who sought in them rest and happiness, and who came back to them lovingly to spend the last days of his life in their familiar companionship. irving died in and was buried at sunnyside, in sight of the hudson whose legends he had immortalized and whose beauty never ceased to charm him from the moment it first captivated his heart in his boyhood days. chapter iv james fenimore cooper - the region of otsego lake, new york, was at the last of the eighteenth century a wilderness. here and there rose a little clearing, the birthplace of a future village, but westward the primeval forest extended for miles around the little lake, which reflected the shadows of wooded hills on every side. here roved deer, wolves, panthers, and bears unmolested in the green depths and following the same runways which their species had trodden for centuries. here also lurked the red man, suspicious and cautious and ever ready to revenge on the white man the wrongs of his race. in this beautiful spot lived the boy, james fenimore cooper, in the family mansion built by his father and named otsego hall, the starting point of the now famous village of cooperstown. it was a fitting home for the boy who was hereafter to immortalize the indian race in the pages of fiction. his life was almost as simple as that of the indian lads who roamed through the forest fishing and hunting and knowing no ambition beyond. the little hamlet lay far away from the highways of travel. the nearest villages were miles distant and only to be reached on foot or on horseback through miles of unbroken forest. a visitor was rare, and meant perhaps a warning that the indians were on the war-path. occasionally a new settler drifted into the little valley, and the village grew slowly through the lad's boyhood, otsego hall keeping its dignity as the manor house. sometimes a visitor of note brought news of the great political troubles in europe, and thus cooper met many men of distinction whose visits seemed to bring the great world very close to the little settlement. this glimpse of a broader life, with attendance at the village school and an intimate companionship with nature, made up his early education. it was not bad training for the future novelist. the acquaintanceship of celebrated men widened his horizon and fed his imagination; his daily life kept his mind fresh and active with the spirit that was fast turning the uninhabited regions of the frontier into busy settlements; and the familiar intercourse with nature kept pure the springs of poetry that lie in every child's heart. he learned wood-lore as the young indian learned it, face to face with the divinities of the forest. he knew the calls of the wild animals far across the gloomy wilderness. he could follow the deer and bear to their secluded haunts. he could retrace the path of the retreating wolf by the broken cobwebs glistening in the early sunlight; and the cry of the panther high overhead in the pines and hemlocks was a speech as familiar as his own tongue. when he was thirsty he made a hunter's cup of leaves and drank in the indian fashion. when fatigued he lay down to rest with that sense of security that comes only to the forest bred. when thoughtful he could learn from the lap of the waves against the shore, the murmur of leaves, and the rustle of wings, those lessons which nature teaches in her quiet moods. these experiences and impressions sank into cooper's heart, and were re-lived again long after in the pages of his romances. while still a boy cooper went to albany to study, and in entered yale college, at the age of thirteen. he played as much and studied as little as he possibly could, and the first year's preparation perhaps accounts for his dismissal from college in his junior year. this in turn led to a life much more to his liking. his father took his part in the trouble at yale, but was now anxious to see his son embarked on the serious business of life. both father and son liked the idea of a naval career for the boy, and it was decided that cooper should go to sea. he left new york in the autumn of on a vessel of the merchant marine. there was then no naval academy in america, and a boy could fit himself for entering the navy as an officer only by serving before the mast. cooper was away nearly a year, his ship, the sterling, visiting london, portugal, and spain, carrying cargoes from one port to another in the leisurely manner of the merchant sailing-vessels of that day. it was a time of peculiar interest to all seamen, and his mind was keenly alive to the new life around him. the english were expecting a french invasion, and the channel was full of ships of war, while every southern port was arming for defence. the mediterranean was terrorized by the barbary pirates, who, under cover of night, descended upon any unprotected merchant vessel, stole the cargo, scuttled the ship, and sold the crew into slavery, to tripolitan and algerine husbandmen, whose orchards of date and fig were cultivated by many an american or english slave. cooper saw all this and remembered it, being even then a student of men and events. his work was hard and dangerous; he was never admitted to the cabin of the ship; in storm or wind his place was on the deck among the rough sailors, who were his only companions. but this training developed the good material that was in him, and when in he received his commission as midshipman he was well equipped for his duties. cooper remained in the navy three years and a half. he spent part of this time at the port of oswego, lake ontario, superintending the building of a war vessel, the oneida, intended for the defence of the canadian frontier in case of a war with england. the days passed in this wild region were not fruitless, for here in the solitude of the primeval forest cooper found later the background of a famous story. it was the land of the red man, and during the long winter months of his residence there cooper dwelt in spirit with the wild natives, though he little dreamed that he was to be the historian that would give the story of their lives to a succeeding generation. cooper saw no active service during the time, and resigned his commission on his marriage. several succeeding years were passed partly in westchester county, his wife's former home, and partly in cooperstown. here he began the erection of a stone dwelling, in fenimore, a suburb of the old village. while living at scarsdale, westchester county, n. y., he had produced his first book. already thirty years old, a literary career was far from his thoughts. this first novel was merely the result of a challenge springing from a boast. reading a dull tale of english life to his wife, he declared that he could write a better story himself, and as a result produced a tale in two volumes, called _precaution_. it was founded upon english society life, and it obtained some favorable notices from english papers. but it showed no real talent. but in the next year, , he published a story foreshadowing his fame and striking a new note in american literature. at that time americans still cherished stirring memories of the revolution. men and women could still recall the victories of bunker hill and trenton, and the disasters of monmouth and long island. cooper's own first impressions of life were vivid with the patriotism that beat at fever heat during his youth, when the birth of american independence was within the recollection of many. in choosing a subject for fiction cooper therefore naturally turned to the late struggle, and american literature owes him a large debt for thus throwing into literary form the spirit of those thrilling times. this novel, _the spy_, was founded upon the story of a veritable spy who had been employed by the revolutionary officer who related to cooper some of his daring adventures. taking this scout for a hero cooper kept the scene in westchester and wove from a few facts the most thrilling piece of fiction that had yet appeared in the united states. the novel appeared in december, , and in a few months it had made cooper famous both in america and europe. it was published in england by the firm which had brought out irving's _sketch book_, and it met with a success that spoke highly for its merit, since the story described english defeat and american triumphs. the translator of the waverley novels made a french version, and before long the book appeared in several other european tongues, while its hero, harvey birch, won and has kept for himself an honorable place in literature. cooper had now found his work, and he continued to illustrate american life in fiction. his most popular books are the _leather stocking tales_ and his novels of the sea. the _leather stocking tales_ consist of five stories, _the deerslayer_, _the last of the mohicans_, _the pathfinder_, _the pioneers_, and _the prairie_, concerning the same hero, leatherstocking. in _the deerslayer_ the hero of the series makes his appearance as a youth of german descent whose parents had settled near a clan of the mohegans on the schoharie river. at a great indian feast he receives the name deerslayer from the father of chingachgook, his indian boy friend, and the story is an account of his first war-path. the tale was suggested to the author one afternoon as he paused for a moment while riding to gaze over the lake he so loved, and whose shores, as he looked, seemed suddenly to be peopled with the figures of a vanished race. as the vision faded he turned to his daughter and said that he must write a story about the little lake, and thus the idea of deerslayer was born. in a few days the story was begun. the scene is laid on otsego lake, and in the tale are incorporated many tender memories of cooper's own boyhood. it portrays leatherstocking as a young scout just entering manhood, and embodies some of the author's best work. perhaps no one was so well-fitted to illustrate the ideal friendship between deerslayer and chingachgook as he, who in his boyhood stood many a time beside the lakeside as the shadows fell over the forest, not knowing whether the faint crackling of the bushes meant the approach of the thirsty deer, or signalled the presence of some indian hunter watching with jealous eye the white intruder. in _the last of the mohicans_, leatherstocking, under the name hawkeye, is represented in the prime of manhood, his adventures forming some of the most exciting events of the series. here his old friend chingachgook and the latter's son uncas follow deerslayer hand in hand, and make, next to the hero, the principal characters of the story, the scene of which is laid near lake champlain during the trouble between the french and english for the possession of canada. in _the pathfinder_ the famous scout, under the name which gives the title to the book, is carried still further in his adventurous career. the scene is laid near lake ontario where cooper spent some months while in the navy. these three tales are not only the finest of the series from a literary standpoint, but they illustrate as well the life of those white men of the forest who lived as near to nature as the indian himself and whose deeds helped make the history of the country in its beginnings. _the pioneers_ finds leatherstocking an old hunter living on otsego lake at the time of its first settlement by the whites. the character was suggested by an old hunter of the regions who in cooper's boyhood came frequently to the door of his father's house to sell the game he had killed. the hero is in this book called natty bumppo and the story is one of the primitive life of the frontiersmen of that period. their occupations, interests and ambitions form the background to the picture of leatherstocking, the rustic philosopher, who has finished the most active part of his career, and who has gathered from nature some of her sweetest lessons. many of the scenes in the book are transcriptions from the actual life of those hardy pioneers who joined cooper's father in the settlement of cooperstown, while the whole is tinged with that tender reminiscence of the author's youth which sets it apart from the rest though it is, perhaps, the least perfect story of the series. leatherstocking closes his career in _the prairie_, a novel of the plains of the great west, whither he had gone to spend his last days. it is the story of the lonely life of the trapper of those days, whose love of solitude has led him far from the frontier, and whose dignified death fitly closes his courageous life. it is supposed that the actual experiences of daniel boone suggested this ending to the series. the story of the war of the frontiersmen with nature, with circumstances and with the red man is told in these books. it is the romance of real history and leatherstocking was but the picture of many a brave settler whose deeds were unrecorded and whose name remains unknown. side by side with leatherstocking stand those indian characters which the genius of cooper immortalized and which have passed into history as typical. cooper began the tales without any thought of making a series, but the overwhelming success of _the pioneers_, the first which appeared, led him to produce book after book until the whole life of the hero was illustrated. cooper's series of sea novels began with _the pilot_, published in . it followed _the pioneers_, and showed the novelist to be equally at home on sea and land. in his stories of frontier life, cooper followed the great scott, whose thrilling tales of border life and of early english history had opened a new domain to the novelist. cooper always acknowledged his debt to the great _wizard of the north_, and, indeed, spoke of himself as a chip of scott's block. but in his sea stories cooper was a creator. he was the first novelist to bring into fiction the ordinary, every-day life of the sailor afloat, whether employed on a peaceful merchant vessel or fighting hand to hand in a naval battle. and it is interesting to know that the creation of the sea story was another debt that he owed to scott, though in a far different way. scott's novel, _the pirate_, had been criticised by cooper as the work of a man who had never been at sea. and to prove it the work of a landsman he began his own story, _the pilot_. the time chosen is that of the revolution, and the hero is the famous adventurer john paul jones, introduced under another name. it was so new a thing to use the technicalities of ship life, and to describe the details of an evolution in a naval battle, that, familiar as he was with ocean life, cooper felt some doubts of his success. to test his power he read one day to an old shipmate that now famous account of the passage of the ship through the narrow channel. the effect was all that cooper hoped. the old sailor fell into a fury of excitement, paced up and down the room, and in his eagerness for a moment lived over again a stormy scene in his own life. satisfied with this experiment cooper finished the novel in content. _the pilot_ met with an instant success both in america and europe. as it was his first, so it is, perhaps, his best sea story. into it he put all the freshness of reminiscence, all the haunting memories of ocean life that had followed him since his boyhood. it was biographical in the same sense as _the pioneers_. a part of the romance of childhood drafted into the reality of after life. _the red rover_, the next sea story, came out in . by that time other novelists were writing tales of the sea, but they were mere imitations of _the pilot_. in _the red rover_ the genuine adventures of the sailor class were again embodied in the thrilling narrative that cooper alone knew how to write, and this book has always been one of the most popular of novels. the red rover, so called because of his red beard, and whose name gives the title to the book, is a well born englishman who has turned pirate, and whose daring adventures have made him famous along the coasts of america, europe and africa. the scene opens in the harbor of newport in the days when that town was the most important port of the atlantic coast, and from there is carried to the high seas, whereon is fought that famous last sea fight of the red rover, the description of which forms one of cooper's best efforts. _wing and wing_ is a tale of the mediterranean during the exciting days of privateers and pirates in the latter part of the eighteenth century. the great admiral, nelson, is introduced in this book, which abounds with incidents of the tropical seas and reflects much of cooper's experience during his apprenticeship on the sterling. the story is one of cooper's masterpieces, and, like so much of his work, has preserved in literature a phase of life that has forever passed away. in _the two admirals_ is introduced, for the first time in fiction, a description of the evolution of great fleets in action. the scene is taken from english history, and in many instances the story shows cooper at his best. _the water witch_, and _ned myers, or life before the mast_, a biography almost of cooper's own early life at sea, must be included among the tales which illustrate the author's genius as a writer of tales of the sea. nothing can be more different than the picture of leatherstocking and his indian friends in the forest retreats of nature and that of the reckless sailor race which found piracy and murder the only outcome for their fierce ambitions. yet both are touched with the art of a master, and both illustrate cooper's claim as one of the greatest masters of fiction. besides his _leather stocking tales_ and the sea stories cooper wrote novels, sketches of travel, essays on the social and political condition of america, and innumerable pamphlets in answer to attacks made upon him by adverse critics. but his rank in american literature will ever be determined by the _leather stocking tales_ and his best sea stories. his place is similar to that of scott in english literature, while he enjoys also the reputation of having opened a new and enchanted realm of fiction. next to hawthorne, he will long be held, probably, the greatest novelist that america has produced. with the exception of seven years abroad, cooper spent his life in his native land. while in europe he wrote some of his best novels, and though he grew to love the old world he never wavered in his devotion to america. cooper's popularity abroad was equalled only by that of scott. his works were translated and sold even in turkey, persia, egypt and jerusalem in the language of those countries. it was said by a traveller that the middle classes of europe had gathered all their knowledge of american history from cooper's works and that they had never understood the character of american independence until revealed by this novelist. in spite of defects of style and the poor quality of some of his stories, cooper has given to fiction many creations that must live as long as literature endures. he died in his sixty-second year at cooperstown. chapter v william cullen bryant - william cullen bryant was born in in a log farmhouse in the beautiful berkshire hills of western massachusetts. his father was the country doctor and the child was named after a celebrated physician. he began his school days in a log school-house beside a little brook that crept down from the hills and went singing on its way to the valley. all around stood the great forest-covered hills, haunted by wolves, bears, deer and wild-cats, which occasionally crept down even to the settlements carrying terror to the hearts of the women and children. wherever the slopes were cleared, the farm lands had taken possession, the forest often creeping up close to the little homes. from the door-yard of the bryant homestead the whole world seemed to be made up of hills and forest, and fertile fields, while in the woods grew the exquisite new england wild flowers, the laurel and azalea, the violet, the tiger lily, and the fringed gentian. here also lived the summer birds of new england, the robins, the blue bird and the thrush, haunting the woods from early spring until late autumn. all these sights and sounds sunk into the boy's heart and made themselves into a poem which he wrote down in words many years after, and which is as clear and fresh as the voice of the little brook itself after which it was named. this poem is called _the rivulet_ and it shows the poet-child standing upon the banks of the little stream listening to the song of the birds or gathering wild flowers. it was his first lesson in that wonder-book of nature from which he translated so much that was beautiful that he became the distinctive poet of the woods and streams. lessons from books he learned in the little log school-house, preparing himself for ordeals when the minister came to visit the school. at these times the pupils were dressed in their best and sat in solemn anxiety while the minister asked them questions out of the catechism and made them a long speech on morals and good behavior. on one of these occasions the ten-year-old poet declaimed some of his own verses descriptive of the school. in bryant's boyhood new england farm life was very simple. the farmers lived in log or slab houses, whose kitchens formed the living room, where the meals were generally taken. heat was supplied by the great fireplaces that sometimes filled one whole side of the kitchen and were furnished with cranes, spits, and pothooks. behind the kitchen door hung a bundle of birch rods with which mischievous boys were kept in order, and in the recess of the chimney stood the wooden settle where the children sat before bed-time to watch the fire or glance up through the wide chimney at the stars. here, when three years old, bryant often stood book in hand and with painful attention to gesture repeated one of watts's hymns, while his mother listened and corrected. here he prepared his lessons, and wrote those first childish poems so carefully criticised by his father, who was his teacher in the art of composition. in the poem called _a lifetime_ bryant long afterward described many incidents of his childhood and the influence of his father and mother upon his art, one developing his talent for composition, and the other directing his imagination to and enlisting his sympathies with humanity. this poem shows the boy by his mother's knee, reading the story of pharaoh and the israelites, of david and goliath, and of the life of christ. as he grew older bryant shared the usual amusements of country life. in the spring he took his turn in the maple-sugar camp; in the autumn he attended the huskings when the young people met to husk the corn in each neighborhood barn successively, until all was done. he helped at the cider-making bees, and the apple parings, when the cider and apple sauce were prepared for the year's need; and at the house raisings, when men and boys raised the frame of a neighbor's house or barn. in those times the farmers depended upon each other for such friendly aid, and the community seemed like one great family. on sunday everyone went three times to meeting, listened to long sermons, and sang out of the old bay psalm book. if any unlucky child fell asleep he was speedily waked up by the tithingman, who would tickle his nose with a hare's-foot attached to a long pole. once in a while a boy might be restless or noisy, and then he was led out of the meeting-house and punished with the tithingman's rod, a terrible disgrace. throughout his childhood bryant wrote verses upon every subject discussed in the family, and in those days new england families discussed all the great events of the time. the listening children became public-spirited and patriotic without knowing it. at thirteen bryant wrote a most scathing satire upon the policy of thomas jefferson, intended to make the president hang his head in shame. it was quoted in all the newspapers opposed to jefferson, and a second edition of this pamphlet was called for in a few months. bryant here prophesies the evils in store for the country if the president insisted on the embargo that was then laid upon american vessels, and advises him to retire to the bogs of louisiana and search for horned frogs; advice which jefferson did not feel called upon to follow. it was bryant's first introduction to the reading public, but it was not that path in literature that he was destined to follow. only one or two of his earliest verses give any hint of the poet of nature, though it was during this time that he absorbed those influences that directed his whole life. it is from the retrospective poem, _green river_, that we really know the boy bryant to whom the charm of sky and wood and singing brook was so unconscious that it seemed a part of life itself. in _green river_, written after he became a man, we hear the echoes of his young days, and we know that the boy's soul had already entered into a close communion with nature. but bryant had not yet reached manhood when the true voice of his heart was heard in the most celebrated poem that he ever wrote, and one of the most remarkable ever written by a youth. this was _thanatopsis_, which his father discovered among his papers and sent to the _north american review_ without his son's knowledge, so little did the poet of eighteen, who five years before had published the tirade against jefferson, realize that he had produced the most remarkable verses yet written in america. _thanatopsis_ attracted instant attention in this country and in england. it had appeared anonymously, and american critics insisted that it could not be the work of an american author as no native poet approached it either in sublimity of thought or perfection of style. but _thanatopsis_ bears no trace of english influence, nor was it strange that an heir of the puritan spirit, who had lived in daily communion with nature, should thus set to the music of poetry the hopes and inspirations of his race. _thanatopsis_ is the first great american poem, and it divides by a sharp line the poetry hitherto written on our soil from that which was to follow. henceforth the poets of the newer england ceased to find their greatest inspiration in the older land. at the time of the publication of the poem bryant was studying law in great barrington, mass., having been obliged by poverty to leave college after a two years' course. it was in the brief interval before beginning his office studies that he wrote _thanatopsis_ putting it aside for future revision. he was already hard at work upon his profession when his sudden literary success changed all his plans. destined by nature to be a man of letters, he poured forth verse and prose during the whole time he was studying and practising law. six months after the publication of _thanatopsis_ the poem entitled _to a waterfowl_, suggested by the devious flight of a wild duck across the sunset sky, appeared. it is a perfect picture of the reedy river banks, the wet marshes, and the lonely lakes over which the bird hovered, and it is full of the charm of nature herself. from this time on bryant's touch never faltered. he was the chosen poet of the wild beauty of his native hills and valleys, and his own pure spirit revealed the most sacred meanings of this beauty. in he published his first volume of poems under the title, _poems by william cullen bryant_. it was a little book of forty pages, containing _thanatopsis_, _green river_, _to a waterfowl_, and other pieces, among which was the charming, _the yellow violet_, a very breath of the spring. this little book was given to the world in the same year in which cooper published _the spy_ and irving completed _the sketch book_. in bryant removed to new york to assume the editorship of a monthly review, to which he gave many of his best-known poems. a year later he joined the staff of the _evening post_, with which he was connected until his death. from this time his life was that of a literary man. he made of the _evening post_ a progressive, public-spirited newspaper, whose field embraced every phase of american life. when he became its editor five days were required for the reports of the legislature at albany to reach new york, these being carried by mail coach. the extracts printed from english newspapers were a month old, and even this was considered enterprising journalism. all the despatches from different cities of the united states bore dates a fortnight old, while it was often impossible to obtain news at all. the paper contained advertisements of the stage lines to boston, philadelphia, and the west; accounts of projects to explore the centre of the earth by means of sunken wells; reports of the possibility of a railroad being built in the united states; advertisements of lottery tickets; a list of the unclaimed letters at the post-office, and usually a chapter of fiction. such was the newspaper of . during the fifty-two years of his editorship the united states were developed from a few struggling colonies bound together by common interests into one of the greatest of modern nations. and through all the changes incident to this career bryant stood always firm to the principles which he recognized as the true foundations of a country's greatness. when he was born the united states consisted of a strip of land lying between the atlantic and the alleghany mountains, of which more than half was unbroken wilderness. at his death the republic extended from the atlantic to the pacific and from the gulf to canada. his life-time corresponded with the growth of his country, and his own work was a noble contribution to the nation's prosperity. in all times of national trouble the _evening post_ championed the cause of justice, and bryant was everywhere respected as a man devoted above all to the "cause of america and of human nature." the conduct of the _evening post_ did not, however, interfere with his work as a poet, and in he published in one volume all the poems which he had written, most of which had previously appeared in magazines. a few months later an edition appeared in london with an introduction by irving. it was this volume which gave bryant an english reputation as great as that he enjoyed in america. like cooper, he revealed an unfamiliar nature as seen in american forests, hills, and streams, taking his readers with him into those solitary and quiet places where dwelt the wild birds and wild flowers. the very titles of his poems show how closely he lived to the life of the world around him. _the walk at sunset_, _the west wind_, _the forest hymn_, _autumn woods_, _the death of the flowers_, _the fringed gentian_, _the wind and stream_, _the little people of the snow_, and many others disclose how bryant gathered from every source the beauty which he translated into his verses. among the poems which touch upon the indian traditions are _the indian girl's lament_, _monument mountain_, and _an indian at the burial-place of his father_. in these he lingers upon the pathetic fate of the red man driven from the home of his race and forced into exile by the usurping whites. they are full of sadness, seeming to wake once again the memories of other times when the forest was alive with the night-fires of savage man and the days brought only the gladness of freedom. besides his original work bryant performed a noble task in the translation of the _iliad_ and _odyssey_ of homer. he was over seventy when he began this work, and was five years in completing it. the poems are put into blank verse, of which bryant was a master, and they have caught the very spirit of the old greek bard; so faithfully did the modern poet understand that shadowy past that he might have watched with helen the burning of troy, or journeyed with ulysses throughout his wanderings in the perilous seas. the light of bryant's imagination burned steadily to the end. in his eighty-second year he wrote his last important poem, _the flood of years_. it is a beautiful confession of faith in the nobility of life and the immortality of the soul, and a fitting crown for an existence so beneficent and exalted. his last public work was to participate in unveiling a monument to the italian statesman mazzini in central park, when he was the orator of the day. on the same evening he was seized with his last illness. he died on june , , and was buried at roslyn, long island, one of his favorite country homes. chapter vi william h. prescott - one of the stories that mankind has always liked to believe is that of the existence of a marvellous country whose climate was perfect, whose people were happy, whose king was wise and good, and where wealth abounded. the old travellers of the middle ages dreamed of finding this land somewhere in the far east. many books were written about it, and many tales told by knight and palmer of its rivers of gold, mines of precious stones, and treasure vaults of inexhaustible riches. but, although from time to time some famous traveller like marco polo or sir john mandeville described the great wealth of ormus or cathay, yet no one ever found the real country of his imagination, and the dream passed down from generation to generation unfulfilled. the spaniards called this country _el dorado_, and perhaps their vision of it was the wildest of all, for not only were they to find inexhaustible riches, but trees whose fruit would heal disease, magic wells which yielded happiness, and fountains of immortal youth. thus dreamed the spaniard of the fifteenth century, and when columbus found the new world it was believed that it included el dorado. leader after leader mustered his knights and soldiers and sought the golden country. they traversed forests, climbed mountains, forded rivers, and waded through swamps and morasses; they suffered hunger, thirst, and fever, and the savage hostility of the indians; they died by hundreds and were buried in unmarked graves, and expedition after expedition returned to spain to report the fruitlessness of their search. but the hope was not given up. new seekers started on the quest, and it seemed that the ships of spain could hardly hold her eager adventurers. in a strange way this dream of el dorado was realized. two soldiers of fortune, bolder, hardier, luckier than the rest, actually found not one country but two, which were in part at least like the golden world they sought. high upon the table-land of mexico and guarded by its snow-capped mountains they found the kingdom of the aztecs, with their vast wealth of gold and silver. safe behind the barrier of the andes lay the land of the incas, whose riches were, like those of ophir or cathay, not to be measured. both of these countries possessed a strange and characteristic civilization. in fact, even to this day, scholars are puzzled to know the source of the knowledge which these people possessed. in mexico hernando cortez found a government whose head was the king, supported by a tribunal of judges who governed the principal cities. if a judge took a bribe he was put to death. in the king's tribunal the throne was of gold inlaid with turquoises. the walls were hung with tapestry embroidered with figures of birds and flowers. over the throne was a canopy flashing with gold and jewels. there were officers to escort prisoners to and from court, and an account of the proceedings was kept in hieroglyphic paintings. all the laws of the kingdom were taught by these paintings to the people. the aztecs had orders of nobility and knighthood; they had a military code and hospitals for the sick. their temples glittered with gold and jewels, and they had ceremonies of baptism, marriage, and burial. they had monastic orders, astrologists and astronomers, physicians, merchants, jewellers, mechanics, and husbandmen. their palaces were treasure-houses of wealth. in fact, they were as unlike the indians of the eastern coast of america as the englishman of to-day is unlike the half-naked savage who in the early ages roamed through england, subsisting upon berries and raw flesh. in peru francisco pizarro found a great and powerful empire, ruled over by a wise sovereign. in the whole length and breadth of the land not one poor or sick person was left uncared for by the state. great highways traversed mountain passes and crossed ravines and precipices to the most distant parts of the kingdom. huge aqueducts of stone carried the mountain streams for hundreds of miles to the plains below. massive fortresses, whose masonry was so solid that it seemed part of the mountain itself, linked the cities together, and a postal system extended over the empire composed of relays of couriers who wore a peculiar livery and ran from one post to another at the rate of one hundred and fifty miles a day. the walls of temples and palaces were covered with plates of gold encrusted with precious stones. the raiment of the king and nobles was embroidered with jewels. the lakes in the royal court-yards were fringed with wild flowers brought from every corner of the empire and representing every degree of climate. in a word, it was the dream of el dorado fulfilled. although these two countries were alike peopled by races who had lived there since remote antiquity, neither had ever heard of the existence of the other, and thus we have the picture of two civilizations, very similar, springing up independently. the conquest of mexico by cortez in changed the entire life of the people. their forts and cities were ruined; three of their kings had fallen during the struggle; the whole country had been divided among the conquerors, and the aztecs were made slaves. cortez rebuilt the city of mexico and filled the country with cathedrals and convents. he tried to convert the natives to christianity, and mexico became spanish in its laws and institutions. but the old civilization had passed away; there was no more an aztec nation; and though in time the indians and spaniards formed together a new race, it did not partake of the spirit of the old. what cortez did for mexico, pizarro accomplished twelve years later in peru. on the death of their monarch, the inca, the peruvians lost spirit and were more easily conquered than the aztecs. peru became a spanish province, and, like mexico, was considered by the crown only as a treasure-house from which to draw endless wealth. no regret was felt for the two great and powerful nations that had ceased to exist. in the meantime the settlement of america went on rapidly. florida, the valley of the mississippi, canada, and new england became powerful colonies forming the nucleus of new countries, which had never heard of the civilizations of mexico and peru, and whose only knowledge of indians was gathered from the savage tribes from which they had wrested the soil. in the spanish historian solis wrote an account of the subjugation of mexico, in which the conquerors were portrayed in glowing colors. this work was read chiefly by scholars. in the english historian robertson gave in his _history of the new world_ a brilliant sketch of the spanish conquests in america. but not until was the world offered the detailed narrative of the conquest and ruin of the aztec empire. this work was from the pen of the american scholar, william h. prescott, who was already known as the author of a history of ferdinand and isabella of spain, a work which had brought him a european reputation. prescott was born in salem, mass., in , in an old elm-shaded house. from his earliest years he was a teller of stories, and had a high reputation among his boy friends as a romancer. walking to and from school with his companions he invented tale after tale, sometimes the narrative being continued from day to day, lessons and home duties being considered but tiresome interruptions to the real business of life. very often one of these stories begun on monday would be continued through the whole week, and the end be celebrated on saturday by a visit to the boston athenæum, into whose recesses he would beguile his fellows, while they buckled on the old armor found there, and played at joust and tournament, imagining themselves to be lancelot, ronsard, or bayard, as the case might be. a life of gibbon which prescott read in his teens led to an enthusiastic study of history and to the resolve to become if possible a historian himself. while a student at harvard one of his eyes was so injured by the carelessness of a fellow pupil that he lost the entire use of it; but he kept to the resolution to fulfil the task he had set for himself. his fame began with the publication of the _history of ferdinand and isabella_, which was published almost simultaneously in germany, france, spain, italy, and russia. it covers the history of spain from the moorish invasion through the period of national glory which illumined the reign of isabella. the civil wars, the jewish persecutions, the discovery of the new world, the expulsion of the moors, the italian wars, and the social life of the people, their arts and pursuits, their amusements, and the literature of that age, are vividly presented. the recognition of his merits was welcome to prescott. while doubting which subject to choose for his labors he had heard several lectures upon spanish literature, prepared for delivery at harvard college, and at once applied himself to the study of the spanish language, history, and romance as a preparation for his life work, and two years after began his celebrated work. the book was eleven years in preparation, and is full of enthusiasm for the romance and chivalry of the old world. prescott's _history of the conquest of mexico_ began with a sketch of the ancient aztec civilization, proceeded to a description of the conquest by cortez, and concluded with an account of the after career of the great commander, the whole work seeming a brilliant romance rather than sober history. the materials for prescott's work were gathered from every known available source. the narratives of eye-witnesses were brought forth from their hiding-places in the royal libraries of spain, and patiently transcribed; old letters, unpublished chronicles, royal edicts, monkish legends, every scrap of information attainable, was transmitted to the worker across the sea, who because of his partial blindness had to depend entirely upon others in the collection of his authorities. these documents were read to prescott by a secretary, who took notes under the author's direction; these notes were again read to him, and then after sifting, comparing and, retracing again and again the old ground, the historian began his work. he wrote upon a noctograph with an ivory stylus, as a blind man writes, and because of great physical weakness he was able to accomplish only a very little each day. but week by week the work grew. his marvellous memory enabled him to recall sixty pages of printed matter at once. his wonderful imagination enabled him to present the mexico of the sixteenth century as it appeared to the old spanish cavaliers, and as no historian had ever presented it before. he made of each episode of the great drama a finished and perfect picture. in fact, the _history of the conquest of mexico_ is more than anything else a historical painting wrought to perfection by the cunning of the master hand. prescott spent six years over this work, which enhanced his fame as a historian and kept for american literature the high place won by irving. indeed, irving himself had designed to write the history of the conquest of mexico, but withdrew in favor of prescott. three months after the publication of his work on mexico, prescott began the _history of the conquest of peru_, the materials for which had already been obtained. but these documents proved much more complete than those describing the mexican conquest. the conquest of mexico was achieved mainly by one man, cortez; but while pizarro was virtually the head of the expedition against peru, he was accompanied by others whose plans were often opposed to his own, and whose personal devotion could never be counted upon. each of these men held regular correspondence with the court of spain, and pizarro never knew when his own account of the capture of a city or settlement of a colony would be contradicted by the statement of one of his officers. after the capture and death of the inca, which was the real conquest of the country from the natives, pizarro was obliged to reconquer peru from his own officers, who quarrelled with him and among themselves continually. the conquest is shown to be a war of adventurers, a crusade of buccaneers, who wanted only gold. the sieges and battles of the spaniards read like massacres, and the story of the death of the inca like an unbelievable horror of the dark ages. this scene, contrasted with the glowing description of the former magnificence of the inca, shows prescott in his most brilliant mood as a writer. perhaps his greatest gift is this power of reproducing faithfully the actual spirit of the conquest, a spirit which, in spite of the glitter of arms and splendor of religious ceremonial, proves to have been one of greed and lowest selfishness. _the conquest of peru_, published in , when prescott was fifty-two years old, was the last of his historical works. these three histories, with three volumes of an uncompleted life of philip ii., which promised to be his greatest work, and a volume of essays comprise prescott's contribution to american literature, and begin that series of brilliant historical works of which american letters boast. prescott, during the most of his literary life, was obliged to sit quietly in his study, leaving to other hands the collection of the materials for his work. for, besides the accident which during his college life deprived him of one eye, he was always delicate. sometimes he would be kept for months in a darkened room, and at best his life was one of seclusion. the strife of the world and of action was not for him. in his library, surrounded by his books and assisted by his secretary, he sought for truth as the old alchemists sought for gold. patient and tireless he unravelled thread after thread of the fabric from which he was to weave the history of the spanish conquests. if prescott had had access to documents which have since come to light, if he had been able to visit the places he described, and to study their unwritten records, his work would have been a splendid and imperishable monument to the dead civilization of the aztec and peruvian. as it is, it must serve as a guiding light pointing to the right way, one which shed lustre on the new literature of his country and opened an unexplored region to the american writer. chapter vii john greenleaf whittier - in an old new england farm-house kitchen, a barefoot boy, dressed in homespun, one day sat listening to a lazy scotch beggar who piped the songs of burns in return for his meal of bread and cheese and cider. the beggar was good-natured, and the boy was an eager listener, and _bonnie doon_, _highland mary_, and _auld lang syne_ were trilled forth as the master himself may have sung them among the scottish "banks and braes." never before had the farmer boy heard of the famous peasant, and a new door was opened through which he passed into an undreamed of world. a few months later the school-master gave him a copy of burns's poems, and with this gift the boy became a poet himself. for these songs of roadsides and meadows, of ploughed fields and wet hedgerows, were to him familiar pictures of every-day life, whose poetry, once revealed, had to express itself in words. the boy was the son of john and abigail whittier, quaker farmers owning a little homestead in the valley of the merrimac, near the town of haverhill, mass. in honor of an ancestor he had been named john greenleaf whittier, the greenleaf, as he tells us in one of his poems, having become americanized from the french _feuille verte_, _green leaf_, a suggestion, perhaps, of far away days in which the family might have been men of the wood, keepers of the deer or forest guarders in france during feudal ages. in his boyhood, life in the merrimac valley was primitive enough. the house was small and plain, the kitchen being the living room, and the parlor dedicated to sunday and holiday use only. the floor was sanded and on the wide fire-place benches the men and children of the family sat at night to whittle axe-handles, mend shoes, crack nuts, or learn the next day's lessons. often a stranger was found among them; some quaker travelling on business, or a stranger on his way to some distant town, or perhaps a professional beggar to whom the hospitality of the place was well known. once when the mother had refused a night's shelter to an unprepossessing vagabond, john was sent out to bring him back. he proved to be an italian artisan, and after supper he told them of the italian grape gatherings and festivals, and of the wonderful beauty of italy, paying for his entertainment by presenting to the mother a recipe for making bread from chestnuts. sometimes the visitor would be an uncanny old crone who still believed in witches and fairies, and who told how her butter refused to come, or how her candle had been snuffed out by a witch in the form of a big black bug. one old woman in the neighborhood was renowned for her tales of ghosts, devils, fairies, brownies, sprenties, enchanted towers, headless men, haunted mills that were run at night by ghostly millers and witches riding on broom-sticks by the light of the full moon, and descending unguarded chimneys to lay their spells upon cream-pot and yeast-bowl. after such an evening's entertainment the boy needed courage to leave the bright kitchen fire and climb up the narrow stairs to the loft where he slept, and where the sound of the night-wind crept through the frosty rafters, and the voice of the screech-owl came dismally from the trees outside. haverhill boasted at that time its village conjurer, who could remove the spells of those wicked spirits, and whose gaunt form could be seen any day along the meadows and streams gathering herbs to be stewed and brewed into love-potions, cures for melancholy, spells against witchcraft, and other remedies for human ills. he was held in great respect by the inhabitants, and feared almost as much as the witches themselves. an ever-welcome guest at the whittiers was the school-master, whose head was full of the local legends, and whose tales of indian raids and of revolutionary struggles were regarded as authentic history. this yankee pedagogue, moreover, could, with infinite spirit and zest, retell the classic stories of the greek and latin poets. twice a year came to the little homestead the yankee pedler, with his supply of pins, needles, thread, razors, soaps, and scissors for the elders, and jack-knives for the boys who had been saving their pennies to purchase those treasures. he had gay ribbons for worldly minded maids, but these were never bought for quaker whittier's daughters. but to poet john's thinking the pedler's choicest wares were the songs of his own composing, printed with wood-cuts, which he sold at an astonishingly low price, or even, upon occasions, gave away. these songs celebrated earthquakes, fires, shipwrecks, hangings, marriages, deaths, and funerals. often they were improvised as the pedler sat with the rest around the hearth fire. if a wedding had occurred during his absence he was ready to versify it, and equally ready to lament the loss of a favorite cow. to whittier this gift of rhyming seemed marvellous, and in after years he described this wandering minstrel as encircled, to his young eyes, with the very nimbus of immortality. such was the home-life of this barefooted boy, who drove the cows night and morning through the dewy meadows, and followed the oxen, breaking the earth into rich brown furrows, whose sight and smell suggested to him always the generous bounty of nature. from early spring, when the corn was planted in fields bordered by wild rose-bushes, to late autumn, when the crop lay bound into glistening sheaves, his life was one of steady toil, lightened sometimes by a day's fishing in the mountain streams or by a berrying excursion up among the hills. in cold weather he went to school in the little school-house that he celebrates in one of his poems, and very often, as he confessed, he was found writing verses instead of doing sums on his slate. this old phase of new-england life has now passed away, but he has preserved its memory in three poems, which are in a special sense biographical. these poems are, _the barefoot boy_, _my schoolmaster_, and _snow-bound_. the first two are simple, boyish memories, but the last is a description not only of his early home, but of the new-england farm life, and is a puritan idyl. all are full of the idealization of childhood, for the poet could never break loose from the charm which had enthralled him as a boy. the poetry of common life which lay over the meadow lands and fields of grain, which gave a voice to the woodland brook, and glorified the falling rain and snow, was felt by whittier, when, as a child, he paused from his work to listen to the robin's song among the wheat or watch the flocks of clouds making their way across the summer sky. when he was nineteen years of age the country-side mail-carrier one day rode up to the farm and took from his saddle-bags the weekly paper, which he tossed to the boy, who stood mending a fence. with trembling eagerness whittier opened it, and saw in the "poet's corner" his first printed poem. he had sent it with little hope that it would be accepted, and the sight of it filled him with joy, and determined his literary career. a few months later the editor of the paper, william lloyd garrison, drove out to the homestead to see the young verse-maker. whittier was called from the field where he was hoeing, and in the interview that followed garrison insisted that such talent should not be thrown away, and urged the youth to take a course of study at some academy. but, although the farm supplied the daily needs of the family, money was scarce, and the sum required for board and tuition was impossible to scrape together. a young farm assistant, however, offered to teach whittier the trade of shoemaking, and his every moment of leisure was thereafter spent in learning this craft. during the following winter the lad furnished the women of the neighborhood with good, well-made shoes, and with the money thus earned he entered haverhill academy in april, , being then in his twentieth year. for the next six months his favorite haunts in field and wood were unvisited, except on the saturdays and sundays spent with his family. he gained some reputation as a poet by the publication of the ode which he wrote in honor of the new academy, and although he returned to the farm after six months of study, it was only to earn more money for further schooling. his poems and sketches now began to appear in the different newspapers and periodicals, and he did some editing for various papers. this work brought him into notice among literary people, but it was his political convictions that first gave him a national reputation. from the first whittier stood side by side with william lloyd garrison in his crusade against slavery, and many of his best poems appeared in the _liberator_, garrison's own paper. these poems, with others, were collected in a volume called _voices of freedom_. it was these songs, which rushed onward like his own mountain brooks, that made whittier known from one end of the country to the other as an apostle of liberty. all whittier's poems of this period belong to the political history of the country, of which they are as much a part as the war records. in all this work there is no trace of bitterness or enmity. his songs of freedom were but the bugle-notes calling the nation to a higher humanity. like the old hebrew prophets, he spared not his own, and many of his most burning words are a summons to duty to his brothers in the north. if he could remind the south that the breath of slavery tainted the air "that old dekalb and sumter drank," he could also, in _barbara frietchie_, pay loving tribute to the noble heart of one of her best-loved sons. his was the dream of the great nation to be--his spirit that of the preacher who saw his people unfaithful to the high trust they had received as guardians of the land which the world had been taught to regard as the home of liberty. it was this high conception that gave to his work its greatest power, and that made whittier, above all others, the poet of freedom; so that although the mission of these poems has ceased, and as literature they will not appeal to succeeding generations as forcibly as they did to their own, as a part of national history they will be long preserved. whittier's other poems deal so largely with the home-life of his day that he is called the poet of new england. all its traditions, memories, and beliefs are faithfully recorded by him. in _snow-bound_ we have the life of the new-england farmer. in _mabel martin_ we see again the old puritan dogmatism hunting down witches, burning or hanging them, and following with relentless persecution the families of the unhappy wretches who thus came under the ban. in _mogg megone_ is celebrated in beautiful verse one of those legends of indian life which linger immortally around the pines of new england, while the _grave by the lake_, the _changeling_, the _wreck of rivermouth_, the _dead ship of harpswell_, and others in the collection called the _tent on the beach_, revive old traditions of those early days when history mingled with legend and the belief in water-spirits and ghostly warnings had not yet vanished. in some exquisite ballads, such as _school days_, we have the memory of the past, fresh as the wild violets which the poet culled as a boy, while _maud muller_ is a very idyl of a new-england harvest-field in the poet's youth. in _among the hills_ we have some of whittier's best poems of country life, while many minor poems celebrate the hills and streams of which he was so fond. whittier wrote, also, many beautiful hymns, and his poems for children, such as _king solomon and the ants_ and _the robin_, show how easy it was for his great heart to enter into the spirit of childhood. _child life_, his compilation of poems for childhood, is one of the best ever made, while another compilation, called _songs of three centuries_, shows his wide familiarity and appreciation of all that is great in english poetry. after the sale of the old home of his childhood whittier lived in the house at amesbury, which for many years his sister shared. his last collection of poems, called _sundown_, was published in , for some friends only, as a memento of his eightieth birthday. he died two years later, and was buried in the yard of the friends' meeting-house in amesbury, a short distance from his birthplace. chapter viii nathaniel hawthorne - in the town of salem, in massachusetts, was the most important seaport in america. with the regularity of the tides its ships sailed to china, the east indies, the feejee islands, south america, and the west indies, and its seamen were as well known in the harbors of these distant places as in their native town. throughout the revolution salem, with some neighboring smaller ports, was the hope of the colonists. no american navy existed; but the merchants and marines turned their vessels into ships of war, and under the name of privateers swept the seas of british cruisers, capturing in six years over four hundred and fifty prizes. during the war of , again, the naval service was led by the hardy salem captains, and the brave little seaport gave generously to the cause of the nation. salem from the first was identified with american independence. upon her hillsides one memorable day the inhabitants gathered to watch the fight between the chesapeake and the shannon, and through her streets, a few weeks later, the body of the heroic lawrence was borne in state. among the thronging crowds that day must have wandered the boy nathaniel hawthorne, then in his tenth year. born in salem, he came of a line of seafaring men who had fought their way to fame and fortune in the teeth of wind and wave; his family having its american beginning at the time when indian and white man alike made their homes in the shadowy aisles of the new-england forests. these ocean-roving ancestors were among the first to take an american ship to st. petersburg, sumatra, australia, and africa. they fought pirates, overcame savages, suffered shipwreck and disaster, and many of them found their graves in the waters of some foreign sea. hawthorne's own father was lost on a voyage. from this race of hardy sailors hawthorne inherited the patience, courage, and endurance which were the basis of his character, a character touched besides by that melancholy and love of solitude which is apt to distinguish those born by the sea. it is this combination, perhaps, of puritan steadfastness of purpose and wild adventurous life that descended to hawthorne in the form of the most exquisite imagination tinctured with the highest moral aspirations. it was the sturdy, healthy plant of puritanism blossoming into a beautiful flower. in this old town of salem, with its quaint houses, with their carved doorways and many windows, with its pretty rose-gardens, its beautiful overshadowing elms, its dingy court-house and celebrated town-pump, hawthorne passed his early life, his picturesque surroundings forming a suitable environment for the handsome, imaginative boy who was to create the most beautiful literary art that america had yet known. behind the town stood old witch hill, grim and ghastly with memories of the witches hanged there in colonial times. in front spread the sea, a golden argosy of promise, whose wharves and warehouses held priceless stores of merchandise. between this haunting spirit of the past and the broader, newer life of the future, hawthorne walked with the serene hope of the youth of that day. the old, intolerant puritanism had passed away. only the fine gold remained as the priceless treasure of the new generation. hawthorne's boyhood was much like that of any other boy in salem town. he went to school and to church, loved the sea and prophesied that he should go away on it some day and never return, was fond of reading, and ready to fight with any school-fellows who had, as he expressed it, "a quarrelsome disposition." he was a healthy, robust lad, finding life a good thing whether he was roaming the streets, sitting idly on the wharves, or stretched on the floor at home reading a favorite author. almost all boys who have become writers have liked the same books, and hawthorne, like his fellows, lived in the magic world of shakespeare and milton, spenser, froissart, and bunyan. _the pilgrim's progress_ was an especial favorite with him, its lofty spirit carrying his soul into those spiritual regions which the child mind reverences without understanding. for one year of his boyhood he was supremely happy in the wild regions of sebago lake, me., where the family lived for a time. here, he says, he led the life of a bird of the air, with no restraint and in absolute freedom. in the summer he would take his gun and spend days in the forest, doing whatever pleased his vagabond spirit at the moment. in the winter he would follow the hunters through the snow, or skate till midnight alone upon the frozen lake with only the shadows of the hills to keep him company, and sometimes pass the remainder of the night in a solitary log cabin, warmed by the blaze of the fallen evergreens. but he had to return to salem to prepare for college, whither he went in , in his seventeenth year. he entered bowdoin, and had among his fellow-students henry wadsworth longfellow, and franklin pierce, afterward president of the united states. here hawthorne spent happy days, and long afterward, in writing to an old college friend, he speaks of the charm that lingers around the memory of the place when he gathered blueberries in study hours, watched the great logs drifting down the current of the androscoggin from the lumber districts above, fished in the forest streams, and shot pigeons and squirrels in hours which should have been devoted to the classics. in this same letter, which forms the dedication to one of his books, he adds that it is this friend, if any one, who is responsible for his becoming a writer, as it was here, in the shadow of the tall pines which sheltered bowdoin college, that the first prophecy concerning his destiny was made. he was to be a writer of fiction, the friend said, little dreaming of the honors that were to crown one of the great novelists of the world. after leaving bowdoin hawthorne returned to salem, where he passed the next twelve years of his life. here he produced, from time to time, stories and sketches which found their way to the periodicals and won for him a narrow reputation. but the years which a man usually devotes to his best work were spent by hawthorne in a contented half-dream of a great future, for good as is some of the work produced at this time, it never would have won for the author the highest place in american literature. these stories and sketches were afterward collected and published under the title _twice-told tales_ and _the snow image_. full of the grace and beauty of hawthorne's style, they were the best imaginative work yet produced in america, but in speaking of them hawthorne himself says that in this result of twelve years there is little to show for its thought and industry. but the promise of his genius was fulfilled at last. in , when hawthorne was forty-six years old, appeared his first great romance. hawthorne had chosen for his subject a picture of puritan times in new england, and out of the tarnished records of the past he created a work of art of marvellous and imperishable beauty. in the days of which he wrote, a puritan town was exactly like a large family bound together by mutual interests, the acts of each life being regarded as affecting the whole community. hawthorne has preserved this spirit of colonial new england, with all its struggles, hopes, and fears, and the conscience-driven puritan, who lived in the new generation only in public records and church histories, was given new life. in hawthorne's day this grim figure, stalking in the midst of indian fights, village pillories, town-meetings, witch-burnings, and church-councils was already a memory. with his steeple-crowned hat and his matchlock at his side he had left the pleasant new-england farm lands and was found only in the court-houses, where his deeds were recorded. hawthorne brought him back from the past, set him in the midst of his fellow-elders in the church, and showed him a sufferer for conscience' sake. this first romance, published under the title _the scarlet letter_, revealed to hawthorne himself, as well as to the world outside, the transcendent power of his genius. hawthorne, who was despondent of the little popularity of his other books, told the publisher who saw the first sketch of _the scarlet letter_, that he did not know whether the story was very good or very bad. the publisher, however, at once perceived its worth and brought it out one year from that time, and the public saw that it had been entertaining a genius unawares. hawthorne's next book, _the house of the seven gables_, is a story of the new england of his own day. a clever critic has called it an impression of a summer afternoon in an elm-shadowed new-england town. through its pages flit quaint contrasting figures that one might find in new england and nowhere else. the old spinster of ancient family, obliged to open a toy and gingerbread shop, but never forgetting the time when the house with seven gables was a mansion of limitless hospitality, is a pathetic picture of disappointed hope and broken-down fortune. so is her brother, who was falsely imprisoned for twenty years, and who in his old age must lean upon his sister for support; and the other characters are equally true to the life that has almost disappeared in the changes of the half-century since its scenes were made the inspiration of hawthorne's romance. _the house of the seven gables_ was followed by two beautiful volumes for children, _the wonder book_ and _tanglewood tales_. in _the wonder book_ hawthorne writes as if he were a child himself, so simple is the charm that he weaves around these old, old tales. not content with the greek myths, he created little incidents and impossible characters that glance in and out with elfin grace. one feels that these were the very stories that were told by the centaurs, fauns, and satyrs themselves in the shadows of the old attic forests. here we learn that king midas not only had his palace turned to gold, but that his own little daughter, marigold, a fancy of hawthorne's own, was also converted into the same shining metal. we learn, too, the secrets of many a hero and god of this realm of fancy which had been unsuspected by any other historian of their deeds. every child who reads _the wonder book_ doubts not that hawthorne had hobnobbed many a moonlit night with pan and bacchus in their vine-covered grottos by the riverside. this dainty, ethereal touch appears in all his work for children. a like quality gives distinction to his fourth great novel, which deals with a man supposed to be a descendant of the old fauns. this creation, named donatello, from his resemblance to the celebrated statue of the marble faun, is not wholly human, although he has human interests and feeling. hawthorne makes donatello ashamed of his pointed ears, though his spirit is as wild and untamed as that of his rude ancestors. in this book there is a description of a scene where count donatello joins in a peasant dance around a public fountain. and so vividly is his half-human nature here brought out that hawthorne seems to have witnessed somewhere the mad revels of the veritable fauns and satyrs in the days of their life upon the earth. throughout this story hawthorne shows the same subtle sympathy with uncommon natures, the mystery of such souls having the same fascination for him that the secrets of the earth and air have for the scientist and philosopher. the book coming between _the house of the seven gables_ and _the marble faun_ is called _the blithedale romance_. it is in part the record of a period of hawthorne's life when he joined a community which hoped to improve the world by combining healthy manual labor with intellectual pursuits, and proving that self-interest and all differences in rank must be hurtful to the commonwealth. this little society lived in a suburb of boston, and called their association brook farm. each member performed daily some manual labor on the farm or in the house, hours being set aside for study. here hawthorne ploughed the fields and joined in the amusements, or sat apart while the rest talked about art and literature, danced, sang, or read shakespeare aloud. some of the cleverest men and women of new england joined this community, the rules of which obliged the men to wear plaid blouses and rough straw hats, and the women to content themselves with plain calico gowns. these serious-minded men and women, who tried to solve a great problem by leading the lives of arcadian shepherds, at length dispersed, each one going back to the world and working on as bravely as if the experiment had been a great success. the experiences of brook farm were shadowed forth in _the blithedale romance_, although it was not a literal narrative. immediately after this hawthorne was married and went to live in concord, near boston, in a quaint old dwelling called the manse. and as all his work partakes of the personal flavor of his own life, so his existence here is recorded in a delightful series of essays called _mosses from an old manse_. here we have a description of the old house itself, and of the author's family life, of the kitchen-garden and apple-orchards, of the meadows and woods, and of his friendship with that lover of nature, henry thoreau, whose writings form a valuable contribution to american literature. the _mosses from an old manse_ must ever be famous as the history of the quiet hours of one of the greatest american men of letters. they are full of hawthorne's own personality, and reveal more than any other of his books the depth and purity of his poetic and rarely gifted nature. in his old friend and schoolmate, president pierce, appointed hawthorne american consul at liverpool. he remained abroad seven years, spending the last four on the continent, some transcriptions of his experience being found in the celebrated _marble faun_ and in several volumes of _note-books_. _the marble faun_, published in europe under the title _transformation_, was written in rome, and was partly suggested to hawthorne by an old villa which he occupied near florence. this old villa possessed a moss-covered tower, "haunted," as hawthorne said in a letter to a friend, "by owls and by the ghost of a monk who was confined there in the thirteenth century previous to being burnt at the stake in the principal square in florence." he also states in the same letter that he meant to put the old castle bodily in a romance that was then in his head, which he did by making the villa the old family castle of donatello, although the scene of the story is laid in rome. after hawthorne's return to america he began two other novels, one founded upon the old legend of the elixir of life. this story was probably suggested to him by thoreau, who spoke of a house in which hawthorne once lived at concord having been, a century or two before, the abode of a man who believed that he should never die. this subject was a charming one for hawthorne's peculiar genius, but the story, with another, _the dolliver romance_, was interrupted by the death of hawthorne in . in point of literary art the romances of hawthorne are the finest work yet done in america, and their author was a man of high imagination, lofty morality, and pure ideals; an artist in the noblest meaning of the word. chapter ix george bancroft - seventy years ago the round hill school at northampton, mass., was perhaps the most famous school in new england. the founder, george bancroft, had modelled it upon a celebrated school in switzerland, in the hope that it would prove a starting-point for a broader system of elementary training than had yet existed in america, and everything was done to develop the physical and moral, as well as the mental, traits of the pupils. the school was beautifully situated, commanding a superb view, and had, besides the school-rooms, a gymnasium and play-rooms that were kept warm in cold weather and furnished with tools for carpentering. here the boys could make bows and arrows, squirrel-traps, kites, sleds, and whatever their fancy dictated. there were large play-grounds on the slopes of the hill, and here was the village of "cronyville," every house, hut, or shanty in which had been built and was owned by the boys themselves. there were many varieties of architecture in "cronyville," but each dwelling had at least a large chimney and a small store-room. after school hours each shanty was its owner's castle, where entertainments were held, and the guests feasted with roasted corn, nuts, or apples, which the entire company had helped to prepare on the hearth of the wide chimney. sometimes the feast was enlivened by recitations, poems, and addresses by the pupils, among whom was at one time the future historian, john lothrop motley, and very often the festivities would end in one of those earnest talks that boys fall into sometimes when tired out with play. bancroft's assistant and partner in the school was dr. cogswell, who superintended the course of study, which was carried out by the best teachers procurable in america, england, and france. the boys were in the main good students, some of them brilliant ones, and they enjoyed so much freedom that their spirits gained them sometimes an unenviable reputation. the solemn keeper of a certain inn on the stage line between northampton and boston suffered so much from their pranks that he refused to allow them to stop over night, and only consented to give them dinner upon promise of good behavior. the school became so popular that the best families in all parts of the country sent their boys there, but, financially, it was not a success, and after seven years' trial bancroft was forced to abandon it, though his partner struggled on a few years longer. if the experiment had been entirely successful the cause of education might have been advanced fifty years ahead of the old method, for both founders were men devoted to the cause of education and longed to see newer and broader methods supersede the old ones. as a boy bancroft had studied at the exeter academy; finishing his course there he entered harvard at thirteen, was graduated in his seventeenth year, and a year later was sent abroad by harvard to fit himself for a tutorship in the university. during his four years' absence he studied modern languages and literatures, greek philosophy and antiquities, and some natural history. but he made history the special object of study, and bent all his energies to acquiring as wide a knowledge as possible of the sources and materials that make up the records of modern history. during his vacations he visited the different countries of europe, travelling in regular student fashion. he would rise at dawn, breakfast by candlelight, and then fill the morning with visits to picture galleries, cathedrals, and all the wonders of foreign towns; after a light luncheon he would start again on his sight-seeing, or visit some person of note, meeting during his travels almost every distinguished man in europe. at night, if not too tired, he would study still politics, languages, and history, and when he returned to america he had made such good use of his time that he was equipped for almost any position in its intellectual life. his obligations to harvard led him to accept a tutorship there, which, however, proved so distasteful to him that he only held it one year. it was after this experience that he founded his school at round hill. during the years that he was trying to make the round hill school a model for boys' schools, the idea of his work as the historian of the united states came to him. undismayed by the scope of the work, which he meant should include the history of the united states from the time of the landing of columbus to the adoption of the constitution in , bancroft, month after month, settled the plan more definitely in his mind; and when the time came for him to begin the work he only looked forward eagerly to the task of writing the records of three hundred years of the world's progress during the most absorbing period known to history. it is doubtful if at this time there was any other man living better qualified for this task than bancroft. he had been a student of history and politics since boyhood. he had traced the stream of history from its sources in the east through the rise of the great modern nations. he had mastered the politics of the ancient world, whose language, literature, and art were also familiar to him, and civilized europe had been his field of study during the years which leave the most profound impressions upon the mind. to him the rise and establishment of the united states as a great nation presented itself as one of the most brilliant passages of the world's history, and no labor seemed tiresome which should fittingly chronicle that event. besides his literary requirements bancroft possessed eminent qualities for practical life. he was successively governor of massachusetts, secretary of the navy, and for a time acting-secretary of war; he served his country as minister to great britain. he was made minister to prussia and afterward minister to germany when that country took its place as a united nation. some of the most important treaties between the united states and foreign powers were made during bancroft's diplomatic career, and in every act of his political life showed a talent for practical affairs. while he was secretary of the navy he founded the united states naval academy at annapolis. previous to this there was no good system by which the boys who desired to enter the navy could receive instruction in any other branch than that of practical seamanship. in the old navy the middies were taught, while afloat, by the chaplains, who gave them lessons in odd hours in writing, arithmetic, and navigation; if the pupils were idle they were reported to the captain, whose discipline was far from gentle. a boy eager to learn could pick up a great deal by asking questions and noticing what was going on about him, and sometimes the officers would volunteer their help in a difficult subject. later each ship had one regular school-master, who made the voyage with the ship, twenty middies being appointed to each man-of-war. this system was superseded by schools, which were established at the different navy-yards, and which the boys attended in the intervals of sea duty; but, as in the case of the other methods, the instruction was desultory, and the pupils had not the advantage of education enjoyed by the cadets of the west point military academy, though it was evident the necessity for it was the same. bancroft brought to the office of secretary of the navy his old love for broad principles of education, and eight months after he took office the united states naval academy was in full operation, with a corps of instructors of the first merit, and with a complement of pupils that spoke well for the national interest in the cause. at first the course was for five years, the first and last of which only were spent at the academy and the rest at sea, but this was later modified to its present form. bancroft's generous policy placed the new institution upon a firm basis, and it became at once a vital force in the life of the united states navy. bancroft began his history while still at round hill, and published the first volume in . previous to beginning his history he had published a small volume of verse, a latin reader, and a book on greek politics for the use of the round hill school, and various translations and miscellaneous writings in the different periodicals of the day. but none of these had seemed serious work to him, and he brought to his history a mind fresh to literary labor, and a fund of general information that was invaluable. while he was minister to great britain he visited the state archives of england, france, and germany for additional historical material. from this time he devoted himself as exclusively to his work as the diplomatic positions he held would allow. his official administration in his own country was also far-reaching. besides the establishment of the naval academy, it was he who, while acting as secretary of war _pro tem._, gave the famous order for general taylor to move forward to the western boundary of texas, which had been annexed to the united states after seceding from mexico and setting up as a republic. general taylor's appearance on the borders was the signal to mexico that the united states intended to defend the new territory, and eventually led to the war with mexico, by which the united states received the territory of new mexico and california. when the lookout on the pinta called out "land ho!" he really uttered the first word of american history, and bancroft's narrative begins almost at this point. the first volume embraces the early french and spanish voyages; the settlement of the colonies; descriptions of colonial life in new england and virginia; the fall and restoration of the house of stuart in england, which led to such important results in american history, and bacon's rebellion in virginia, which was the first note of warning to england that the american colonies would not tolerate english injustice without a protest. to the reader who loves to find in history facts more marvellous than any imaginations of fairy lore, the first volume of bancroft's history must ever be a region of delight. the picturesque figure of columbus fronting undismayed the terrors of that unknown sea, which the geographers of the period peopled with demons and monsters; the adventures of the french and spanish courtiers in search of fabled rivers and life-giving fountains; the trials of the gold-seekers, de soto, navarez, cabeça de vaca, and others, who sought for the riches of the romantic east; and the heroic suffering of those innumerable bands who first looked upon the wonders of the new world, and opened the way to its great career, are such stories as are found in the sober history of no other country. to the old world, whose beginnings of history were lost in the mists of the past, this vision of the new world, with its beauty of mountains, river, and forest, with its inexhaustible wealth and its races yet living in the primitive conditions of remote antiquity, was indeed a wonder hardly to be believed. it is something to be present at the birth of a new world, and bancroft has followed the voyagers and settlers in their own spirit, made their adventures his own, and given to the reader a brilliant as well as faithful picture of the historic beginning of the american continent. in his second volume bancroft takes up the history of the dutch in america; of the occupations of the valley of the mississippi by the french; of the expulsion of the french from canada by the english, and the minor events which went toward the accomplishment of these objects. here are introduced the romantic story of acadia and the picturesque side of indian life. "the indian mother places her child, as spring does its blossoms, upon the boughs of the trees while she works," says bancroft in describing the sleeping-places of the indian babies, and we see the same sympathetic touch throughout his descriptions of these dark children of the forest, to whom the white man came as a usurper of their rights and destroyer of their woodland homes. the remaining volumes of the history consist almost entirely of the causes which led up to the american revolution, the revolution itself, and its effect upon europe. one-half of the whole work is devoted to this theme, which is treated with a philosophical breadth that makes it comparable to the work of the greatest historians. here we are led to see that, besides its influence upon the history of the new world, the american revolution was one of the greatest events in the world's history; that it followed naturally from the revolt of the netherlands against spain and the revolution of the english people against the tyranny of charles i., and that, like them, its highest mission was to vindicate the cause of liberty. in two other volumes, entitled _history of the formation of the constitution of the united states_, bancroft gave a minute and careful description of the consolidation of the states into an individual nation after the revolution, and the draughting and adopting of the constitution by which they have since been governed. this, with some miscellaneous papers, among which may be mentioned the dramatic description of the battle of lake erie, comprise the remainder of bancroft's contribution to american literature. bancroft said that there were three qualities necessary to the historian: a knowledge of the evil in human nature; that events are subordinate to law, and that there is in man something greater than himself. to these qualifications, which he himself eminently possessed, may be added that of untiring industry, which distinguished his work. a passage was written over and over again, sometimes as many as eight times, until it suited him. and he was known to write an entire volume over. he carried his labor into his old age, being eighty-four years of age when he made the last revision of the history which had occupied fifty years of his life. his diplomatic career also extended over many years, he being seventy-four when at his own request the government recalled him from the court of berlin where he was serving as minister. bancroft died in , in his ninety-second year. the most famous of his own countrymen united in tributes to his memory, and the sovereigns of europe sent wreaths to place upon his coffin. as historian, diplomatist, and private citizen, he had honored his country as is the privilege of few. chapter x edgar allan poe - in the play-ground of an old-fashioned english school the boy edgar allan poe, then in his ninth year, first entered that world of day-dreams, whose wonders he afterward transcribed so beautifully in his prose and poetry. the school was situated in the old town of stoke newington, and the quaint, sleepy village, with its avenues shaded by ancient trees and bordered by fragrant shrubberies, and with its country stillness broken only by the chime of the church-bell tolling the hour, seemed to the boy hardly a part of the real world. in describing it in after years he speaks of the dream-like and soothing influence it had upon his early life. the school building, also the village parsonage, as the master of the school was a clergyman, had a similar effect; it was a large, rambling house, whose passages and rooms had a labyrinthine irregularity which charmed the young student and made him regard it almost as a place of enchantment. it had many nooks and corners in which one might lose one's self and dream day-dreams out of the books, poetry and history, with which it was pretty well stocked. the school-room itself was low-walled and ceiled with oak, and filled with desks and benches that had been hacked and hewed by generations of boys. it was of great size, and seemed to poe the largest in the world. in this room he studied mathematics and the classics, while in the play-ground outside, which was surrounded by brick walls topped with mortar and broken glass, he spent many of his leisure hours, taking part in those sports so loved by the english school-boy. the boys were allowed beyond the grounds only three times in a week; twice on sunday, when they went to church, and once during the week, when, guarded by two ushers, they were taken a solemn walk through the neighboring fields. all the rest of life lay within the walls that separated the school from the village streets. in this quiet spot poe spent five years of his life, speaking of them afterward as most happy years and rich in those poetic influences which formed his character. in his thirteenth year he left england and returned to america with his adopted parents, mr. and mrs. allan, of baltimore, spending the next four or five years of his life partly in their beautiful home and partly at school in richmond. the parents of poe had died in his infancy. they had both possessed talent, his mother having been an actress of considerable repute, and from them he inherited gentle and winning manners and a talent for declamation, which, combined with his remarkable personal beauty, made him a favorite in the allan home, where he was much petted and caressed. the child returned the interest of his adopted parents, and though he was sometimes wilful and obstinate he never failed in affection. to mrs. allan especially he always showed a devotion and gratitude that well repaid her for the love and care she had bestowed upon the orphan child. though fond of books, especially books of poetry, and loving to be alone in some quiet place where he could indulge in the day-dreams that formed so large a part of his life, poe yet had the fondness of a healthy boy for athletic sports, and some of his feats of strength are still found recorded in the old newspapers of baltimore. once on a hot day he swam a distance of seven miles on the james river against a swift tide; in a contest he leaped twenty-one feet on a level, and in other feats of strength he also excelled. he was very fond of animals, and was always surrounded by pets which returned his affection with interest, and which, with the flowers he loved to tend and care for, took up many of his leisure hours. when he was seventeen poe entered the university of virginia, where he remained not quite a year, distinguishing himself as a student of the classics and modern languages. upon his return to baltimore he had a disagreement with his foster-father because of some college debts, and though poe was very much in the wrong he refused to admit it, and, leaving the house in a fit of anger, went to live with his aunt, mrs. clemm. he had already published a volume of poems, and now being forced to depend upon himself he issued a second edition. but this brought him neither fame nor money, and after a two years' struggle with poverty he was glad to accept a cadetship at west point, obtained for him through the influence of mr. allan. mrs. allan had in the meantime died, and in her death poe lost his best friend, one who had been ever ready to forgive his faults, to believe in his repentance, and to have faith in his promises of amendment. poe was charmed with the life at west point, and in his first enthusiasm decided that a soldier's career was the most glorious in the world. the hard study, the strict discipline, the rigid law and order of cadet life seemed only admirable, and he soon stood at the head of his class. but it was impossible that this enthusiasm should last long. poe was endowed by nature with the dreamy and artistic temperament of the poet, and discipline and routine could not fail to become in a short time unbearable. when this period arrived the prospective life of the soldier lost its charm, and he was seized with a desire to leave the academy and bid a final farewell to military life. it was impossible to do this without the consent of his guardian, and as mr. allan refused this, poe was forced to carry his point in his own way. this he did by lagging in his studies, writing poetry when he should have been solving problems, and refusing point blank to obey orders. military discipline could not long brook this. poe was court-martialed, and, pleading guilty, was discharged from the academy, disgraced but happy. during his stay there he had published a third edition of his poems, containing a number of pieces not included in the other editions. it was dedicated to his fellow-cadets, and was subscribed for by many of the students. almost immediately after his departure from west point, poe went to live with his aunt, mrs. clemm, and her daughter virginia, who afterward became his wife; and from this time forward he never seems to have had any serious idea of a career otherwise than literary. in , when he was in his twenty-fourth year, prizes were offered by a baltimore paper for the best short story and best poem that should be presented. among the material offered in competition the judges found a small collection of tales bound together, and written in neat roman characters. these stories were the last ones read by the committee which had about decided that there had been nothing offered worthy the prize; their unmistakable signs of genius were instantly recognized. it was decided that the prize of one hundred dollars belonged to this author, and out of the series the story entitled _a manuscript found in a bottle_ was selected as the prize tale, though all were so excellent that it was difficult to determine which was best. this little volume had been submitted by poe, and when the poetry came to be examined it was found also that the best poem in the collection was his. he was not, however, awarded the prize for poetry, that being given to another competitor, whose work the committee thought worthy the second prize, in view of the fact that poe had obtained the first. it was in this manner that poe was introduced to the world of literature, his previous productions having excited no attention other than that generally given to the work of a clever or erratic boy. the workmanship of these stories was so fine and the genius so apparent as to give them a distinct place in american fiction, a place to which at that time the promise of hawthorne pointed. besides the reputation and money thus earned, the story brought him a stanch friend in the person of mr. kennedy, one of the members of the committee, who, from that time, was devoted to the interests of the young author. poe now became busy with the composition of those beautiful tales which appeared from time to time in the periodicals of the day, and which speedily won him a reputation both in america and europe. he was also employed in editorial work for different magazines, and became known as the first american critic who had made criticism an art. it was his dream at this time to establish a magazine of his own, and for many years one project after another with this object in view was tried and abandoned. he was never able to start the magazine and felt the disappointment keenly always. through all his disappointments he still lived much in that dream-world which had always been so real to him, and much of his best work found there its inspiration. his exquisite story of _ligeia_ came to him first in a dream. this world, so unreal to many, was to poe as real as his actual life. like coleridge in english literature, he had the power of presenting the visions which came to him in sleep or in his waking dreams, surrounded by their own atmosphere of mystery and unreality, thus producing an effect which awed as well as fascinated. no other american writer has ever brought from the dream-world such beautiful creations, which charm and mystify at the same time, and force the most unimaginative reader to believe for the time in the existence of this elusive realm of faery. poe's poems have this same character, and found their inspiration in the same source. while engaged in editorial work in new york poe wrote his first great poem, _the raven_, which was first published under an assumed name. it was not until he recited the poem by request at a gathering of the literary workers of new york that his authorship was suspected. immediately afterward the poem was published under his name. it was regarded by critics in england and america as illustrating the highest poetic genius. from this time poe, who had hitherto been ranked among the best prose writers of his native land, now took precedence among the poets. it is, indeed, as a poet that he is always thought of first. it was during the next five years after the publication of _the raven_ that he produced the series of remarkable poems that has given him immortality. _the bells_, the original draft of which consisted of only eighteen lines, is, perhaps, next to _the raven_, the poem that has brought him the most fame. but the number of exquisite shorter poems which he produced would in themselves give him the highest rank as a poet. chief among these is the little idyll, _annabel lee_, a transcription of the ideal love which existed between poe and his young wife. while engaged in literary work in new york poe lived for the greater part of the time in the suburb of fordham, in an unpretentious but charming cottage, bowered in trees and surrounded by the flower garden, which was the especial pride of the poet and his wife. perhaps the happiest days of his life were spent in this quiet place, to which he would retire after the business of the day was over, and occupy himself with the care of the flowers and of the numerous pet birds and animals, which were regarded as a part of the family. over this otherwise happy existence hung always the clouds of poverty and sickness, his wife having been an invalid for many years. it was in this little cottage, at a time when poe's fortunes were at their lowest ebb, that his wife died amid poverty so extreme that the family could not even afford a fire to heat the room in which she lay dying. poe remained at fordham a little over two years after his wife's death, leaving it only a few months before his own death, in october, . poe is undoubtedly to be ranked among the greatest writers of american literature. his prose works would grace any literary period; his poetry is alive with the fire and beauty of genius, and his criticisms marked a new era in critical writing in america. twenty-six years after his death a monument was erected to his memory in the city of baltimore, mainly through the efforts of the teachers of the public schools. some of the most distinguished men of america were present at the unveiling to do honor to the poet whose work was such a noble contribution to the art of his native land. chapter xi ralph waldo emerson - walking the streets of boston, in the days when old-fashioned gambrel-roofed houses and gardens filled the space now occupied by dingy warehouses, might be seen a serious-eyed boy who, whether at work or at play, seemed always to his companions to live in a world a little different from their own. this was not the dream-world so familiar to childhood, but another which few children enter, and those only who seem destined to be teachers of their race. one enters this world just as the world of day-dreams is entered, by forgetting the real world for a time and letting the mind think what thoughts it will. in this world milton spent many long hours when a child, and bunyan made immortal in literature the memory of these dreams of youth. never any thought of the real world enters this place, whose visitors see but one thing, a vision of the soul as it journeys through life. to bunyan this seemed but a journey over dangerous roads, through lonely valleys, and over steep mountain sides; to milton it seemed a war between good and evil; to this little new-england boy it seemed but a vision of duty bravely accomplished, and in this he was true to the instincts of that puritan race to which he belonged. the boy's father was the rev. william emerson, pastor of the first church in boston, who had died when this son, ralph waldo, was in his ninth year; but for three years longer the family continued to reside in the quaint old parsonage, in which emerson had been born. the father had left his family so poor that the congregation of the first church voted an annuity of five hundred dollars to the widow for seven years, and many were the straits the little family was put to in order to eke out a comfortable living. the one ambition was to have the three boys educated. an aunt who lived in the family declared that they were born to be educated, and that it must be brought about somehow. the mother took boarders, and the two eldest boys, ralph and edward, helped do the housework. in a little letter written to his aunt, in his tenth year, ralph mentions that he rose before six in the morning in order to help his brother make the fire and set the table for prayers before calling his mother--so early did the child realize that he must be the burden-sharer of the family. poverty there was, but also much happiness in the old parsonage, whose dooryard of trees and shrubs, joined on to the neighboring gardens, made a pleasant outlook into the world. when school work was over, and household duty disposed of, very often the brothers would retire to their own room and there find their own peculiar joy in reading tales of plutarch, reciting poetry, and declaiming some favorite piece, for solitude was loved by all, and the great authors of the world were well studied by these boys, whose bedchamber was so cold that plato or cicero could only be indulged in when the reader was wrapped so closely in his cloak that emerson afterward remarked, the smell of woollen was forever afterward associated with the greek classics. ralph attended the latin grammar school, and had private lessons besides in writing, which he seems to have acquired with difficulty, one of his school-fellows telling long afterward how his tongue moved up and down as the pen laboriously traversed the page, and how on one occasion he even played truant to avoid the dreaded task, for which misdemeanor he was promptly punished by a diet of bread and water. it was at this period that he wrote verses on the war of , and began an epic poem which one of his school friends illustrated. such skill did he attain in verse-making that his efforts were delivered on exhibition days, being rendered with such impressiveness by the young author that his mates considered nothing could be finer. from the latin school emerson passed to harvard in his fifteenth year, entering as "president's freshman," a post which brought with it a certain annual sum and a remission of fees in exchange for various duties, such as summoning unruly students to the president, announcing the orders of the faculty, and serving as waiter at commons. at college emerson was noted as a student more familiar with general literature than with the college text-books, and he was an ardent member of a little book club which met to read and discuss current literature, the book or magazine under discussion being generally bought by the member who had the most pocket-money at the time. but in spite of a dislike for routine study, emerson was graduated with considerable honor, and almost immediately afterward set about the business of school-teaching. but emerson was not able to take kindly to teaching, and in his twenty-first year began preparations to enter the ministry. these were interrupted for a while by a trip south in search of health, but he was finally able to accept a position as assistant minister at the second church. a year or two later he was again obliged to leave his work and go abroad for his health. after he returned home he decided to leave the ministry, and he began that series of lectures which speedily made him famous and which have determined his place in american literature. from this time emerson began to be recognized as one of the thought-leaders of his age. to him literature appealed as a means of teaching those spiritual lessons that brace the soul to brave endurance. while hawthorne was living in the world of romance, poe and lowell creating american poetry, and bancroft and motley placing american historical prose on the highest level, emerson was throwing his genius into the form of moral essays for the guidance of conduct. to him had been revealed in all its purity that vision of the perfect life which had been the inspiration of his puritan ancestors. and with the vision had come that gift of expression which enabled him to preserve it in the noblest literary form. these essays embrace every variety of subject, for, to a philosopher like emerson every form of life and every object of nature represented some picture of the soul. when he devoted himself to this task he followed a true light, for he became and remains to many the inspiration of his age, the american writer above all others whose thought has moulded the souls of men. much of emerson's work found form in verse of noble vein, for he was a poet as well as philosopher. he also was connected with one or two magazines, and became one of the most popular of american lecturers; with the exception of several visits to europe and the time given to his lecturing and other short trips, emerson spent his life at concord, mass. to this place came annually, in his later years, the most gifted of his followers, to conduct what was known as the concord school of philosophy. throughout his whole life emerson preserved that serenity of soul which is the treasure of such spiritually gifted natures. he died at concord in , and was buried in the village cemetery, which he had consecrated thirty years before. chapter xii henry wadsworth longfellow - almost any summer day in the early part of the century a blue-eyed, brown-haired boy might have been seen lying under a great apple-tree in the garden of an old house in portland, forgetful of everything else in the world save the book he was reading. the boy was henry wadsworth longfellow, and the book might have been _robinson crusoe_, _the arabian nights_, or _don quixote_, all of which were prime favorites, or, possibly, it was irving's _sketch-book_, of which he was so fond that even the covers delighted him, and whose charm remained unbroken throughout life. years afterward, when, as a famous man of letters, he was called upon to pay his tribute to the memory of irving, he could think of no more tender praise than to speak with grateful affection of the book which had so fascinated him as a boy, and whose pages still led him back into the "haunted chambers of youth." portland was in those days a town of wooden houses, with streets shaded with trees, and the waters of the sea almost dashing up to its doorways. at its back great stretches of woodland swept the country as far as the eye could see, and low hills served as watch-towers over the deep in times of war. it was during longfellow's childhood that the british ship boxer was captured by the enterprise in the famous sea-fight of the war of ; the two captains, who had fallen in the battle, were buried side by side in the cemetery at portland, and the whole town came together to do honor to the dead commanders. long afterward longfellow speaks of this incident in his poem entitled _my lost youth_, and recalls the sound of the cannon booming across the waters, and the solemn stillness that followed the news of the victory. it is in the same poem that we have a picture of the portland of his early life, and are given glimpses of the black wet wharves, where the ships were moored all day long as they worked, and also the spanish sailors "with bearded lips" who seemed as much a mystery to the boy as the ships themselves. these came and went across the sea, always watched and waited for with greatest interest by the children, who loved the excitement of the unloading and loading, the shouts of the surveyors who were measuring the contents of cask and hogshead; the songs of the negroes working the pulleys, the jolly good-nature of the seamen strolling through the streets, and, above all, the sight of the strange treasures that came from time to time into one home or another--bits of coral, beautiful sea-shells, birds of resplendent plumage, foreign coins, which looked odd even in portland, where all the money nearly was spanish--and the hundred and one things dear to the hearts of children and sailors. longfellow's boyhood was almost a reproduction of that of some puritan ancestor a century before. he attended the village school, played ball in summer and skated in winter, went to church twice every sunday, and, when service was over, looked at the curious pictures in the family bible, and heard from his mother's lips the stories of david and jonathan and joseph, and at all times had food for his imagination in the view of bay stretching seaward, on one hand, and on the other valley farms and groves spreading out to the west. but although the life was severe in its simplicity, it was most sweet and wholesome for the children who grew up in the home nest, guarded by the love that was felt rather than expressed, and guided into noble conceptions of the beauty and dignity of living. this home atmosphere impressed itself upon longfellow unconsciously, as did the poetic influences of nature, and had just as lasting and inspiring an effect upon his character, so that truth, duty, fine courage were always associated with the freshness of spring, the early dawn, the summer sunshine, and the lingering sadness of twilight. it is the spiritual insight, thus early developed, that gives to longfellow's poetry some of its greatest charms. it was during his school-boy days that longfellow published his first bit of verse. it was inspired by hearing the story of a famous fight which took place on the shores of a small lake called lovell's pond, between the hero lovell and the indians. longfellow was deeply impressed by this story and threw his feeling of admiration into four stanzas, which he carried with a beating heart down to the letter-box of the _portland gazette_, taking an opportunity to slip the manuscript in when no one was looking. a few days later longfellow watched his father unfold the paper, read it slowly before the fire, and finally leave the room, when the sheet was grasped by the boy and his sister, who shared his confidence, and hastily scanned. the poem was there in the "poets' corner" of the _gazette_, and longfellow was so filled with joy that he spent the greater part of the remainder of the day in reading and re-reading the verses, becoming convinced toward evening that they possessed remarkable merit. his happiness was dimmed, however, a few hours later, when the father of a boy friend, with whom he was passing the evening, pronounced the verses stiff and entirely lacking in originality, a criticism that was quite true and that was harder to bear because the critic had no idea who the author was. longfellow slipped away as soon as possible to nurse his wounded feelings in his own room, but instead of letting the incident discourage him, began, with renewed vigor, to write verses, epigrams, essays, and even tragedies, which he produced in a literary partnership with one of his friends. none of these effusions had any literary value, being no better than any boy of thirteen or fourteen would produce if he turned his attention to composition instead of bat and ball. longfellow remained in portland until his sixteenth year, when he went to bowdoin college, entering the sophomore class. here he remained for three years, gradually winning a name for scholarship and character that was second to none. his love for reading still continued, irving remaining a favorite author, while cooper was also warmly appreciated. from the _sketch-book_ he would turn to the exciting pages of _the spy_, and the announcement of a new work by either of their authors was looked forward to as an event of supreme importance. from time to time he wrote verses which appeared in the periodicals of the day, and as his college life neared its close he began to look toward literature as the field for his future work, and it was with much disappointment that he learned that his father wished him to study law. but what the effect of such a course may have had upon his mind so filled with the love of poetry, and so consecrated to the ideal, will never be known, as the end of his college life brought to him a chance which, for the moment, entirely satisfied the desire of his heart. this was an offer from the college trustees that he should visit europe for the purpose of fitting himself for a professorship of modern languages, and that upon his return he should fill that chair, newly established at bowdoin. this was the happiest fortune that could come to longfellow in the beginning of his literary career. accordingly, at the age of nineteen, he sailed for france in good health, with fine prospects, and with as fair a hope for the future as ever was given. longfellow remained abroad three years, studying and absorbing all the new conditions which were broadening his mind, and fitting him for his after-career. he visited france, spain, italy, and germany, meeting with adventure everywhere, and storing up memory after memory that came back to his call in after-years to serve some purpose of his art. we have thus preserved in his works the impressions that europe then made upon a young american, who had come there to supplement his education by studying at the universities, and whose mind was alive to all the myriad forms of culture denied in his own land. the vividness of these early impressions was seen in all his work, and was perhaps the first reflection of the old poetic european influence that began to be felt in much american poetry, where the charm of old peasant love-songs and roundelays, heard for centuries among the lower classes of spain, france, and italy, was wrought into translations and transcriptions so perfect and spirited that they may almost rank with original work. one of longfellow's great pleasures while on this trip was the meeting with irving in spain, where the latter was busy upon his _life of columbus_; and irving's kindness on this occasion was always affectionately remembered. longfellow returned to america after three years' absence, and at once began his duties at bowdoin college, where he remained three years, when he left to take a professorship at harvard, which he had accepted with the understanding that he was to spend a year and a half abroad before commencing his work. the results of his literary labors while at bowdoin were the publication of a series of sketches of european life called _outre mer_, in two volumes; a translation from the spanish of the _coplas de manrique_, and some essays in the _north american review_ and other periodicals. and considering the demand upon his time which his college duties made, this amount of finished work speaks well for his industry, since it does not include a number of text-books prepared for the use of his pupils, and numberless papers, translations, and other literary miscellany necessary to his work as a teacher of foreign languages. _outre mer_, which had first appeared in part in a periodical, was very favorably received. it was really the story of picturesque europe translated by the eye and heart of a young poet. after his return to america longfellow settled down to the routine of college work, which was interrupted for the next ten years only by his literary work, which from this time on began to absorb him more and more. two years after his return he published his first volume of poems and his romance _hyperion_. in _hyperion_ longfellow related some of the experiences of his own travels under the guise of the hero, who wanders through europe, and the book is full of the same biographical charm that belongs to _outre mer_. here the student life of the german youth, the songs they sang, the books they read, and even their favorite inns are noted, while the many translations of german poetry opened a new field of delight to american readers. it was well received by the public, who appreciated its fine poetic fancy and its wealth of serious thought. but it was not by his prose that longfellow touched the deepest sympathies of his readers, and the publication of his first volume of poetry a few months later showed his real position in the world of american letters. this little book, which was issued under the title _voices of the night_, consisted of the poems that had so far appeared in the various magazines and papers, a few poems written in his college days, and some translations from the french, german, and spanish poets. in this volume occurs some of longfellow's choicest works, the gem of the book being the celebrated _a psalm of life_. it is from this point that longfellow goes onward always as the favorite poet of the american people. the _psalm of life_ had been published previously in a magazine without the author's name, and it had no sooner been read than it seemed to find its way into every heart. ministers read it to their congregations all over the country, and it was sung as a hymn in many churches. it was copied in almost every newspaper in the united states; it was recited in every school. to young and old alike it brought its message, and its voice was recognized as that of a true leader. the author of _outre mer_ and _hyperion_ had here touched hands with millions of his brothers and sisters, and the clasp was never unloosened again while he lived. in the same collection occurs _the footsteps of angels_, another well-beloved poem, and one in which the spirit of home-life is made the inspiration. longfellow's poems now followed one another in rapid succession, appearing generally at first in some magazine and afterward in book form in various collections under different titles. his greatest contributions to american literature are his _evangeline_ and _hiawatha_, and a score of shorter poems, which in themselves would give the author a high place in any literature. in _evangeline_ longfellow took for his theme the pathetic story of the destruction of the acadian villages by the english during the struggle between the english and french for the possession of canada. in this event many families and friends were separated never again to be reunited, and the story of _evangeline_ is the fate of two young lovers who were sent away from their homes in different ships, and who never met again until both were old, and one was dying in the ward of a public hospital. longfellow has made of this sad story a wondrously beautiful tale, that reads like an old legend of grecian arcadia. the description of the great primeval forests, stretching down to the sea; of the villages and farms scattered over the land as unprotected as the nests of the meadow lark; of the sowing and harvesting of the peasant folk, with their _fêtes_ and churchgoing, their weddings and festivals, and the pathetic search of evangeline for her lost lover gabriel among the plains of louisiana, all show longfellow in his finest mood as a poet whom the sorrows of mankind touched always with reverent pity, as well as a writer of noble verse. everywhere that the english language is read _evangeline_ has passed as the most beautiful folk-story that america has produced, and the french canadians, the far-away brothers of the acadians, have included longfellow among their national poets. among them _evangeline_ is known by heart, and the cases are not rare where the people have learned english expressly for the purpose of reading longfellow's poem in the original, a wonderful tribute to the poet who could thus touch to music one of the saddest memories of their race. in _hiawatha_ longfellow gave to the indian the place in poetry that had been given him by cooper in prose. here the red man is shown with all his native nobleness still unmarred by the selfish injustice of the whites, while his inferior qualities are seen only to be those that belong to mankind in general. _hiawatha_ is a poem of the forests and of the dark-skinned race who dwelt therein, who were learned only in forest lore and lived as near to nature's heart as the fauns and satyrs of old. into this legend longfellow has put all the poetry of the indian nature, and has made his hero, hiawatha, a noble creation that compares favorably with the king arthur of the old british romances. like arthur, hiawatha has come into the world with a mission for his people; his birth is equally mysterious and invests him at once with almost supernatural qualities. like arthur, he seeks to redeem his kingdom from savagery and to teach the blessing of peace. from first to last hiawatha moves among the people, a real leader, showing them how to clear their forests, to plant grain, to make for themselves clothing of embroidered and painted skins, to improve their fishing-grounds, and to live at peace with their neighbors. hiawatha's own life was one that was lived for others. from the time when he was a little child and his grandmother told him all the fairy-tales of nature, up to the day when, like arthur, he passed mysteriously away through the gates of the sunset, all his hope and joy and work were for his people. he is a creature that could only have been born from a mind as pure and poetic as that of longfellow. all the scenes and images of the poem are so true to nature that they seem like very breaths from the forest. we move with hiawatha through the dewy birchen aisles, learn with him the language of the nimble squirrel and of the wise beaver and mighty bear, watch him build his famous canoe, and spend hours with him fishing in the waters of the great inland sea, bordered by the pictured rocks, painted by nature herself. longfellow's first idea of the poem was suggested, it is said, by his hearing a harvard student recite some indian tales. searching among the various books that treated of the american indian, he found many legends and incidents that preserved fairly well the traditional history of the indian race, and grouping these around one central figure and filling in the gaps with poetic descriptions of the forests, mountains, lakes, rivers, and plains, which made up the abode of these picturesque people, he thus built up the entire poem. the metre used is that in which the kalevala, the national epic of the finns is written, and the finnish hero, wainamoinen, in his gift of song and his brave adventures, is not unlike the great hiawatha. among longfellow's other long poems are: _the spanish student_, a dramatic poem founded upon a spanish romance; _the divine tragedy_, and _the golden legend_, founded upon the life of christ; _the courtship of miles standish_, a tale of puritan love-making in the time of the early settlers, and _tales of a wayside inn_, which were a series of poems of adventure supposed to be related in turn by the guests at an inn. but it is with such poems as _evangeline_ and _hiawatha_, and the shorter famous poems like _a psalm of life_, _excelsior_, _the wreck of the hesperus_, _the building of the ship_, _the footsteps of angels_ that his claim as the favorite poet of america rests. _evangeline_ and _hiawatha_ marked an era in american literature in introducing themes purely american, while of the famous shorter poems each separate one was greeted almost with an ovation. _the building of the ship_ was never read during the struggle of the civil war without raising the audience to a passion of enthusiasm, and so in each of these shorter poems longfellow touched with wondrous sympathy the hearts of his readers. throughout the land he was revered as the poet of the home and heart, the sweet singer to whom the fireside and family gave ever sacred and beautiful meanings. some poems on slavery, a prose tale called _kavanagh_, and a translation of _the divine comedy_ of dante must also be included among longfellow's works; but these have never reached the success attained by his more popular poems which are known by heart by millions to whom they have been inspiration and comfort. longfellow died in cambridge in , in the same month in which was written his last poem, _the bells of san blas_, which concludes with these words: "it is daybreak everywhere." chapter xiii john lothrop motley - one day in the year , a boy of thirteen first entered the chapel of harvard college to take his seat there as a student. his schoolfellows looked at him curiously first, because of his remarkable beauty, and second because of his reputation as a linguist, a great distinction among boys who looked upon foreign tongues as so many traps for tripping their unlucky feet in the thorny paths of learning. he had come to harvard from mr. bancroft's school at northampton, where he was famous as a reader, writer, and orator, and was more admired, perhaps, than is good for any boy. both pupils and masters recognized his talents and overlooked his lack of industry. but neither dreamed that their praise was but the first tribute to the genius of the future historian, john lothrop motley. motley was born in dorchester, a suburb of boston, april , . as a child he was delicate, a condition which fostered his great natural love for reading. he devoured books of every kind, history, poetry, plays, orations, and particularly the novels of cooper and scott. not satisfied with reading about heroes, he must be a hero himself, and when scarcely eight he bribed a younger brother with sweetmeats to lie quiet, wrapped in a shawl, while he, mounted upon a stool, delivered mark antony's oration over the dead body of cæsar. at eleven he began a novel, the scene of which was laid in the housatonic valley, because that name sounded grand and romantic. on saturday afternoon he and his playmates, among whom was wendell phillips, would assemble in the garret of the motley house, and in plumed hats and doublets enact tragedies or stirring melodramas. comedy was too frivolous for these entertainments, in which motley was always the leading spirit; the chief bandit, the heavy villain, the deadliest foe. in the school-room also motley led by divine right, and expected others to follow. thus, in spite of his dislike for rigid rules of study, he was always before the class as one to be deferred to and honored wherever honor might be given. while still at college motley seems to have had some notion of a literary career. his writing-desk was constantly crammed with manuscripts of plays, poetry, and sketches of character, which never found their way to print, and which were burned to make room for others when the desk became too full. with the exception of a few verses published in a magazine, this work of his college days served only for pastime. graduated from harvard at seventeen, motley spent the next two years at a german university, where he lived the pleasant, social life of the german student, one of his friends and classmates being young bismarck, afterward the great chancellor, who was always fond of the handsome young american, whose wit was the life of the student company and whose powers of argument surpassed his own. coming back to america, motley studied law until , when, in his twenty-seventh year, he received the appointment of secretary of legation to st. petersburg. his friends now looked forward to a brilliant diplomatic career for him, but the unfavorable climate soon led him to resign the appointment and return to america. but the st. petersburg visit was not fruitless, for three years afterward he published an essay in the _north american review_ which showed a keen appreciation of russian political conditions. the article was called "a memoir of the life of peter the great," and its appearance surprised the critics who had justly condemned a novel previously published by the young author. his essay portrayed the character of the great peter, half king and half savage. it showed a full appreciation of the difficulties that hindered the establishment of a great monarchy, and paid due honor to that force of will, savage courage, and ideal patriotism that laid the foundations of russia's greatness. the reader is made to see this fiery sclav, building up a new russia from his ice-fields and barren valleys; a russia of great cities, imperial armies, vast commerce, and splendid hopes. it was a brilliant and scholarly narrative of the achievement of a great man, and it placed motley among the writers of highest promise. a year later he began collecting materials for the serious work of his life. for his subject he chose the story of the old frisians or hollanders who rescued from the sea a few islands formed by the ooze and slime of ages, and laid thereon the foundations of a great nation. they raised dykes to keep back the sea, built canals to serve as roads, turned bogs into pasture-lands and morasses into grain-fields, fought with the romans, founded cities, laid the foundations of the vast maritime commerce of to-day, and finally, in the sixteenth century, when the wealth of their merchants, the power of their cities, and the progress of their arts were the wonder of the world, met their worst foe in the person of their own king, philip ii. from the beginning the hollanders or netherlanders had cherished a savage independence which commanded respect even in barbarous ages, and this characteristic insured a quarrel between them and their ruler. philip ii. was king of spain and of sicily as well as of holland. born in spain, he could not speak a word of dutch. he was haughty, overbearing, and unscrupulous, and he resolved to make the hollanders see in him a master as well as a king. already in his father's reign there had been trouble because of the growing protestantism which many of the hollanders favored. already some of the chief dutch cities had been punished for resisting the emperor's authority, and their burghers sentenced to kneel in sackcloth and beg him to spare their homes from destruction. these things happened in his father's time and had made an impression upon philip ii., who saw that in every case the royal power had been triumphant, and he believed himself invincible. motley painted the life of philip from the day of his inauguration through all the years of revolt, bloodshed, and horror which marked his reign. he saw that this rebellion of the hollanders meant less the discontent of a people with their king than the growth of a great idea, the idea that civil and religious liberty is the right of all men and nations. to motley's mind the struggle seemed like some old battle between giants and titans. unlike other historians, who looked over the world for a subject, rejecting first one and then another, motley's subject took possession of him and would not be rejected. his work was born, as a great poem or picture is born, from a glimpse of things hidden from other eyes. but at once he discovered that prescott had already in contemplation a history of philip ii. this was a severe blow to all his hopes. but he resolved to see prescott, lay the matter before him, and abide by his decision, feeling that the master of history, who was the author of the _conquest of mexico_ and the _conquest of peru_, would be the best adviser of a young and unknown writer. prescott received the idea with the most generous kindness, advised motley to undertake the work, and placed at his disposal all the material which he himself had collected for his own enterprise. after several years the book appeared in , under the title _the rise of the dutch republic_. to write this book motley dwelt for years in the world of three hundred years ago, when the whole of europe was shaken by the new protestantism, when raleigh and drake were sailing the atlantic and adding the shores of the new world to english dominion, the french settling canada and the mississippi valley, spain sending her mission priests to california, and the huguenots establishing themselves in florida. thus the foundations of the american republic were being laid, while philip was striving to overthrow the freedom of the netherlands. leaving the nineteenth century as far behind him as he could, motley established himself successively at berlin, dresden, the hague, and brussels, in order to consult the libraries and archives of state which contained documents relating to the revolt of the netherlands against philip ii. in speaking of his work in the libraries of brussels, he says that at this time only dead men were his familiar friends, and that he was at home in any country, and he calls himself a worm feeding on musty mulberry leaves out of which he was to spin silk. day after day, year after year, he haunted the old libraries, whose shadows held so many secrets of the past, until the personalities of those great heroes who fought for the liberty of holland were as familiar as the faces of his own children. william of orange, called the silent, the washington of dutch independence, count egmont, van horn, and all that band of heroes who espoused the cause of liberty, came to be comrades. and the end rewarded the years of toil. out of old mouldy documents and dead letters motley recreated the netherlands of the sixteenth century. again were seen the great cities with their walls miles in extent, their gay streets, their palaces and churches, and public buildings, and the great domains of the clergy, second to none in europe. the nobles possessed magnificent estates and entertained their guests with jousts and tourneys like the great lords of england and france. the tradespeople and artisans who comprised the population of the cities were divided into societies or guilds, which were so powerful that no act of state could be passed without their consent, and so rich that to their entertainments the proudest nobles came as guests, to see a luxuriousness which vied with that of kings. the dutch artists were celebrated for their noble pictures, for their marvellous skill in wood and stone carving, and for the wonderful tapestries which alone would have made dutch art famous. in the midst of this prosperity philip ii. came to the throne, and soon after his coronation the entire netherlands were in revolt. motley has described this struggle like an eye-witness. we see the officers of the inquisition dragging their victims daily to the torture-chamber, and the starved and dying rebels defending their cities through sieges which the spanish army made fiendish in suffering. motley's description of the siege of leyden, and his portrait of william the silent, are among the finest specimens of historical composition. the work ends with the death of the prince of orange, this tragic event forming a fitting climax to the great revolution which had acknowledged him its hope and leader. motley carried the completed manuscript of _the rise of the dutch republic_ to london, but failing to find a publisher willing to undertake such a work by an unknown author, he was obliged to produce it at his own expense. it met with the most flattering reception, and the reviews which appeared in england, france, and america placed motley's name among the great historians. the book was soon translated into dutch, german, and russian. motley's two other great works were similar in character to the first. the second work, called _the history of the united netherlands_, began with the death of william the silent, and ended with the period known as the twelve years' truce, when by common consent the independence of the netherlands was recognized throughout europe. this work consists of four volumes, the first two having been published in , and the remaining two in . these volumes embrace much of the history of england, which became the ally and friend of holland, and are full of the great events which made up that epoch of english history. the names of queen elizabeth, the duke of leicester, lord burghley, and the noble and chivalrous sir philip sidney, who lost his life on one of the battle-fields of this war, figure as largely in its pages as those of the dutch themselves. the war had ceased to be the revolt of holland against spain, and had become a mighty battle for the liberty of europe. every nation was interested in its progress, and all men knew that upon its success or failure would depend the fate of europe for many centuries. in this work motley's pen lost none of its art. the chapters follow one another in harmonious succession, the clear and polished style giving no hint of the obscurities of diplomatic letters, the almost illegible manuscripts, and the contradictory reports which often made up the original materials. like its predecessor, it was at once classed among the great histories of the world. _the life of john of barneveld_, who shares with william of orange the glory of achieving dutch independence, was the subject of motley's next and last work. the book is not in a strict sense a biography. it is rather a narrative of the quarrel of the netherlands among themselves over theological questions. the country was now protestant, and yet the people fought as fiercely over the different points of doctrine as when they were struggling for their independence. the book appeared in , completing the series, which the author called _the history of the eighty years' war for independence_. during this period of literary work motley was twice appointed to represent the united states at foreign courts. he was minister to austria from to , and during the stormy period of the civil war showed his powers as a statesman in his diplomatic relations with the austrian court, which honored him always both as a diplomatist and as a patriot, his devotion to his country being a proverb among his fellows. in he was appointed minister to england, but held the office only two years. on both these occasions motley proved his ability to meet and master questions of state, and there is no doubt that, had fortune led him into active political life, he would have made a brilliant reputation. he died in may, , and was buried in kensal green cemetery, near london, england. chapter xiv harriet beecher stowe - harriet beecher stowe, the first distinguished woman writer of america, was born at litchfield, conn., in those old new england days when children were taught that good little girls must always speak gently, never tear their clothes, learn to knit and sew, and make all the responses properly in church. such is her own story of her early education, to which is also added the item that on sunday afternoons she was expected to repeat the catechism, and on the occasion of a visit to her grandmother, her aunt made her learn two catechisms, that of her own faith, the episcopal, and that of harriet's father, who was a presbyterian minister. this discipline, however, had no depressing effect upon the child, whose family consisted of a half-dozen healthy, clever brothers and sisters, a father who was loved more than revered even in those days when a minister was regarded with awe, and a stepmother whose devotion made the home-life a thing of beauty to be held in all after-years in loving memory. the old presbyterian parsonage where harriet was born had in it one room that was the child's chief delight. this was her father's study, in a corner of which she loved to ensconce herself with her favorite books gathered around her, and read or day-dream, while her father sat opposite in his great writing-chair composing the sermon for the next sunday. children's books were not plentiful in those days, and miss edgeworth's _tales_ and cotton mather's _magnalia_ were her principal resource, until one joyful day, rummaging in a barrel of old sermons, she came upon a copy of _the arabian nights_. these flowers of fairy lore took healthy root in the imagination of the little puritan child, whose mind had hitherto resembled the prim flower-beds of the new england gardens, where grew only native plants. the old stories opened a new world of thought, and into this unknown realm she entered, rambling amid such wonderful scenes that never again could their mysterious charm cease; when some time later her father came down from his study one day with a volume of _ivanhoe_ in his hand, and said: "i did not intend that my children should ever read novels, but they must read scott," another door into the realm of fairy was opened to the delighted child. this power to lift and lose herself in a region of thought so different from her own, became thereafter the peculiar gift by which she was enabled to undertake the work which made her name distinguished. the library corner, however, did not hold all the good things of life, only part of them. outside was the happy world of a healthy country child, who grew as joyously as one of her own new england flowers. in the spring there were excursions in the woods and fields after the wild blossoms that once a year turned the country-side into fairy-land; in the summer was the joy of picnics in the old forests, and of fishing excursions along the banks of the streams; in the autumn came nutting parties, when the children ran races with the squirrels to see who could gather the most nuts; and in the winter, when the snow and ice covered the earth, life went on as gayly as ever, with coasting and snow-balling, and the many ways in which the child's heart tunes itself to the spirit of nature. by the time she was five years old harriet was a regular pupil at a small school near by, whither she also conducted, day after day, her younger brother, henry ward beecher, afterward the celebrated preacher. she was a very conscientious little pupil, and besides her school lessons, was commended for having learned twenty-seven hymns and two long chapters in the bible during one summer. school-life henceforth was the serious business of existence, and in her twelfth year she appears as one of the honor pupils at the yearly school exhibition, and was gratified by having her composition read in the presence of the distinguished visitors, her father, the minister, being among the number. the subject of the composition was the immortality of the soul, and into it harriet had woven, as only a clever child could, all the serious thoughts that she had gleaned from theological volumes in the library, or sermons that her father preached, or from the grave conversations that were common among the elders of the family. it was listened to with great approval by the visitors, who saw nothing absurd in the idea of a child of twelve discoursing upon such a subject, and it was especially pleasing to harriet's father, which so delighted the affectionate heart of the little writer that she felt no higher reward could be hers. harriet's first flight from the home nest came in her thirteenth year, when she left litchfield to attend her sister catherine's school in hartford. as her father's salary did not permit any extra expense, harriet went to live in the family of a friend, who in turn sent his daughter to the parsonage at litchfield that she might attend the seminary there. this exchange of daughters was a very happy arrangement as far as harriet was concerned, as she enjoyed the responsibility of being so much her own guardian, and took care of herself and her little room with what she herself calls "awful satisfaction." here she began the study of latin, which fascinated her, the latin poetry making such an impression on her mind that it became her dream to be a poet. pages and pages of manuscript were now written in the preparation of a great drama called "cleon," the scene of which was laid in the time of the emperor nero. every moment that could be spared from actual duties was given to this play, which might have grown to volumes had not the young author been suddenly brought up sharply by her sister, who advised her to stop writing poetry and discipline her mind. whereupon harriet plunged into a course of butler's _analogy_ and other heavy reading, forgot all about the drama, and was so wrought upon by baxter's _saint's rest_ that she longed for nothing but to die and be in heaven. the next years of harriet's life were spent almost entirely at the hartford school, where she was successively pupil and teacher until her father removed to cincinnati, whither she accompanied him with the intention of helping her sister to found a college for women. and, although all undreamed of, it was in this place that she was first to feel the inspiration of the work that made her famous. during a short visit across the ohio river into kentucky, she saw for the first time a large plantation and something of the life of the negro slaves. though apparently noticing little of what was before her eyes, she was really absorbing everything with all the keenness of a first impression. the mansion of the planter and the humble cot of the negro, the funny pranks and songs of the slaves, and the pathos that touched their lives, all appealed to her so strongly that, years afterward, she was able to reproduce with utmost faithfulness each picturesque detail of plantation life. in her twenty-fifth year harriet was married to professor stowe, of lane seminary. she had for some time been a contributor to various periodicals, and continued her literary work after her marriage, producing only short sketches for various papers, an elementary geography, and a collection of sketches in book form under the title, _the mayflower_. these efforts had been well received by publishers, and friends prophesied a satisfactory career, but it was many years afterward before the author gave herself to the literary life with the earnestness and devotion which so characterized her nature. some of her experiences in this western home, where living was so primitive, were very funny, and some were very trying; but through them all mrs. stowe kept a clear head and brave heart. sometimes she would be left without warning with the entire care of her house and children; often her literary work was done at the sick-bed of a child; and more than once a promised story was written in the intervals of baking, cooking, and the superintendence of other household matters; one of her stories at this time was finished at the kitchen table, while every other sentence was addressed to the ignorant maid, who stood stupidly awaiting instructions about the making of brown bread. after seventeen years' experience in the western colleges, professor stowe accepted a professorship at bowdoin, and the family removed to brunswick, me. here her stories and sketches, some humorous, some pathetic, still continued to add to the household's income, and many a comfort that would have been otherwise unknown was purchased with the money thus obtained. mrs. stowe's first important book took the form of an appeal for the freedom of the slaves of the south. one day, while attending communion service in the college chapel, she saw, as in a mental picture, the death-scene of uncle tom, afterward described in her celebrated book. returning home, she wrote out the first draft of that immortal chapter, and calling her children around her read it to them. the two eldest wept at the sad story, which from this beginning grew into the book which made its author famous over the civilized world. in _uncle tom's cabin_ it was mrs. stowe's aim to present the every-day life of the southern plantation. she chose for her hero one of those typical negro characters whose faithfulness and loyalty would so well illustrate the fidelity of his race, while his sad story would make an appeal for the freedom of his people. into this story she wove descriptions of southern life, delineations of negro character, and so many incidents, pathetic and humorous, that it seemed to present when finished a life-like picture of plantation life. the pathetic figure of uncle tom, the sweet grace of eva, the delightful topsy, and the grim yankee spinster show alike the sympathetic heart and mind of the author, who linked them so closely together in the invisible bonds of love. the beautiful tribute that st. clair pays to his mother's influence in one of the striking passages of the book, was but a memory of mrs. stowe's own mother, who died when her daughter was four years old. no one could read this pathetic tale without being touched by the sorrows beneath which the negro race had bowed for generations, and through which he still kept a loyal love for his white master, a pride in the family of which he counted himself a member, and that pathetic patience which had been the birthright of his people. the book _uncle tom's cabin_, or _life among the lowly_, ran first as a serial, and came out in book form in . into it the author had thrown all the seriousness of her nature, and it met with overwhelming success. it was translated into twenty different languages, and uncle tom and eva passed, like the shadow and sunlight of their native land, hand in hand into the homes, great and humble, of widely scattered nations. another plea for the negro called _dred, a tale of the dismal swamp_, followed _uncle tom's cabin_ within a few years, after which mrs. stowe turned her attention to the material that lay closer at hand, and began the publication of a series of new england life. into these she put such a wealth of sympathetic reminiscences, with such a fund of keen observation, that they stand easily as types of the home-life of her native hills. the first of this series was _the minister's wooing_, a story of a new england minister's love. it is full of the sights and scenes familiar to the author from childhood, and is a faithful picture of puritan village life, wherein are introduced many characters as yet new in fiction. unlike hawthorne, who sought inspiration in the spiritual questions which so largely made up the life of the puritans, mrs. stowe found her delight in giving the home-life, the household ambitions, the village interests, a place in literature, thus preserving a phase of society which has passed away even in her own lifetime. _the minister's wooing_ appeared simultaneously with _the pearl of orr's island_, a tale of the maine coast, in which are introduced an aged fisherman and his old brown sea-chest, and other characters and accessories all imbued with the true sea flavor and forming a story which whittier pronounced the most charming new england idyll ever written. in _old town folks_, the most delightful perhaps of her new england stories, mrs. stowe has drawn the character of harry from the memory of her husband's childhood. professor stowe had been one of those imaginative children, who, when alone, conjure up visions of fairies and genii to people empty space. he spent many an hour in following the pranks of these unreal people. he imagined that these creatures of his brain could pass through the floor and ceiling, float in the air and flit through meadow or wood, sometimes even rising to the stars. sometimes they took the form of friendly brownies who would thresh straw and beans. two resembled an old indian man and woman who fought for the possession of a base viol. another group was of all colors and had no shape at all; while the favorite was in human form and came and answered to the name of harry. besides her new england tales, mrs. stowe wrote a charming novel, _agnes of sorrento_, the scene of which is laid in italy. _little foxes_, _queer little people_, and _little pussy willow_ are three books for children, written in the intervals of more serious work which included several other novels and some volumes of sketches. in all her work appears a warm love of humanity, which she studied under many conditions. soon after the publication of _uncle tom's cabin_ mrs. stowe accepted an invitation from the anti-slavery society of glasgow to visit scotland; her reception was in reality an ovation from the nation. at every railroad station she had to make her way through the crowds that had gathered to welcome her. every city she visited honored her with a public greeting, and even her sight-seeing excursions to cathedrals and places of interest were made the occasions of demonstrations of joy from the crowds which quickly gathered. from the nobility to the peasants, who stood at their doors to see her pass by, she was everywhere received as one who had done noble work for the cause of freedom. in england she met with the same enthusiasm, and, both from england and scotland she received large sums of money to be used for the advancement of the anti-slavery cause in america. mrs. stowe has left a sketch of this pleasant episode in her life in a little work called _sunny memories_. some years later she purchased a winter home in florida, and here she erected a building to be used as church and school-house by the poorer inhabitants. in this she conducted sunday-school, singing and sewing classes. her pleasant experiences in her southern home are embodied in a series of sketches called _palmetto leaves_. on the seventieth anniversary of her birthday her publishers arranged a garden party in her honor, to which were invited all the literary celebrities of america. it calls up a pleasant picture to think of her thus surrounded by the distinguished men and women who had gathered to do honor not only to her work for literature, but to that nobility of soul that had made her long life a service for others. whittier, holmes, and many others contributed poems on this occasion. in american literature mrs. stowe stands as its chief woman representative before the civil war, taking high place by right among the novelists whose sphere is the presentation of national life. chapter xv james russell lowell - james russell lowell was born on the d of february, , at cambridge, mass. fate had willed that he, beyond all other writers, was to preserve a certain phase of yankee life and make it the treasure of futurity, and the cambridge of his early boyhood was the best training he could have received for such a mission. the then unpretentious village, with its quiet streets shaded with elms, lindens, and horse-chestnuts, was revered throughout new england as the home of harvard college, but it was much more than that. it was a little world in which still lingered all the quaintness and simplicity of early new england life, and lowell, imbibing these influences unconsciously in childhood, was able afterward to reproduce their flavor in his literary work and thus preserve them from oblivion. the birthplace of lowell was elmwood, a charming country-seat formerly occupied by a tory tax-collector, who had emigrated on the outbreak of the revolution. it had a large, comfortable house shaded by some of the cambridge elms, which lowell characteristically remarks were unable fortunately to emigrate with the tax-collector, and the grounds were beautified by the trees and flowers which were the delight of dr. lowell, the poet's father. in cambridge streets were to be seen many of the sights characteristic of new england village life, suggesting still the village life of england when shakespeare was a boy. the coach rumbled on its way to boston, then a little journey away, and old women gathered around the town spring for their weekly washing of clothes. at the inn were discussed all those questions of law, religion, and politics that had not been settled at the town-meeting, and the village barber-shop, with its choice collection of rarities, had the dignity of a museum. so fascinating was this place that the boy who had to have his hair cut was considered in luck, and was usually accompanied by several of his play-fellows, who took this means of feasting their eyes upon the barber's treasures. here were tomahawks, indian bows and arrows, new zealand paddles and war-clubs, beaks of albatrosses and penguins, and whales' teeth; here were caged canaries and java sparrows, and one large cockatoo who, the barber asserted, spoke hottentot. old dutch prints covered the walls, and the boys were barbered under the pictured eyes of frederick the great and bonaparte. perhaps the choicest treasure was the glass model of a ship which the young patrons valued at from one hundred to a thousand dollars, the barber always acquiescing in these generous valuations. once a year cambridge celebrated a curious festival called the cornwallis, in which, in masquerade, the town's people and country people marched in grotesque processions in honor of the surrender of cornwallis. there was also the annual muster, when the militia were drilled under the eyes of their admiring wives, mothers, and daughters. but the great event of the year at cambridge was commencement day. the entire community was aroused to do its best in the celebration of this festival, the fame of which had spread to every corner of new england. the village was turned into a great fair, where came every kind of vender and showman to take the places assigned them by the town constable; the gayly decorated booths extended in an orderly row along the streets, and the entire population gaped unrestrained at the giants, fat women, flying horses, dwarfs, and mermaids, only taking their eyes away long enough to regale themselves with the ginger-beer and egg-pop, sold on the stands or wheeled through the streets in hand-carts by the enterprising venders. the college exercises were dignified and grave, as suited the traditions of its classic halls, but to the boys who, like lowell, had but this one opportunity in the year, the marvels of the booths and peep-shows made commencement a red-letter day. another charm of old cambridge was found in the river, which to the boyish imagination led to fairy realms beyond. once a year the sloop harvard, owned by the college, voyaged to the maine coast to carry back the winter supply of wood. her going and coming was an event in the life of the cambridge schoolboy, who watched the departure with wistful eyes, filled the time of absence with romantic imaginings of adventure in the perilous seas, and welcomed her return with eager thirst for the news she might bring. this humble little craft held no secondary place in the interests of lowell and his mates. the heroic adventures of her crew inspired the boys to bold ventures on the duck pond, the admiral of the home-made fleet being the young dana, who delighted an after-generation of boys by the story of his actual adventures at sea in the fascinating book, _two years before the mast_. lowell's first school was not far from elmwood, and although he did not distinguish himself for scholarship, he went willingly every day, returning rather more willingly, perhaps, and sending always his boyish salutation of a cheery whistle to his mother as he approached the house. but in the daily life of the old village, and in the rambles through wood and by stream, he learned lessons more valuable than those he found in books. nature, who appealed so strongly to his heart, had made him a poet, and she took her own way of teaching him the mysteries of his art. lowell enjoyed his singularly fortunate and happy boyhood as only one gifted with a poetic mind could. to him new england village life revealed a charm that enabled him in after-days to paint a picture of it as lovingly faithful as one of shakespeare's scenes. in his charming reminiscence, _cambridge thirty years ago_, he has preserved one of the dearest memories of his boyhood. _beaver brook_ and _indian summer reveries_ are also transcriptions of those idyllic days of his youth. lowell entered harvard in his sixteenth year and was graduated in his twentieth, during which time he says he read everything except the books in the college course. it was during these years, however, that he studied the great poets of the world, while romances, travels, voyages, and history were added as a flavor to his self-chosen course of study. perhaps he showed the true bent of his mind in his boyhood poem, addressed to the old horse-chestnuts, whose arms twined themselves around his study-room at home. he was class poet for his year, but was not allowed to read his poem, as he was at the time temporarily suspended from the college. in this poem lowell made good-natured fun of carlyle, emerson, and other philosophers, whose thought was just beginning to influence their generation, thus hinting the power which made him later the most successful humorist of america. after leaving college lowell studied law and was admitted to the bar, a profession which he almost immediately saw would make him only miserable, and which he soon left. in his twenty-second year he published his first book of verse under the title _a year's life_, a volume which was mainly inspired by his admiration for the woman who afterward became his wife, and which gives indication of the power which was developed later, though in the after-editions of his works the poet discarded most of the productions of that time. a little later lowell conceived the idea of starting a magazine, which should rival in value and fame the celebrated philadelphia magazines, which were believed to stand for the highest literary art in america. the magazine was named _the pioneer_, and its editorship and ownership were shared with a friend. it appeared in january, , and ran for three months, ending in dismal failure, though the contributors numbered such names as poe, elizabeth barrett, whittier, and the artist story. it was not until twelve years later, when his own fame was well established, that lowell undertook the editorship of another magazine, and put to practical use his reserve talent for adapting and selecting for popular favor the best literary work of the time. a year after the failure of _the pioneer_, lowell published a second volume of poems. in this collection occur the poems _the legend of brittany_; _prometheus_, a poem founded on the old greek myth of prometheus, who incurs the wrath of jupiter by giving fire to mankind; _the heritage_, a stirring ballad, and _the shepherd of king admetus_, embodying the myth of the coming of apollo to king admetus and his gift of poesy to the world. the volume heralded the fame that lowell was afterward to attain as a poet. in the mexican war was the great political question of the day, and the country was divided in opinion as to whether the government had undertaken the war in a spirit of justice, or merely for the sake of acquiring new territory. the south mainly favored the war, while a portion of the north opposed it on the principle that the new territory would favor the extension of slavery. there was much talk of glory, and the heroes of the day were the generals and soldiers who were winning laurels on the mexican battle-fields. lowell considered the war dishonorable and opposed to the principles of liberty, and he took a firm stand against it. he did this, not, as may be said, in his own way, for the way was new to him, but in a manner that turned the vaunted heroism of the day into ridicule, and appealed to the public conscience by its patriotism and honesty. keeping his own personality in the background, lowell sent his wits roving into the world of memory and brought from it a hero who was destined to rival in fame the leader of the mexican campaigns. this hero possessed the old courage, fire, and enthusiasm which had braved the british in revolutionary days. his patriotism was a pure flame, his wisdom that of the builders who had founded a commonwealth of civil rights in the midst of the primeval forest; his common-sense would have made him a king in yankeedom, and his humor was as grim as that of the old puritans, who believed in fighting the devil with his own weapons. he came on the scene dressed in homespun, and spoke the homely dialect of new england, that singular speech so unlike any other and which seems to have had grafted upon the original english all the eccentricities which made the puritans a peculiar people. this singular figure which now attracted public attention was first heard from in the columns of the boston _courier_, as the author of a poem on the subject of the raising of volunteers for the mexican war. the poem was written in the yankee dialect and, it was stated, had been sent to the office by the poet's father, ezekiel biglow. the verses rang with new england canniness, and the familiar dialect acquired a dignity never before acknowledged. scholars, statesmen, critics, and the public at large, after a first few puzzling moments grasped the full force of the new crusade, and the standard-bearer and author, hosea biglow, became the most talked about man of the time. previous to this society had laughed at the reformers. now people laughed with hosea at the supporters of the war. from this time hosea biglow's sayings and doings were the most popular comment on the political situation. whatever happened was made the subject of a poem by hosea, expressing sometimes his own opinions and sometimes the opinions of parson wilbur, john p. robinson, and other persons introduced into the series. these poems met with tremendous success. wherever it was possible they were set to music and sung with all the abandon of a popular ballad. there is a story told to the effect that john p. robinson grew so tired of hearing the song in which he is introduced that he fled across the sea in despair. this brought no relief, however, for the street gamins of london and the travelling american and englishman, wherever he could be found, unconsciously greeted his ears with the rollicking refrain: "but john p. robinson, he sez they didn't know everythin' down in judee." among the political poems occurs in "the notices of the press," which form the introduction, the exquisite love-poem, _the courtin'_. in wit, scholarship, and knowledge of human nature, the biglow papers are acknowledged as a classic, and the future student of american literature will be ever grateful for this preservation of the yankee dialect by new england's greatest poet. lowell's next important contribution to literature was the publication of the poem, _the vision of sir launfal_. this beautiful poem, in which in a vision a young knight arms himself and starts in search of the holy grail, reads like a sacred legend of the middle ages. it is full of the pious spirit of the old monks who still believed the story of the existence of the holy grail, and the possibility of its recovery by the pure in heart. this story, which has appealed to the art of every age, found in lowell a poet worthy of its expression, and one who has transcribed the mysticism of the past into the vital charity of the present. though a dream of the old world, it is still the new england poet who translates it, as may be seen from the bits of landscape shining through it. glimpses of the northern winter; of the wind sweeping down from the heights, and of the little brook that "heard it and built a roof 'neath which he could house him winter-proof," show the poet in his mood of loving reminiscence. in his poems _prometheus_, _the legend of brittany_, _rhoecus_, and the collection known as _under the willows_, which includes the _commemoration ode_, lowell shows his highest point as a poet, which is also reached in _the cathedral_. his was a large and generous spirit, which found no experience or condition of life trivial. he was in sympathy with nature and with the aims and happiness of humanity. the affectionate side of his nature is shown in many of his poems, one of the most beautiful being that which is expressed in _the first snowfall_, a tender and sacred memory of one of the poet's children. the _commemoration ode_, written in honor of the harvard graduates who fell in the war for the union, was read by lowell july , , at the commemoration service held in their memory. no hall could hold the immense audience which assembled to hear their chosen poet voice the grief of the nation over its slain in the noblest poem produced by the war. to those present the scene, which has become historic, was rendered doubly impressive from the fact that lowell mourned in his verse many of his own kindred. _a fable for critics_ is a satire in verse upon the leading authors of america. the first bit was written and despatched to a friend without any thought of publication. the fable was continued in the same way until the daily bits were sent to a publisher by the friend, who thought the matter too good for private delectation only. in this production lowell satirizes all the writers of the day, himself included, with a wit so pungent and so sound a taste that the criticism has appealed to the succeeding generation, which has in nearly every case vindicated the poet's judgment of his contemporaries. the authorship remained for some time unknown, and was only disclosed by lowell when claimed by others. besides his poetry lowell produced several volumes of charming prose. among these is _the fireside travels_, which contains his description of cambridge in his boyhood; _among my books_, and _my study windows_, which contain literary criticism of the choicest sort, the poet easily taking rank as one of the foremost critics of his time. throughout his prose we find the same feeling for nature and love for humanity that distinguishes his poetry. his whole literary career was but an outgrowth of his own broad, sympathetic, genial nature, interwoven with the acquirements of the scholar. lowell was for a large part of his life professor of modern languages and belles-lettres at harvard. soon after its beginning he became editor of the _atlantic monthly_, and he also was for a time one of the editors of the _north american review_. outside of his literary life he was known as a diplomat who served his country with distinction as minister, successively, to spain and to england. though finding congenial surroundings in foreign lands, lowell was always pre-eminently an american; one who, even in his country's darkest hour, saw promise of her glory, and to whom her fame was ever the dearest sentiment of his heart. most of his life was spent in his old home at elmwood, where he died in . chapter xvi francis parkman - at twelve o'clock on a summer night, nearly a half century ago, a young man of twenty-three stood in the shadow of a great indian camp watching intently the scene before him. on the farther side of the camp a number of indians were gathered about the fire, which threw into relief their strong, handsome frames, for they were all young and formed, as they stood there, the hope and ambition of their tribe. suddenly a loud chant broke the silence of the night, and at the same time the young braves began circling around the fire in a grotesque, irregular kind of dance. the chant was now interrupted by bursts of sharp yells, and the motions of the dancers, now leaping, now running, again creeping slyly, suggested the movements of some stealthy animal; this was, in fact, what was intended, for the young warriors were the "strong hearts" of the dacotahs, an association composed of the bravest youths of the tribe, whose _totem_ or tutelary spirit was the fox, in whose honor they were now celebrating one of their dances. the stranger, who stood looking on at a little distance away, since the superstitions of the tribe would not allow him to approach too near the scene of the solemnities, was francis parkman, a harvard graduate, who had left civilization for the purpose of studying the savage form of indian life face to face. parkman was born in boston in . he was noted as a child who threw himself body and soul into whatever happened to be the pursuit of the hour, and thus illustrated even in childhood the most striking feature of his character. during a residence in the country from his eighth to his twelfth year he was seized with a passion for natural history, and bent all his energies to collecting eggs, insects, reptiles, and birds, and to trapping squirrels and woodchucks, practising in the meantime shooting in indian fashion with bow and arrow. at twelve he forsook natural history and found chemistry the only interest in life. for four years longer he now secluded himself largely from family life and youthful companions, while he experimented in his amateur laboratory. acids, gases, specific gravity, and chemical equations were the only delight of his life, and he pursued his experiments with all the ardor of the old seekers of the philosopher's stone. but at sixteen the charms of chemistry faded, and he became again a haunter of the woods, but was saved in the end from becoming a naturalist by an equally strong passion for history, a passion so real that at eighteen he had chosen his life-work, that of historian of the french in the new world. with the idea of his work had also come the conception of its magnitude, and he calmly looked forward to twenty years of hard and exacting labor before realizing his hopes. still, mastered by the spirit of thoroughness, he spent all his vacations in canada, following in the footsteps of the early french settlers. here in the forest, he slept on the earth with no covering but a blanket, exhausted his guides with long marches, and exposed his health by stopping neither for heat nor rain. fascinated by the visions of forest life and with the pictures which the old stories called up, parkman entered upon the literary preparation for his work with zeal. indian history and ethnology were included in his college course, while he spent many hours that should have been devoted to rest in studying the great english masters of style. he was graduated at twenty-one, and after a short trip to europe started for the western plains to begin his historical studies from nature. for months he and a college friend had followed the wanderings of a portion of the dacotahs in their journey across the western prairies to the platte river, where they were to be joined by thousands of others of their tribe, and take part in the extermination of the snake indians, their bitter enemies. they had suffered from the heat and the dust of the desert; they had hunted buffalo among the hills and ravines of the platte border, and had slept night after night in open camps while wolves and panthers crawled dangerously near. to all intents and purposes their life was that of the indian of the plains, an alien to civilization, a hunter of buffalo, and an enemy to all human beings except those of his own nation. it was in the year , three years before the discovery of gold in california, and the great west was still a land of forests, and the home of wandering tribes of indians. from the mississippi to the pacific coast the country was entirely unsettled, with the exception of a few military forts and trading-posts. here the indian lived as his race had lived from time immemorial. dressed in his robe of skins, with his gay moccasins on his feet, his dog-skin quiver at his back, and his powerful bow slung across his shoulder, the dacotah of that day was a good specimen of a race that has almost disappeared. the only two objects in life were war and the hunt, and he was ready at a moment's notice to strike his tent and engage in either. six or eight times during the year the great spirit was called upon, fasts were made, and war parades celebrated preliminary to attacks upon other tribes, while during the remainder of the time he hunted the buffalo which supplied him with every necessity of life. the coverings for their tents, their clothing, beds, ropes, coverings for their saddles, canoes, water-jars, food, and fuel, were all obtained from this animal, which also served as a means of trading with the posts. the indians had obtained rifles from the whites in a few cases, but they still largely used the bow and arrow, with which their predecessors on the plains had hunted the mammoth and mastodon in prehistoric ages. their arrows were tipped with flint and stone, and their stone hammers were like those used by the savages of the danube and rhine when europe was still uncivilized. while civilization had laid a chain of cities and towns around the borders of the continent, the american indian of the interior remained exactly as his forefathers had been. and it was to study this curious specimen of humanity, whose like had faded from almost every other part of the world, that parkman had come among them. he wished to reveal the indian in his true character, and he thought he could only do this by living the indian life. and so, for six months, he shared their lodges, their feasts, hunts, and expeditions of war. he became acquainted with their beliefs in the great spirit, the father of the universe, and in the lesser spirits which controlled the winds and rain, and which were found inhabiting the bodies of the lower animals. he learned to know the curious character of their "medicine-men" and their witch-doctors, and all their strange superstitions regarding the mysteries of life and death and the origin of man. suffering constantly from physical ills, and in danger of death at any moment from the treachery of the red men, parkman yet was able to maintain his position among them with dignity, and to be acknowledged worthy of their hospitality, and he took advantage of this to make his study of them thorough. the dacotahs were a branch of the sioux, one of the fiercest of the tribes of the plains. in his journey with them parkman traversed the regions of the platte, which was one of the best known routes to oregon and california. frequent parties of emigrants passed them on their way to new homes, and those, with the traders' posts and occasional bands of hunters, gave them their only glimpses of white faces. reaching the upper waters of the platte, they branched off for a hunting trip to the black hills, and then returning, made the passage of the rocky mountains, gained the head-waters of the arkansas, and so returned to the settlements. it was a trip full of danger and adventure, but parkman had gained what he wanted--a picture of indian life still preserved in the solitudes of the plains and mountains as inviolate as the rivers and rocks themselves. a few years later the discovery of gold in california changed this condition almost as if by magic. the plains and mountains became alive with unnumbered hosts of emigrants on their way to the gold fields. cities and towns sprung up where before indian lodges and buffalo herds had held sway. year by year the indians changed in character and habits, adopting in some measure the dress of the whites and their manner of living. the true indian of the plains passed out of history, and but for parkman's visit, even the memory of him as an example of the picturesque freedom of savage life, might have been lost. a year after his return to the east parkman published an account of his adventures in the _knickerbocker magazine_, under the title _the oregon trail_, the name by which the old route was generally known. later on these sketches appeared in book form. they formed parkman's first book and indicated the scheme of his life-work. parkman had elaborated his first idea, and now intended writing an account of the history of the french influence in america from the earliest visits of verazzani and jacques cartier, down to the time when the english drove out the french from canada and the mississippi valley, and laid the foundations of what was destined to be the american republic. his second book, _the conspiracy of pontiac_, published five years after his adventures among the sioux, deals with the last act of the struggle between france and england. this book appeared thus early in the series because at that time, on account of ill-health, parkman could not begin any work of vast magnitude such as would require exhaustive research. the conspiracy of pontiac, a chief of the ottawas, who formed a confederation of the tribes to drive the english from the forts near the great lakes, was a theme complete in itself, and yet one that could easily supplement any series dealing with similar subjects. parkman visited the scene of pontiac's exploits, talked with the descendants of the tribes which still lingered around the great lakes, which then formed the outposts of the english, and stored his mind with such local traditions and color as would give character to the narrative. the book was written through the aid of readers and an amanuensis, whose task it was to gather the notes, which parkman sifted until ready for dictation. it dealt with one of the most picturesque episodes of the french and indian war, and the character of pontiac--brave, patriotic, and ready for any fate--was drawn with a master-touch. fourteen years passed by before parkman presented another volume of the series which he intended should illustrate the complete history of the french in america. this volume was called the _pioneers of france in the new world_, and opens the theme with a description of the early voyagers, thus making it in point of place the first book of the series. his books, which appeared at different times after the _pioneers of france_, under the titles _the jesuits of north america_; _the discovery of the great west_; _the old regime in canada_; _a half century of conflict_; and _montcalm and wolfe_, indicate each in turn the character of its scope. they tell the history of the french race in america for over two hundred years, beginning with the old voyagers who sought in america a region of romance and mystery which should rival the fairy realms of the poets of the middle ages, and ending with the last efforts of the indians to recover their land from the grasp of the hated english. through all this period the indians had regarded the french as friends. jesuit missionaries had penetrated the wilds of the mississippi, and had brought to the tribes on its banks the message of peace and brotherly love. they spread the story of christ from carolina to the st. lawrence, and from the mississippi to the atlantic. they lived the indian life, dwelling in lodges, eating the indian food, conforming as much as possible to the indian habits, and retaining, in their geographical descriptions, the indian names of the lakes and rivers, so dear to the savage heart. they made, in the main, a peaceful conquest of the country, and they won the natives to such a degree that in the contest with the english which ensued the indian remained throughout the firm friend and ally of the french. the english had thus two enemies to deal with instead of one, the military knowledge of the french being in every case strengthened by the subtle and savage modes of indian warfare. this state of things kept the final issue doubtful, even though the english won victory after victory, for the taking of a fort and the slaughter or capture of the garrison might be followed at any time by a murderous night attack from the savage allies, who ignored the civilized methods of war and would never acknowledge defeat. in this work parkman not only aimed at the history of the actual struggle between france and england for the possession of north america, but he also wished to present clearly the story of the french alone, as they appeared in their character of settlers and conquerors of uncivilized lands. in the vivid pictures with which parkman tells this story of their life in the new world, we see a strong contrast to the spanish power in south america, as illustrated in the pages of history. the spaniards conquered a race already far advanced in civilization, reduced it to slavery, destroyed its race characteristics, and made everything else bend to their insatiate love of gold. very different was the conduct of the french in their treatment of the savage tribes that they found inhabiting the primeval forests of north america. the jesuit missionaries and the persecuted huguenots alike approached the indian with one message, that of christian love and faith in the brotherhood of man. to them the dark child of the forests, savage in nature, untamed in habit, was still a brother who must be lifted to a higher life. and to do this they lived among them as teachers and advisers rather than as conquerors. in these pages all the heroes of the french occupation appear before us as in their daily life with the indians: marquette, la salle, tonti, fronténac, du gorgues--whose visit of vengeance is so well described that he is forever remembered by the indians as an avenger of their race--and the men of lesser note. we have also a picture of the hurons, the iroquois, and other tribes as they appeared to the early french settlers; and in fact parkman has left no phase or detail of the movement untouched. it was a vast undertaking, and carried out in the midst of many difficulties, and its completion placed parkman's name among the greatest historians of all time. parkman suffered from ill-health from his earliest years throughout his life, and to this was added partial blindness, which made his literary work as great a task as that of prescott. very often he was interrupted for months and years by illness, and in the main he had to depend upon the help of others in collecting his material; but his purpose never faltered, and the end was brilliant with success. chapter xvii oliver wendell holmes - among the boys most familiar with the scenes described in lowell's recollections of his youth was oliver wendell holmes, the son of the pastor of the first congregational church at cambridge. holmes was ten years older than lowell, but cambridge altered little between the birthtimes of the two poets, and in the writings of both are embalmed many loving memories of the old village. in his reminiscence of the famous commencement week, so faithfully described by lowell, holmes says, "i remember that week well, for something happened to me once at that time, namely, i was born." many after-touches show us how the great week possessed for holmes the same magic charm it held for lowell. the wonders of the menagerie where he beheld for the first time a live tiger, the side-show where he enjoyed the delights of punch and judy, and gazed with awe at the biggest live fat boy known to showmen, and the marvels of the toy-counter, over which hung the inscription, "look, but handle not," shared honors with the governor's parade, and commencement exercises, and in fact far out-ranked them with holmes, who confessed that he would willingly have stayed from morning till night viewing their delights, and declared that the sound of the tent-raising on the common the night before the show began could be compared to nothing but the evening before agincourt! holmes was born in august, when, he tells us in one of his charming essays, the meadows around cambridge were brilliant with the cardinal flower, and blossoming buckwheat covered the fields, while the bayberry, barberry, sweetfern, and huckleberry made delightful retreats for the small boy of the neighborhood. in the same essay he describes the old garden of the parsonage, with its lilac-bushes, hyacinths, tulips, peonies, and hollyhocks, its peaches, nectarines, and white grapes, growing in friendly companionship with the beets, carrots, onions, and squashes, while the old pear-tree in the corner, called by holmes "the moral pear-tree," because its fruit never ripened, taught him one of his earliest lessons. bits of reminiscence like this scattered throughout the pages of holmes enable us to reconstruct the scenes of his youth and to follow him from the time he was afraid of the masts of the sloops down by the bridge, "being a very young child," through all the years of his boyhood. the parsonage was an old-fashioned gambrel-roofed house, which holmes recurs to again and again with loving remembrance. the rooms were large and light and had been the scenes of stirring events in other days. on the study floor could still be seen the dents of the muskets stacked there in revolutionary times, and an old family portrait in one of the upper rooms still bore the sword-thrusts of the british soldiers. a certain dark store-room contained a pile of tables and chairs, which to the child's fancy seemed to have rushed in there to hide, and tumbled against one another as people do when frightened. another store-room held an array of preserve-jars containing delicious sweets; before the door of this room he would stand with one eye glued to the keyhole while his childish imagination revelled in the forbidden luxuries. the house had also a ghostly garret about which clustered many legends, and these in connection with certain patches of sand bare of grass and vine and called the devil's footsteps, which might have been seen around the neighborhood, tended to make the bedtime hour a season of dread to the imaginative boy, who saw shadowy red-coats in every dark corner, and with every unfamiliar noise expected even more uncanny visitors. outside was the old garden, sweet and sunny, and close to it the friendly wall of a neighbor's house, up which climbed a honeysuckle which stretched so far back into memory that the child thought it had been there always, "like the sky and stars," and on the whole the atmosphere of the old home was most wholesome. when holmes was but a little child he was sent to dame prentice's school, where he studied the primer and spent his leisure moments in falling in love with his pretty girl schoolmates or playing with certain boyish toys which were always confiscated sooner or later by the school-mistress, and went to help fill a large basket which stood ready to receive such treasures. at ten years of age he began attendance at the cambridgeport school, where he had for schoolmates margaret fuller and richard henry dana, and where he remained for some years. holmes says that in these years of his childhood every possible occasion for getting a crowd together was made the most of--school anniversaries and town centennials; election day, which came in may, when everyone carried a bunch of lilacs and the small boys ate "election buns" of such size that the three regular meals had to be omitted; fourth of july, a very grand holiday indeed, when the festivities were opened by the governor; commencement week, with its glories of shows and dancing on the common, were each in turn made seasons of joy for the youthful denizens of cambridge and boston. perhaps the most gratifying of all the holidays was the old-fashioned thanksgiving, when even the sermon, though of greater length than usual, "had a subdued cheerfulness running through it," which kept reminding the children of the turkey and oyster-sauce, the plum-pudding, pumpkin-pie, oranges, almonds, and shagbarks awaiting them at home, and the chink of the coin in the contribution-boxes was but a joyous prelude to the music of roasting apples and nuts. holmes left the cambridgeport school to enter phillips academy, and has left us a charming account of this first visit to andover, whither he went in a carriage with his parents, becoming more and more homesick as the time came for parting, until finally he quite broke down and for a few days was utterly miserable. but he had happy days at andover, and revisiting the place in after years he describes himself as followed by the little ghost of himself, who went with him to the banks of the showshine and merrimac; to the old meeting-house, the door of which was bullet-riddled by the indians; to the school-rooms where he had recited euclid and virgil; to the base-ball field, and to the great bowlder upon which the boys cracked nuts, proving such a faithful guide that when the day was over holmes almost committed the folly of asking at the railroad office for two tickets back to boston. perhaps of all the celebrated men who have been pupils at the famous school no one held it more lovingly in his heart than he who turned back after so many years of success to pay this loving tribute to its memory. the stay at andover lasted but a year, during which time holmes discovered that he could write verse, and gained a little reputation thereby, which led to his being made class-poet when he left school to enter harvard, in his sixteenth year. throughout his college life he kept his reputation as a maker of humorous verse, and was perhaps the most popular member of the various societies and clubs for which harvard was noted. he was graduated in his twentieth year, and within a year of this time had decided to study medicine, and after a two years' course in boston went abroad to attend lectures in paris and edinburgh. but the practice of medicine included but a few years of holmes's life, as in he accepted the chair of anatomy and physiology at harvard, holding the position for thirty-five years. during his years of study and practice, holmes had gained gradually the reputation of a clever literary man whose name was familiar to the readers of the best periodicals of the day. this reputation began with the publication of a poem, _old ironsides_, which was inspired by the proposition to destroy, as of no further use, the old frigate constitution, which had done such glorious service during the war of . these verses, which begin the literary life of holmes, ring with a noble patriotism which flashed its fire into the hearts of thousands of his countrymen and made the author's name almost a household word. they were published originally in the boston _advertiser_, but so furious was the storm aroused that within a short time they had been copied in newspapers all over the land, printed on handbills that placarded the walls, and circulated in the streets from hand to hand. it was a satisfaction to the young patriot to know that his appeal had not been made in vain, and that the old ship was allowed to rest secure in the keeping of a grateful nation. a few years later holmes published his first volume of poems, collected from various periodicals, and gained medals for some essays on medical subjects. for many years after this his literary work consisted chiefly of fugitive poems, written very often for special occasions, such as class anniversaries and dinners. it was, however, by the publication of a series of essays in the _atlantic monthly_, which was started in , with james russell lowell as editor, that holmes began his career as the household intimate of every lover of reading in america. these essays, which are now collected in four volumes, appeared in the _atlantic_, at intervals between the series, between and , and thus cover almost the entire period of the author's life as a man of letters. the first series--_the autocrat at the breakfast-table_--struck the key-note for the rest, a note which showed the author's heart attuned in its broad yet subtle sympathy to the heart of his race, and created such a friendship as rarely exists between author and reader. in the autocrat holmes introduces a variety of characters which at intervals flit throughout the rest of the series. the papers are thrown into the form of talks at the breakfast-table between the author and his fellow-boarders, and so strong is the personal flavor that they seem to the reader like the home-letters of an absent member of the family. the landlady and her son, benjamin franklin, the sharp-eyed spinster in black, the young fellow "whose name seems to be john and nothing else," and the school-teacher, appear and disappear side by side with little boston, iris, and the characters of the other series, and emphasize the life-likeness of the whole. it never seems in reading these papers that the _dramatis personæ_ are anything else than living human beings, with whom holmes actually converses around the boarding-house table or at his own fireside. the series, besides _the autocrat at the breakfast-table_, includes _the professor at the breakfast-table_, _the poet at the breakfast-table_, and _over the teacups_, the last being separated from the others by an interval of thirty years. one of the chief charms of these essays is found in the bits of biography which stamp them in so many cases as personal history. one may read here the nature of the man who could thus step back into the realm of childhood, appreciate the delicate grace of girlhood, enjoy the robust enthusiasm of young manhood, and pause with reverent sympathy before the afflicted. behind each character portrayed one feels the healthful, generous throb of a humanity to which no ambition of soul could seem foreign or no defect appeal in vain. scattered throughout the volumes are many charming verses, to some of which holmes owes his fame as a poet. in _the autocrat at the breakfast-table_ occurs, among others, the celebrated poem, _the chambered nautilus_, which shows perhaps the highest point to which holmes's art as a poet has reached. this poem, founded upon the many-chambered shell of the pearly nautilus, is made by the poet to illustrate the progress of the soul in its journey through life; the spiritual beauty of the verse shows it a genuine reflection of that soul illumination which made of the poet's puritan ancestors a peculiar people. many other poems bear the mark of this spiritual insight, and stamp the author as possessing the highest poetic sense. but it is perhaps in his humorous poems that holmes has appealed to the greatest number of readers. throughout the verse of this class runs the genuine yankee humor, allied to high scholarship and the finest literary art. many of the verses seem but an echo in rhyme of the half-serious, half-whimsical utterances of the breakfast-table series. who but the autocrat himself could have given literary form to the exquisite pathos of the _last leaf_, the delicious quaintness of _dorothy q_, or the solemn drollery of _the katy did_? many of the more popular poems are simply _vers d'occasion_, written for some class reunion, college anniversary, or state dinner. these poems, collected under the title _poems of the class of ' _, show holmes in his most charming mood of reminiscence. through all his poetry shines here and there an intense sympathy with nature, for running side by side with his appreciation of human interests we see ever that deep love of nature which is the mark of the true poet. trees and flowers, the seasons, the meadows, rivers, clouds, and the enchanting mysteries of twilight touch his heart to sympathetic vibrations, and their beauty enters into and becomes a part of himself. in this sense some of his most charming recollections cease to be merely remembrance; they are the very air and sunlight which he breathed and which became incorporated into his being. thus the old garden whose fragrance lingers so loving in his memory and is enshrined with such tender grace in his pages is not a description, but a breath of that far-away childhood which still shines for him immortally beautiful; and the fire-flies flitting across the darkened meadows bring once again to his mind the first flash of insight into the wonder and meaning of the night. in some charming pages he has told us of his love for trees, particularly of the old elms which are the pride of the new england villages, and in equally poetic vein he has emphasized the beauty of the pond-lily, the cardinal flower, the huckleberry pasture, and the fields of indian corn. dr. holmes is also known as a novelist as well as essayist and poet. his three novels, _elsie venner_, _the guardian angel_, and _a mortal antipathy_, are undoubtedly the results of his experience as a physician, for each in turn is founded upon some mental trait which sets the hero or heroine apart from the rest of mankind. in the treatment of these characteristics holmes has made apparent the powerful effect of heredity upon the life of the human being. these novels are chiefly valuable as character-studies by an earnest student of moral science whose literary bias tempted him to throw them into the form of fiction. while touched with the true holmes flavor, they cannot be called fiction of the highest order nor do they emphasize holmes's place in literature. they seem rather to show his versatility as a writer and to illustrate his familiarity with those subtle problems of character that have always puzzled mankind. holmes's medical and literary essays, poems, novels, and other miscellany have been collected in thirteen volumes, the last of which, _over the teacups_, appeared but a short time before his death. he spent most of his life in boston, his home there being the favorite meeting-place for the most distinguished of his countrymen and a recognized rallying-point for foreign guests. he was the last of that brilliant circle which made new england famous as the literary centre of america; in many senses he combined the excellences which have given american letters their place in the literature of the world. * * * * * beside the writers who founded american literature must be placed many others whose work belongs to the same period. in history and biography, besides the work of the great historians, we have hildreth's _history of the united states_, lossing's _field book of the revolution_, schoolcraft's studies and researches among the indian tribes, the carefully written biographies of sparks, the peter parley and abbott stories for the young, and numerous other contributions which throw valuable light upon the early history of the united states. in fiction the pictures of southern life by sims, and the romances of dutch life in new york by hoffman, preserve the colonial traditions, and with many other writers of lesser note supplement the work of the great novelists. the philosophy of emerson has found expression in the writings of bronson alcott, theodore parker, and margaret fuller. in poetry, the still honored names of fitz-greene halleck, joseph rodman drake, elizabeth kinney, alice and phoebe cary illustrate the place that they held in the popular heart. chief among these minor singers stands john howard payne, whose immortal song has found a home in nearly every land. burgess trade quaddies mark mother west wind's animal friends by thornton w. burgess author of "old mother west wind," and "mother west wind's children" _illustrated by george kerr_ boston little, brown, and company _copyright, _, by little, brown, and company _all rights reserved_ * * * * * in tender, loving, reverent memory of my mother, who loved little children and was beloved of them, and to whom i owe a debt of affection and of gratitude beyond my power to pay * * * * * [illustration: suddenly he met mr. panther. frontispiece.] contents chapter page i. the merry little breezes save the green meadows ii. the stranger in the green forest iii. how prickly porky got his quills iv. peter rabbit's egg rolling v. how johnny chuck ran away vi. peter rabbit's run for life vii. a joker fooled viii. the fuss in the big pine ix. johnny chuck finds a use for his back door x. billy mink goes dinnerless xi. grandfather frog's journey xii. why blacky the crow wears mourning xiii. striped chipmunk fools peter rabbit xiv. jerry muskrat's new house xv. peter rabbit's big cousin list of illustrations suddenly he met mr. panther _frontispiece_ reddy strutted out in front of him. "who are you?" he demanded page "please, please wait for me, peter rabbit," panted johnny chuck " "come on with us to the big river, fishing," called billy mink " peter was so surprised that he nearly fell backward " "i'm going to build a house," replied jerry muskrat " mother west wind's animal friends i the merry little breezes save the green meadows old mother west wind's family is very big, very big indeed. there are dozens and dozens of merry little breezes, all children of old mother west wind. every morning she comes down from the purple hills and tumbles them out of a great bag on to the green meadows. every night she gathers them into the great bag and, putting it over her shoulder, takes them to their home behind the purple hills. one morning, just as usual, old mother west wind turned the merry little breezes out to play on the green meadows. then she hurried away to fill the sails of the ships and blow them across the great ocean. the merry little breezes hopped and skipped over the green meadows looking for some one to play with. it was then that one of them discovered something--something very dreadful. it was a fire! yes, sir, it was a fire in the meadow grass! some one had dropped a lighted match, and now little red flames were running through the grass in all directions. the merry little breeze hastened to tell all the other little breezes and all rushed over as fast as they could to see for themselves. they saw how the little red flames were turning to smoke and ashes everything they touched, and how black and ugly, with nothing alive there, became that part of the green meadows where the little flames ran. it was dreadful! then one of them noticed that the little red flames were running in the direction of johnny chuck's new house. would the little red flames burn up johnny chuck, as they burned up the grass and the flowers? "hi!" cried the merry little breeze, "we must warn johnny chuck and all the other little meadow people!" so he caught up a capful of smoke and raced off as fast as he could go to johnny chuck's house. then each of the merry little breezes caught up a capful of smoke and started to warn one of the little meadow people or forest folks. so pretty soon jolly, round, red mr. sun, looking down from the blue sky, saw johnny chuck, jimmy skunk, peter rabbit, striped chipmunk, danny meadow mouse, reddy fox, bobby coon, happy jack squirrel, chatterer the red squirrel, jumper the hare and old mr. toad all hurrying as fast as they could to the smiling pool where live billy mink and little joe otter and jerry muskrat and spotty the turtle and grandfather frog. there they would be quite safe from the little red flames. "oh," gasped johnny chuck, puffing very hard, for you know he is round and fat and roly-poly and it was hard work for him to run, "what will become of my nice new house and what will there be left to eat?" the merry little breeze who had brought him the warning in a capful of smoke thought for a minute. then he called all the other little breezes to him. "we must get farmer brown's help or we will have no beautiful green meadows to play on," said the merry little breeze. so together they rushed back to where the little red flames had grown into great, angry, red flames that were licking up everything in their way. the merry little breezes gathered a great cloud of smoke and, lifting all together, they carried it over and dropped it in farmer brown's dooryard. then one of them blew a little of the smoke in at an open window, near which farmer brown was eating breakfast. farmer brown coughed and strangled and sprang from his chair. "phew!" cried farmer brown, "i smell smoke! there must be a fire on the meadows." then he shouted for his boy and for his hired man and the three, with shovels in their hands, started for the green meadows to try to put the fire out. the merry little breezes sighed with relief and followed to the fire. but when they saw how fierce and angry the red flames had become they knew that farmer brown and his boy and his hired man would not be able to put the fire out. choking with smoke, they hurried over to tell the dreadful news to the little meadow people and forest folks gathered at the smiling pool. "chug-a-rum! why don't you help put the fire out?" asked grandfather frog. "we warned farmer brown and his boy and his hired man; what more can we do?" asked one of the merry little breezes. "go find and drive up a rain cloud," replied grandfather frog. "splendid!" cried all the little meadow people and forest folks. "hurry! hurry! oh, do hurry!" so the merry little breezes scattered in all directions to hunt for a rain cloud. "it is a good thing that old mother west wind has such a big family," said grandfather frog, "for one of them is sure to find a wandering rain cloud somewhere." then all the little meadow people and forest folks sat down around the smiling pool to wait. they watched the smoke roll up until it hid the face of jolly, round, red mr. sun. their hearts almost stood still with fear as they saw the fierce, angry, red flames leap into the air and climb tall trees on the edge of the green forest. splash! something struck in the smiling pool right beside grandfather frog's big, green, lily-pad. spat! something hit johnny chuck right on the end of his funny little, black nose. they were drops of water. "hurrah!" cried johnny chuck, whirling about. sure enough, they were drops of water--rain drops. and there, coming just as fast as the merry little breezes could push it, and they were pushing very hard, very hard indeed, was a great, black, rain cloud, spilling down rain as it came. when it was just over the fire, the great, black, rain cloud split wide open, and the water poured down so that the fierce, angry, red flames were drowned in a few minutes. "phew!" said farmer brown, mopping his face with his handkerchief, "that was warm work! that shower came up just in time and it is lucky it did." but you know and i know and all the little meadow people and forest folks know that it wasn't luck at all, but the quick work and hard work of old mother west wind's big family of merry little breezes, which saved the green meadows. and this, too, is one reason why peter rabbit and johnny chuck and bobby coon and all the other little meadow and forest people love the merry little breezes who play every day on the green meadows. ii the stranger in the green forest old mother west wind, hurrying down from the purple hills with her merry little breezes, discovered the newcomer in the green forest on the edge of the green meadows. of course the merry little breezes saw him, too, and as soon as old mother west wind had turned them loose on the green meadows they started out to spread the news. as they hurried along the crooked little path up the hill, they met reddy fox. "oh, reddy fox," cried the merry little breezes, so excited that all talked together, "there's a stranger in the green forest!" reddy fox sat down and grinned at the merry little breezes. the grin of reddy fox is not pleasant. it irritates and exasperates. it made the merry little breezes feel very uncomfortable. "you don't say so," drawled reddy fox. "do you mean to say that you've just discovered him? why, your news is so old that it is stale; it is no news at all. i thought you had something really new to tell me." the merry little breezes were disappointed. their faces fell. they had thought it would be such fun to carry the news through the green forest and over the green meadows, and now the very first one they met knew all about it. "who is he, reddy fox?" asked one of the merry little breezes. reddy fox pretended not to hear. "i must be going," said he, rising and stretching. "i have an engagement with billy mink down at the smiling pool." reddy fox started down the crooked little path while the merry little breezes hurried up the crooked little path to tell the news to jimmy skunk, who was looking for beetles for his breakfast. now reddy fox had not told the truth. he had known nothing whatever of the stranger in the green forest. in fact he had been as surprised as the merry little breezes could have wished, but he would not show it. and he had told another untruth, for he had no intention of going down to the smiling pool. no, indeed! he just waited until the merry little breezes were out of sight, then he slipped into the green forest to look for the stranger seen by the merry little breezes. now reddy fox does nothing openly. instead of walking through the green forest like a gentleman, he sneaked along under the bushes and crept from tree to tree, all the time looking for the stranger of whom the merry little breezes had told him. all around through the green forest sneaked reddy fox, but nothing of the stranger could he see. it didn't occur to him to look anywhere but on the ground. "i don't believe there is a stranger here," said reddy to himself. just then he noticed some scraps of bark around the foot of a tall maple. looking up to see where it came from he saw--what do you think? why, the stranger who had come to the green forest. reddy fox dodged back out of sight, for he wanted to find out all he could about the stranger before the stranger saw him. reddy sat down behind a big stump and rubbed his eyes. he could hardly believe what he saw. there at the top of the tall maple, stripping the branches of their bark and eating it, was the stranger, sure enough. he was big, much bigger than reddy. could he be a relative of happy jack squirrel? he didn't look a bit, not the least little bit like happy jack. and he moved slowly, very slowly, indeed, while happy jack and his cousins move quickly. reddy decided that the stranger could not be related to happy jack. the longer reddy looked the more he was puzzled. also, reddy began to feel just a little bit jealous. you see all the little meadow people and forest folks are afraid of reddy fox, but this stranger was so big that reddy began to feel something very like fear in his own heart. the merry little breezes had told the news to jimmy skunk and then hurried over the green meadows telling every one they met of the stranger in the green forest--billy mink, little joe otter, johnny chuck, peter rabbit, happy jack squirrel, danny meadow mouse, striped chipmunk, old mr. toad, grandfather frog, sammy jay, blacky the crow, and each as soon as he heard the news started for the green forest to welcome the newcomer. even grandfather frog left his beloved big, green lily-pad and started for the green forest. so it was that when finally the stranger decided that he had eaten enough bark for his breakfast, and climbed slowly down the tall maple, he found all the little meadow people and forest folks sitting in a big circle waiting for him. the stranger was anything but handsome, but his size filled them with respect. the nearer he got to the ground the bigger he looked. down he came, and reddy fox, noting how slow and clumsy in his movements was the stranger, decided that there was nothing to fear. if the stranger was slow and clumsy in the tree, he was clumsier still on the ground. his eyes were small and dull. his coat was rough, long and almost black. his legs were short and stout. his tail was rather short and broad. altogether he was anything but handsome. but when the little meadow people and forest folks saw his huge front teeth they regarded him with greater respect than ever, all but reddy fox. reddy strutted out in front of him. "who are you?" he demanded. [illustration: reddy strutted out in front of him. "who are you?" he demanded.] the stranger paid no attention to reddy fox. "what business have you in our green forest?" demanded reddy, showing all his teeth. the stranger just grunted and appeared not to see reddy fox. reddy swelled himself out until every hair stood on end and he looked twice as big as he really is. he strutted back and forth in front of the stranger. "don't you know that i'm afraid of nothing and nobody?" snarled reddy fox. the stranger refused to give him so much as a glance. he just grunted and kept right on about his business. all the little meadow people and forest folks began to giggle and then to laugh. reddy knew that they were laughing at him and he grew very angry, for no one likes to be laughed at, least of all reddy fox. "you're a pig!" taunted reddy. "you're afraid to fight. i bet you're afraid of danny meadow mouse!" still the stranger just grunted and paid no further attention to reddy fox. now, with all his boasting reddy fox had kept at a safe distance from the stranger. happy jack squirrel had noticed this. "if you're so brave, why don't you drive him out, reddy fox?" asked happy jack, skipping behind a tree. "you don't dare to!" reddy turned and glared at happy jack. "i'm not afraid!" he shouted. "i'm not afraid of anything nor anybody!" but though he spoke so bravely it was noticed that he went no nearer the stranger. now it happened that that morning bowser the hound took it into his head to take a walk in the green forest. blacky the crow, sitting on the tip-top of a big pine, was the first to see him coming. from pure love of mischief blacky waited until bowser was close to the circle around the stranger. then he gave the alarm. "here's bowser the hound! run!" screamed blacky the crow. then he laughed so that he had to hold his sides to see the fright down below. reddy fox forgot that he was afraid of nothing and nobody. he was the first one out of sight, running so fast that his feet seemed hardly to touch the ground. peter rabbit turned a back somersault and suddenly remembered that he had important business down on the green meadows. johnny chuck dodged into a convenient hole. billy mink ran into a hollow tree. striped chipmunk hid in an old stump. happy jack squirrel climbed the nearest tree. in a twinkling the stranger was alone, facing bowser the hound. bowser stopped and looked at the stranger in sheer surprise. then the hair on the back of his neck stood on end and he growled a deep, ugly growl. still the stranger did not run. bowser didn't know just what to make of it. never before had he had such an experience. could it be that the stranger was not afraid of him? bowser walked around the stranger, growling fiercely. as he walked the stranger turned, so as always to face him. it was perplexing and very provoking. it really seemed as if the stranger had no fear of him. "bow, wow, wow!" cried bowser the hound in his deepest voice, and sprang at the stranger. then something happened, so surprising that blacky the crow lost his balance on the top of the pine where he was watching. the instant that bowser sprang, the stranger rolled himself into a tight round ball and out of the long hair of his coat sprang hundreds of sharp little yellowish white barbed spears. the stranger looked for all the world like a huge black and yellow chestnut burr. bowser the hound was as surprised as blacky the crow. he stopped short and his eyes looked as if they would pop out of his head. he looked so puzzled and so funny that happy jack squirrel laughed aloud. the stranger did not move. bowser backed away and began to circle around again, sniffing and snuffing. once in a while he barked. still the stranger did not move. for all the sign of life he made he might in truth have been a giant chestnut burr. bowser sat down and looked at him. then he walked around to the other side and sat down. "what a queer thing," thought bowser. "what a very queer thing." bowser took a step nearer. then he took another step. nothing happened. finally bowser reached out, and with his nose gingerly touched the prickly ball. slap! the stranger's tail had struck bowser full in the face. bowser yelled with pain and rolled over and over on the ground. sticking in his tender lips were a dozen sharp little spears, and claw and rub at them as he would, bowser could not get them out. every time he touched them he yelped with pain. finally he gave it up and started for home with his tail between his legs like a whipped puppy, and with every step he yelped. when he had disappeared and his yelps had died away in the distance, the stranger unrolled, the sharp little spears disappeared in the long hair of his coat and, just as if nothing at all had happened, the stranger walked slowly over to a tall maple and began to climb it. and this is how prickly porky the porcupine came to the green forest, and won the respect and admiration of all the little meadow people and forest folks, including reddy fox. since that day no one has tried to meddle with prickly porky or his business. iii how prickly porky got his quills the newcomer in the green forest was a source of great interest to the merry little breezes. ever since they had seen him turn himself into a huge prickly ball, like a giant chestnut burr, and with a slap of his tail send bowser the hound yelping home with his lips stuck full of little barbed spears, they had visited the green forest every day to watch prickly porky. he was not very social. indeed, he was not social at all, but attended strictly to his own business, which consisted chiefly of stripping bark from the trees and eating it. never had the merry little breezes seen such an appetite! already that part of the green forest where he had chosen to live had many bare stark trees, killed that prickly porky the porcupine might live. you see a tree cannot live without bark, and prickly porky had stripped them clean to fill his stomach. but if prickly porky was not social he was not unfriendly. he seemed to enjoy having the merry little breezes about, and did not in the least mind having them rumple up the long hair of his coat to feel the sharp little barbed spears underneath. some of these were so loose that they dropped out. peter rabbit's curiosity led him to examine some of these among bits of bark at the foot of a tree. peter wished that he had left them alone. one of the sharp little barbs pierced his tender skin and peter could not get it out. he had to ask johnny chuck to do it for him, and it had hurt dreadfully. after that the little meadow people and forest folks held prickly porky in greater respect than ever and left him severely alone, which was just what he seemed to want. one morning the merry little breezes failed to find prickly porky in the green forest. could he have left as mysteriously as he had come? they hurried down to the smiling pool to tell grandfather frog. bursting through the bulrushes on the edge of the smiling pool, they nearly upset jerry muskrat, who was sitting on an old log intently watching something out in the middle of the smiling pool. it was prickly porky. some of the sharp little barbed spears were standing on end; altogether he was the queerest sight the smiling pool had seen for a long time. he was swimming easily and you may be sure no one tried to bother him. little joe otter and billy mink sat on the big rock and for once they had forgotten to play tricks. when prickly porky headed towards the big rock, little joe otter suddenly remembered that he had business down the laughing brook, and billy mink recalled that mother mink had forbidden him to play at the smiling pool. prickly porky had the smiling pool quite to himself. when he had swum to his heart's content he climbed out, shook himself and slowly ambled up the lone little path to the green forest. the merry little breezes watched him out of sight. then they danced over to the big green lily-pad on which sat grandfather frog. the merry little breezes are great favorites with grandfather frog. as usual they brought him some foolish green flies. grandfather frog's eyes twinkled as he snapped up the last foolish green fly. "chug-a-rum!" said grandfather frog, "and now i suppose you want a story." and he folded his hands across his white and yellow waistcoat. "if you please!" shouted the merry little breezes. "if you please, do tell us how it is that prickly porky has spears on his back!" grandfather settled himself comfortably. "chug-a-rum!" said he. "once upon a time when the world was young, mr. porcupine, the grandfather a thousand times removed of prickly porky, whom you all know, lived in the green forest where old king bear ruled. mr. porcupine was a slow clumsy fellow, just as his grandson a thousand times removed is to-day. he was so slow moving, and when he tried to hurry tumbled over himself so much, that he had hard work to get enough to eat. always some one reached the berry patch before he did. the beetles and the bugs were so spry that seldom could he catch them. hunger was in his stomach, and little else most of the time. mr. porcupine grew thin and thinner and still more thin. his long, shaggy coat looked twice too big for him. because he was so hungry he could sleep little, and night as well as day he roamed the forest, thinking of nothing but his empty stomach, and looking for something to put in it. so he learned to see by night as well as by day. "one day he could not find a single berry and not a beetle or a bug could he catch. he was so hungry that he sat down with his back against a big black birch, and clasping both hands over his lean stomach, he wept. there sister south wind found him, and her heart was moved to pity, for she knew that his wits were as slow as his body. softly she stole up behind him. "'try the bark of the black birch; it's sweet and good,' whispered sister south wind. then she hurried on her way. "mr. porcupine still sat with his hands clasped over his lean stomach, for it took a long time for his slow wit to understand what sister south wind meant. 'bark, bark, try bark,' said mr. porcupine over and over to himself. he rolled his dull little eyes up at the big black birch. 'i believe i will try it,' said mr. porcupine at last. "slowly he turned and began to gnaw the bark of the big black birch. it was tough, but it tasted good. clumsily he began to climb, tearing off a mouthful of bark here and there as he climbed. the higher he got the tenderer and sweeter the bark became. finally he reached the top of the tree, and there on the small branches the bark was so tender and so sweet that he ate and ate and ate until for the first time in many days mr. porcupine had a full stomach. that night he curled up in a hollow log and slept all the night through, dreaming of great forests of black birch and all he wanted to eat. "the next day he hunted for and found another black birch, and climbing to the top, he ate and ate until his stomach was full. from that time on mr. porcupine ceased to hunt for berries or beetles or bugs. he grew stout and stouter. he filled his shaggy coat until it was so tight it threatened to burst. "now while mr. porcupine was so thin and lean he had no enemies, but when he grew stout and then fat, mr. panther and mr. fisher and mr. bobcat and even old king bear began to cast longing eyes upon him, for times were hard and they were hungry. mr. porcupine began to grow afraid. by night he hid in hollow trees and by day he went abroad to eat only when he was sure that no one bigger than himself was about. and because he no longer dared to move about as before, he no longer depended upon the black birch alone, but learned to eat and to like all kinds of bark. "one day he had made his breakfast on the bark of a honey-locust. when he came down the tree he brought with him a strip of bark, and attached to it were some of the long thorns with which the honey-locust seeks to protect itself. when he reached the ground whom should he find waiting for him but mr. panther. mr. panther was very lean and very hungry, for hunting had been poor and the times were hard. "'good morning, mr. porcupine,' said mr. panther, with a wicked grin. 'how fat you are!' "'good morning, mr. panther,' said mr. porcupine politely, but his long hair stood on end with fright, as he looked into mr. panther's cruel yellow eyes. "'i say, how fat you are,' said mr. panther, licking his chops and showing all his long teeth. 'what do you find to eat these hard times?' "'bark, mr. panther, just bark,' said mr. porcupine, while his teeth chattered with fear. 'it really is very nice and sweet. won't you try a piece, mr. panther?' mr. porcupine held out the strip of locust bark which he had brought down the tree for his lunch. "now mr. panther had never tried bark, but he thought to himself that if it made mr. porcupine so fat it must be good. he would try the piece of bark first and eat mr. porcupine afterward. so he reached out and snapped up the strip of bark. "now the locust thorns were long and they were sharp. they pierced mr. panther's tender lips and his tongue. they stuck in the roof of his mouth. mr. panther spat and yelled with pain and rage and clawed frantically at his mouth. he rolled over and over trying to get rid of the thorns. mr. porcupine didn't stay to watch him. for once in his life he hurried. by the time mr. panther was rid of the last thorn, mr. porcupine was nowhere to be seen. he was safely hidden inside a hollow log. "mr. porcupine didn't sleep that night. he just lay and thought and thought and thought. the next morning, very early, before any one else was astir, he started out to call on old mother nature. "'good morning, mr. porcupine, what brings you out so early?' asked old mother nature. "mr. porcupine bowed very low. 'if you please, mother nature, i want you to help me,' said he. "then he told her all about his meeting with mr. panther and how helpless he was when he met his enemies, and he begged her to give him stout claws and a big mouth full of long teeth that he might protect himself. "old mother nature thought a few minutes. 'mr. porcupine,' said she, 'you have always minded your own business. you do not know how to fight. if i should give you a big mouth full of long teeth you would not know how to use them. you move too slowly. instead, i will give you a thousand little spurs. they shall be hidden in the long hair of your coat and only when you are in danger shall you use them. go back to the green forest, and the next time you meet mr. panther or mr. fisher or mr. bobcat or old king bear roll yourself into a ball and the thousand little spears will protect you. now go!' "mr. porcupine thanked old mother nature and started back for the green forest. once he stopped to smooth down his long, rough coat. sure enough, there, under the long hair, he felt a thousand little spears. he went along happily until suddenly he met mr. panther. yes, sir, he met mr. panther. "mr. panther was feeling very ugly, for his mouth was sore. he grinned wickedly when he saw mr. porcupine and stepped right out in front of him, all the time licking his lips. mr. porcupine trembled all over, but he remembered what old mother nature had told him. in a flash he had rolled up into a tight ball. sure enough, the thousand little spears sprang out of his long coat, and he looked like a huge chestnut burr. "mr. panther was so surprised he didn't know just what to do. he reached out a paw and touched mr. porcupine. mr. porcupine was nervous. he switched his tail around and it struck mr. panther's paw. mr. panther yelled, for there were spears on mr. porcupine's tail and they were worse than the locust thorns. he backed away hurriedly and limped off up the lone little path, growling horribly. mr. porcupine waited until mr. panther was out of sight, then he unrolled, and slowly and happily he walked back to his home in the green forest. "and since that long-ago day when the world was young, the porcupines have feared nothing and have attended strictly to their own business. and that is how they happen to have a thousand little barbed spears, which are called quills," concluded grandfather frog. the merry little breezes drew a long breath. "thank you, grandfather frog, thank you ever so much!" they cried all together. "we are going back now to tell prickly porky that we know all about his little spears and how he happens to have them." but first they blew a dozen fat, foolish, green flies over to grandfather frog. iv peter rabbit's egg rolling it was spring. drummer the woodpecker was beating the long roll on the hollow limb of the old hickory, that all the world might know. old mother west wind, hurrying down from the purple hills across the green meadows, stopped long enough to kiss the smiling little bluets that crowded along the lone little path. all up and down the laughing brook were shy violets turning joyful faces up to jolly, round, red mr. sun. johnny chuck was sitting on his doorstep, stretching one short leg and then another, to get the kinks out, after his long, long winter sleep. very beautiful, very beautiful indeed, were the green meadows, and very happy were all the little meadow people--all but peter rabbit, who sat at the top of the crooked little path that winds down the hill. no, sir, peter rabbit, happy-go-lucky peter, who usually carries the lightest heart on the green meadows, was not happy. indeed, he was very unhappy. as he sat there at the top of the crooked little path and looked down on the green meadows, he saw nothing beautiful at all because, why, because his big soft eyes were full of tears. splash! a big tear fell at his feet in the crooked little path. splash! that was another tear. splash! splash! "my gracious! my gracious! what _is_ the matter, peter rabbit?" asked a gruff voice close to one of peter's long ears. peter jumped. then he winked the tears back and looked around. there sat old mr. toad. he looked very solemn, very solemn indeed. he was wearing a shabby old suit, the very one he had slept in all winter. peter forgot his troubles long enough to wonder if old mr. toad would swallow his old clothes when he got a new suit. "what's the matter, peter rabbit, what's the matter?" repeated old mr. toad. peter looked a little foolish. he hesitated, coughed, looked this way and looked that way, hitched his trousers up, and then, why then he found his tongue and told old mr. toad all his troubles. "you see," said peter rabbit, "it's almost easter and i haven't found a single egg." "an egg!" exclaimed old mr. toad. "bless my stars! what do you want of an egg, peter rabbit? you don't eat eggs." "i don't want just one egg, oh, no, no indeed! i want a lot of eggs," said peter. "you see, mr. toad, i was going to have an easter egg rolling, and here it is almost easter and not an egg to be found!" peter's eyes filled with tears again. old mr. toad rolled one eye up at jolly, round, red mr. sun and winked. "have you seen mrs. grouse and mrs. pheasant?" asked old mr. toad. "yes," said peter rabbit, "and they won't have any eggs until after easter." "have you been to see mrs. quack?" asked old mr. toad. "yes," said peter rabbit, "and she says she can't spare a single one." old mr. toad looked very thoughtful. he scratched the tip of his nose with his left hind foot. then he winked once more at jolly, round, red mr. sun. "have you been to see jimmy skunk?" he inquired. peter rabbit's big eyes opened very wide. "jimmy skunk!" he exclaimed. "jimmy skunk! what does jimmy skunk have to do with eggs?" old mr. toad chuckled deep down in his throat. he chuckled and chuckled until he shook all over. "jimmy skunk knows more about eggs than all the other little meadow people put together," said old mr. toad. "you take my advice, peter rabbit, and ask jimmy skunk to help you get the eggs for your easter egg rolling." then old mr. toad picked up his cane and started down the crooked little path to the green meadows. there he found the merry little breezes stealing kisses from the bashful little wind flowers. old mr. toad puffed out his throat and pretended that he disapproved, disapproved very much indeed, but at the same time he rolled one eye up at jolly, round, red mr. sun and winked. "haven't you anything better to do than make bashful little flowers hang their heads?" asked old mr. toad gruffly. the merry little breezes stopped their dancing and gathered about old mr. toad. "what's the matter with you this morning, mr. toad?" asked one of them. "do you want us to go find a breakfast for you?" "no," replied old mr. toad sourly. "i am quite able to get breakfast for myself. but peter rabbit is up on the hill crying because he cannot find any eggs." "crying because he cannot find any eggs! now what does peter rabbit want of eggs?" cried the merry little breezes all together. "supposing you go ask him," replied old mr. toad tartly, once more picking up his cane and starting for the smiling pool to call on his cousin, grandfather frog. the merry little breezes stared after him for a few minutes, then they started in a mad race up the crooked little path to find peter rabbit. he wasn't at the top of the crooked little path. they looked everywhere, but not so much as the tip of one of his long ears could they see. finally they met him just coming away from jimmy skunk's house. peter was hopping, skipping, jumping up in the air and kicking his long heels as only peter can. there was no trace of tears in his big, soft eyes. plainly peter rabbit was in good spirits, in the very best of spirits. when he saw the merry little breezes he jumped twice as high as he had jumped before, then sat up very straight. "hello!" said peter rabbit. "hello yourself," replied the merry little breezes. "tell us what under the sun you want of eggs, peter rabbit, and we'll try to find some for you." peter's eyes sparkled. "i'm going to have an easter egg rolling," said he, "but you needn't look for any eggs, for i am going to have all i want; jimmy skunk has promised to get them for me." "what is an easter egg rolling?" asked the merry little breezes. peter looked very mysterious. "wait and see," he replied. then a sudden thought popped into his head. "will you do something for me?" he asked. of course the merry little breezes were delighted to do anything they could for peter rabbit, and told him so. so in a few minutes peter had them scattering in every direction with invitations to all the little people of the green meadows and all the little folks of the green forest to attend his egg rolling on easter morning. very, very early on easter morning old mother west wind hurried down from the purple hills and swept all the rain clouds out of the sky. jolly, round, red mr. sun climbed up in the sky, smiling his broadest. all the little song birds sang their sweetest, and some who really cannot sing at all tried to just because they were so happy. across the beautiful green meadows came all the little meadow people and forest folks to the smooth, grassy bank where the big hickory grows. peter rabbit was there waiting for them. he had brushed his clothes until you would hardly have known him. he felt very much excited and very important and very, very happy, for this was to be the very first egg rolling the green meadows had ever known, and it was all his very own. hidden behind the old hickory, tucked under pieces of bark, scattered among the bluets and wind flowers were big eggs, little eggs and middle-sized eggs, for jimmy skunk had been true to his promise. where they came from jimmy wouldn't tell. perhaps if old gray goose and mrs. quack could have been there, they would have understood why it took so long to fill their nests. perhaps if farmer brown's boy had happened along, he would have guessed why he had to hunt so long in the barn and under the henhouse to get enough eggs for breakfast. but jimmy skunk held his tongue and just smiled to see how happy peter rabbit was. first came peter's cousin, jumper the hare. then up from the smiling pool came jerry muskrat, little joe otter, billy mink, grandfather frog and spotty the turtle. johnny chuck, danny meadow mouse, and old mr. toad came together. of course reddy fox was on hand promptly. striped chipmunk came dancing out from the home no one has been able to find. out from the green forest trotted bobby coon, happy jack squirrel and chatterer the red squirrel. behind them shuffled prickly porky. last of all came jimmy skunk, who never hurries, and jimmy wore his very best suit of black and white. up in the old hickory sat blacky the crow, sammy jay and drummer the woodpecker, to watch the fun. when all had arrived, peter rabbit started them to hunting for the eggs. everybody got in the way of everybody else. even old mr. toad caught the excitement and hopped this way and hopped that way hunting for eggs. danny meadow mouse found a goose egg bigger than himself and had to get help to bring it in. bobby coon stubbed his toes and fell down with an egg under each arm. such a looking sight as he was! he had to go down to the smiling pool to wash. by and by, when all the eggs had been found, peter rabbit sent a big goose egg rolling down the grassy bank and then raced after it to bring it back and roll it down again. in a few minutes the green grassy bank was covered with eggs--big eggs, little eggs, all kinds of eggs. some were nearly round and rolled swiftly to the bottom. some were sharp pointed at one end and rolled crookedly and sometimes turned end over end. a big egg knocked johnny chuck's legs from under him and, because johnny chuck is round and roly-poly, he just rolled over and over after the egg clear to the bottom of the green grassy bank. and it was such fun that he scrambled up and did it all over again. then bobby coon tried it. pretty soon every one was trying it, even reddy fox, who seldom forgets his dignity. for once blacky the crow and sammy jay almost wished that they hadn't got wings, so that they might join in the fun. but the greatest fun of all was when prickly porky decided that he, too, would join in the rolling. he tucked his head down in his vest and made himself into a perfectly round ball. now when he did this, all his hidden spears stood out straight, until he looked like a great, giant, chestnut burr, and every one hurried to get out of his way. over and over, faster and faster, he rolled down the green, grassy bank until he landed--where do you think? why right in the midst of a lot of eggs that had been left when the other little people had scampered out of his way. now, having his head tucked into his vest, prickly porky couldn't see where he was going, so when he reached the bottom and hopped to his feet he didn't know what to make of the shout that went up from all the little meadow people. so foolish prickly porky lost his temper because he was being laughed at, and started off up the lone little path to his home in the green forest. and what do you think? why, stuck fast in a row on the spears on his back, prickly porky carried off six of peter rabbit's easter eggs, and didn't know it. v how johnny chuck ran away johnny chuck stood on the doorstep of his house and watched old mrs. chuck start down the lone little path across the green meadows towards farmer brown's garden. she had her market basket on her arm, and johnny knew that when she returned it would be full of the things he liked best. but not even the thought of these could chase away the frown that darkened johnny chuck's face. he had never been to farmer brown's garden and he had begged very hard to go that morning with old mrs. chuck. but she had said "no. it isn't safe for such a little chap as you." and when mrs. chuck said "no," johnny knew that she meant it, and that it was of no use at all to beg. so he stood with his hands in his pockets and scowled and scowled as he thought of old mrs. chuck's very last words: "now, johnny, don't you dare put a foot outside of the yard until i get back." pretty soon along came peter rabbit. peter was trying to jump over his own shadow. when he saw johnny chuck he stopped abruptly. then he looked up at the blue sky and winked at jolly, round, red mr. sun. "looks mighty showery 'round here," he remarked to no one in particular. johnny chuck smiled in spite of himself. then he told peter rabbit how he had got to stay at home and mind the house and couldn't put his foot outside the yard. now peter hasn't had the best bringing up in the world, for his mother has such a big family that she is kept busy just getting them something to eat. so peter has been allowed to bring himself up and do just about as he pleases. "how long will your mother be gone?" asked peter. "most all the morning," said johnny chuck mournfully. peter hopped a couple of steps nearer. "say, johnny," he whispered, "how is she going to know whether you stay in the yard all the time or not, so long as you are here when she gets home? i know where there's the dandiest sweet-clover patch. we can go over there and back easy before old mrs. chuck gets home, and she won't know anything about it. come on!" johnny chuck's mouth watered at the thought of the sweet-clover, but still he hesitated, for johnny chuck had been taught to mind. "'fraid cat! 'fraid cat! tied to your mother's apron strings!" jeered peter rabbit. "i ain't either!" cried johnny chuck. and then, just to prove it, he thrust his hands into his pockets and swaggered out into the lone little path. "where's your old clover patch?" asked he. "i'll show you," said peter rabbit, and off he started, lipperty-lipperty-lip, so fast that johnny chuck lost his breath trying to make his short legs keep up. and all the time johnny's conscience was pricking him. peter rabbit left the lone little path across the green meadows for some secret little paths of his own. his long legs took him over the ground very fast. johnny chuck, running behind him, grew tired and hot, for johnny's legs are short and he is fat and roly-poly. at times all he could see was the white patch on the seat of peter rabbit's pants. he began to wish that he had minded old mrs. chuck and stayed at home. it was too late to go back now, for he didn't know the way. "wait up, peter rabbit!" he called. peter rabbit just flirted his tail and ran faster. "please, please wait for me, peter rabbit," panted johnny chuck, and began to cry. yes, sir, he began to cry. you see he was so hot and tired, and then he was so afraid that he would lose sight of peter rabbit. if he did he would surely be lost, and then what should he do? the very thought made him run just a little faster. [illustration: "please, please wait for me, peter rabbit," panted johnny chuck.] now peter rabbit is really one of the best-hearted little fellows in the world, just happy-go-lucky and careless. so when finally he looked back and saw johnny chuck way, way behind, with the tears running down his cheeks, and how hot and tired he looked, peter sat down and waited. pretty soon johnny chuck came up, puffing and blowing, and threw himself flat on the ground. "please, peter rabbit, is it very much farther to the sweet-clover patch?" he panted, wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands. "no," replied peter rabbit, "just a little way more. we'll rest here a few minutes and then i won't run so fast." so peter rabbit and johnny chuck lay down in the grass to rest while johnny chuck recovered his breath. every minute or two peter would sit up very straight, prick up his long ears and look this way and look that way as if he expected to see something unusual. it made johnny chuck nervous. "what do you keep doing that for, peter rabbit?" he asked. "oh, nothin'," replied peter rabbit. but he kept right on doing it just the same. then suddenly, after one of these looks abroad, he crouched down very flat and whispered in johnny chuck's ear in great excitement. "old whitetail is down here and he's headed this way. we'd better be moving," he said. johnny chuck felt a chill of fear. "who is old whitetail?" he asked, as he prepared to follow peter rabbit. "don't you know?" asked peter in surprise. "say, you are green! why, he's mr. marsh hawk, and if he once gets the chance he'll gobble you up, skin, bones and all. there's an old stone wall just a little way from here, and the sooner we get there the better!" peter rabbit led the way, and if he had run fast before it was nothing to the way he ran now. a great fear made johnny chuck forget that he was tired, and he ran as he had never run before in all his short life. just as he dived head-first into a hole between two big stones, a shadow swept over the grass and something sharp tore a gap in the seat of his pants and made him squeal with fright and pain. but he wriggled in beside peter rabbit and was safe, while mr. marsh hawk flew off with a scream of rage and disappointment. johnny chuck had never been so frightened in all his short life. he made himself as small as possible and crept as far as he could underneath a friendly stone in the old wall. his pants were torn and his leg smarted dreadfully where one of mr. marsh hawk's cruel, sharp claws had scratched him. how he did wish that he had minded old mrs. chuck and stayed in his own yard, as she had told him to. peter rabbit looked at the tear in johnny chuck's pants. "pooh!" said peter rabbit, "don't mind a little thing like that." "but i'm afraid to go home with my pants torn," said johnny chuck. "don't go home," replied peter rabbit. "i don't unless i feel like it. you stay away a long time and then your mother will be so glad to see you that she won't ever think of the pants." johnny chuck looked doubtful, but before he could say anything peter rabbit stuck his head out to see if the way was clear. it was, and peter's long legs followed his head. "come on, johnny chuck," he shouted. "i'm going over to the sweet-clover patch." but johnny chuck was afraid. he was almost sure that old whitetail was waiting just outside to gobble him up. it was a long time before he would put so much as the tip of his wee black nose out. but without peter rabbit it grew lonesomer and lonesomer in under the old stone wall. besides, he was afraid that he would lose peter rabbit, and then he would be lost indeed, for he didn't know the way home. finally johnny chuck ventured to peep out. there was jolly, round, red mr. sun smiling down just as if he was used to seeing little runaway chucks every day. johnny looked and looked for peter rabbit, but it was a long time before he saw him, and when he did all he saw were peter rabbit's funny long ears above the tops of the waving grass, for peter rabbit was hidden in the sweet-clover patch, eating away for dear life. it was only a little distance, but johnny chuck had had such a fright that he tried three times before he grew brave enough to scurry through the tall grass and join peter rabbit. my, how good that sweet-clover did taste! johnny chuck forgot all about old whitetail. he forgot all about his torn pants. he forgot that he had run away and didn't know the way home. he just ate and ate and ate until his stomach was so full he couldn't stuff another piece of sweet-clover into it. suddenly peter rabbit grabbed him by a sleeve and pulled him down flat. "sh-h-h," said peter rabbit, "don't move." johnny chuck's heart almost stopped beating. what new danger could there be now? in a minute he heard a queer noise. peeping between the stems of sweet-clover he saw--what do you think? why, old mrs. chuck cutting sweet-clover to put in the basket of vegetables she was taking home from farmer brown's garden. johnny chuck gave a great sigh of relief, but he kept very still for he did not want her to find him there after she had told him not to put foot outside his own dooryard. "you wait here," whispered peter rabbit, and crept off through the clover. pretty soon johnny chuck saw peter rabbit steal up behind old mrs. chuck and pull four big lettuce leaves out of her basket. vi peter rabbit's run for life "i wish i hadn't run away," said johnny chuck dolefully, as he and peter rabbit peeped out from the sweet-clover patch and watched old mrs. chuck start for home with her market basket on her arm. "you ought to think yourself lucky that your mother didn't find you here in the sweet-clover patch. if it hadn't been for me she would have," said peter rabbit. johnny chuck's face grew longer and longer. his pants were torn, his leg was stiff and sore where old mr. marsh hawk had scratched him that morning, but worse still his conscience pricked him. yes, sir, johnny chuck's conscience was pricking him hard, very hard indeed, because he had run away from home with peter rabbit after old mrs. chuck had told him not to leave the yard while she was away. now he didn't know the way home. "peter rabbit, i want to go home," said johnny chuck suddenly. "isn't there a short cut so that i can get home before my mother does?" "no, there isn't," said peter rabbit. "and if there was what good would it do you? old mrs. chuck would see that tear in your pants and then you'd catch it!" "i don't care. please won't you show me the way home, peter rabbit?" begged johnny chuck. peter rabbit yawned lazily as he replied: "what's the use of going now? you'll catch it anyway, so you might as well stay and have all fun you can. say, i know a dandy old house up on the hill. jimmy skunk used to live there, but no one lives in it now. let's go up and see it. it's a dandy place." now right down in his heart johnny chuck knew that he ought to go home, but he couldn't go unless peter rabbit would show him the way, and then he did want to see that old house. perhaps peter rabbit was right (in his heart he knew that he wasn't) and he had better have all the fun he could. so johnny chuck followed peter rabbit up the hill to the old house of jimmy skunk. cobwebs covered the doorway. johnny chuck was going to brush them away, but peter rabbit stopped him. "let's see if there isn't a back door," said he. "then we can use that, and if bowser the hound or farmer brown's boy comes along and finds this door they'll think no one ever lives here any more and you'll be safer than if you were right in your own home." so they hunted and hunted, and by and by johnny chuck found the back door way off at one side and cunningly hidden under a tangle of grass. inside was a long dark hall and at the end of that a nice big room. it was very dirty, and johnny chuck, who is very neat, at once began to clean house and soon had it spick and span. suddenly they heard a voice outside the front door. "doesn't look as if anybody lives here, but seems as if i smell young rabbit and--yes, i'm sure i smell young chuck, too. guess i'll have a look inside." "it's old granny fox," whispered peter rabbit, trembling with fright. then peter rabbit did a very brave thing. he remembered that johnny chuck could not run very fast and that if it hadn't been for him, johnny chuck would be safe at home. "you stay right here," whispered peter rabbit. then he slipped out the back door. half-way down the hill he stopped and shouted: "old granny fox is slower than an ox!" then he started for the old brier patch as fast as his long legs could take him, and after him ran granny fox. peter rabbit was running for his life. there was no doubt about it. right behind him, grinding her long white teeth, her eyes snapping, ran old granny fox. peter rabbit did not like to think what would happen to him if she should catch him. peter rabbit was used to running for his life. he had to do it at least once every day. but usually he was near a safe hiding place and he rather enjoyed the excitement. this time, however, the only place of safety he could think of was the friendly old brier patch, and that was a long way off. back at the old house on the hill, where granny fox had discovered peter rabbit, was little johnny chuck, trembling with fright. he crept to the back door of the old house to watch. he saw granny fox getting nearer and nearer to peter rabbit. "oh, dear! oh, dear! she'll catch peter rabbit! she'll catch peter rabbit!" wailed johnny chuck, wringing his hands in despair. it certainly looked as if granny fox would. she was right at peter rabbit's heels. poor, happy-go-lucky, little peter rabbit! two more jumps and granny fox would have him! johnny chuck shut his eyes tight, for he didn't want to see. but peter rabbit had no intention of being caught so easily. while he had seemed to be running his very hardest, really he was not. and all the time he was watching granny fox, for peter rabbit's big eyes are so placed that he can see behind him without turning his head. so he knew when granny fox was near enough to catch him in one more jump. then peter rabbit dodged. yes, sir, peter rabbit dodged like a flash, and away he went in another direction lipperty-lipperty-lip, as fast as he could go. old granny fox had been so sure that in another minute she would have tender young rabbit for her dinner that she had begun to smile and her mouth actually watered. she did not see where she was going. all she saw was the white patch on the seat of peter rabbit's trousers bobbing up and down right in front of her nose. when peter rabbit dodged, something surprising happened. johnny chuck, who had opened his eyes to see if all was over, jumped up and shouted for joy, and did a funny little dance in the doorway of the old house on the hill. peter had dodged right in front of a wire fence, a fence with ugly, sharp barbs, and right smack into it ran granny fox! it scratched her face and tore her bright red cloak. it threw her back flat on the ground, with all the wind knocked out of her body. when finally she had gotten her breath and scrambled to her feet, peter rabbit was almost over to the friendly old brier patch. he stopped and sat up very straight. then he put his hands on his hips and shouted: "run, granny, run! here comes a man who's got a gun!" granny fox started nervously and looked this way and looked that way. there was no one in sight. then she shook a fist at peter rabbit and started to limp off home. johnny chuck gave a great sigh of relief. "my," said he, "i wish i was as smart as peter rabbit!" "you will be if you live long enough," said a voice right behind him. it was old mr. toad. mr. toad and johnny chuck sat in the doorway of the old house on the hill and watched old granny fox limp off home. "i wonder what it would seem like not to be afraid of anything in the whole world," said johnny chuck. "people who mind their own business and don't get into mischief don't need to be afraid of anything," said mr. toad. johnny chuck remembered how safe he had always felt at home with old mrs. chuck and how many times and how badly he had been frightened since he ran away that morning. "i guess perhaps you are right, mr. toad," said johnny chuck doubtfully. "of course i'm right," replied mr. toad. "of course i'm right. look at me; i attend strictly to my own affairs and no one ever bothers me." "that's because you are so homely that no one wants you for a dinner when he can find anything else," said peter rabbit, who had come up from the friendly old brier patch. "better be homely than to need eyes in the back of my head to keep my skin whole," retorted mr. toad. "now i don't know what it is to be afraid." "not of old granny fox?" asked johnny chuck. "no," said mr. toad. "nor bowser the hound?" "no," said mr. toad. "he's a friend of mine." then mr. toad swelled himself up very big. "i'm not afraid of anything under the sun," boasted mr. toad. peter rabbit looked at johnny chuck and slowly winked one eye. "i guess i'll go up the hill and have a look around," said peter rabbit, hitching up his trousers. so peter rabbit went off up the hill, while mr. toad smoothed down his dingy white waistcoat and told johnny chuck what a foolish thing fear is. by and by there was a queer rustling in the grass back of them. mr. toad hopped around awkwardly. "what was that?" he whispered. "just the wind in the grass, i guess," said johnny chuck. for a while all was still and mr. toad settled himself comfortably and began to talk once more. "no, sir," said mr. toad, "i'm not afraid of anything." just then there was another rustle in the grass, a little nearer than before. mr. toad certainly was nervous. he stretched up on the tips of his toes and looked in the direction of the sound. then mr. toad turned pale. yes, sir, mr. toad actually turned pale! his big, bulging eyes looked as if they would pop out of his head. "i--i must be going," said mr. toad hastily. "i quite forgot an important engagement down on the green meadows. if mr. blacksnake should happen to call, don't mention that you have seen me, will you, johnny chuck?" johnny chuck looked over in the grass. something long and slim and black was wriggling through it. when he turned about again, mr. toad was half-way down the hill, going with such big hops that three times he fell flat on his face, and when he picked himself up he didn't even stop to brush off his clothes. "i wonder what it seems like not to be afraid of anything in the world?" said a voice right behind johnny chuck. there stood peter rabbit laughing so that he had to hold his sides, and in one hand was the end of an old leather strap which he had fooled mr. toad into thinking was mr. blacksnake. vii a joker fooled peter rabbit and johnny chuck sat in the doorway of jimmy skunk's deserted old house on the hill and looked down across the green meadows. every few minutes peter rabbit would chuckle as he thought of how he had fooled mr. toad into thinking that an old leather strap was mr. blacksnake. "is mr. blacksnake so very dangerous?" asked johnny chuck, who had seen very little of the world. "not for you or me," replied peter rabbit, "because we've grown too big for him to swallow. but he would like nothing better than to catch mr. toad for his dinner. but if you ever meet mr. blacksnake, be polite to him. he is very quick tempered, is mr. blacksnake, but if you don't bother him he'll not bother you. my goodness, i wonder what's going on down there in the alders!" johnny chuck looked over to the alder thicket. he saw sammy jay, blacky the crow and mrs. redwing sitting in the alders. they were calling back and forth, apparently very much excited. peter rabbit looked this way and that way to see if the coast was clear. "come on, johnny chuck, let's go down and see what the trouble is," said he, for you know peter rabbit has a great deal of curiosity. so down to the alder thicket skipped peter rabbit and johnny chuck as fast as they could go. half-way there they were joined by danny meadow mouse, for he too had heard the fuss and wanted to know what it all meant. "what's the matter?" asked peter rabbit of sammy jay, but sammy was too excited to answer and simply pointed down into the middle of the alder thicket. so the three of them, one behind the other, very softly crept in among the alders. a great commotion was going on among the dead leaves. danny meadow mouse gave one look, then he turned as pale as did mr. toad when peter rabbit fooled him with the old leather strap. "this is no place for me!" exclaimed danny meadow mouse, and started for home as fast as he could run. partly under an old log lay mr. blacksnake. there seemed to be something the matter with him. he looked sick, and threshed and struggled till he made the leaves fly. sammy jay and blacky the crow and mrs. redwing called all sorts of insulting things to him, but he paid no attention to them. once mrs. redwing darted down and pecked him sharply. but mr. blacksnake seemed quite helpless. "what's the matter with him?" asked johnny chuck in a whisper. "nothing. wait and you'll see. sammy jay and mrs. redwing better watch out or they'll be sorry," replied peter rabbit. just then mr. blacksnake wedged his head in under the old log and began to push and wriggle harder than ever. then johnny chuck gasped. mr. blacksnake was crawling out of his clothes! yes, sir, his old suit was coming off wrong side out, just like a glove, and underneath he wore a splendid new suit of shiny black! "it's time for us to be moving," whispered peter rabbit. "after mr. blacksnake has changed his clothes he is pretty short tempered. just hear him hiss at mrs. redwing and sammy jay!" they tiptoed out of the alder thicket and started back for the old house on the hill. peter rabbit suddenly giggled out loud. "to-morrow," said peter rabbit "we'll come back and get mr. blacksnake's old suit and have some fun with danny meadow mouse." the next morning danny meadow mouse sat on his doorstep nodding. he was dreaming that his tail was long like the tails of all his cousins. one of old mother west wind's merry little breezes stole up and whispered in his ear. danny meadow mouse was awake, wide awake in an instant. "so peter rabbit is going to play a joke on me and scare me into fits!" said danny meadow mouse. "yes," said the merry little breeze, "for i overheard him telling johnny chuck all about it." danny meadow mouse began to laugh softly to himself. "will you do something for me?" he asked the merry little breeze. "sure," replied the merry little breeze. "then go find cresty the fly-catcher and tell him that i want to see him," said danny meadow mouse. the merry little breeze hurried away, and pretty soon back he came with cresty the fly-catcher. now all this time peter rabbit had been very busy planning his joke on danny meadow mouse. he and johnny chuck had gone down to the alder thicket, where they had seen mr. blacksnake change his clothes, and they had found his old suit just as he had left it. "we'll take this up and stretch it out behind a big tussock of grass near the home of danny meadow mouse," chuckled peter rabbit. "then i'll invite danny meadow mouse to take a walk, and when we come by the tussock of grass he will think he sees mr. blacksnake himself all ready to swallow him. then we'll see some fun." so they carried mr. blacksnake's old suit of clothes and hid it behind the big tussock of grass, and arranged it to look as much like mr. blacksnake as they could. then johnny chuck went back to the old house on the hill to watch the fun, while peter rabbit went to call on danny meadow mouse. "good morning, peter rabbit," said danny meadow mouse politely. "good morning, danny meadow mouse," replied peter rabbit. "don't you want to take a walk with me this fine morning?" "i'll be delighted to go," said danny meadow mouse, reaching for his hat. so they started out to walk and presently they came to the big tussock of grass. peter rabbit stopped. "excuse me, while i tie up my shoe. you go ahead and i'll join you in a minute," said peter rabbit. so danny meadow mouse went ahead. as soon as his back was turned peter rabbit clapped both hands over his mouth to keep from laughing, for you see he expected to see danny meadow mouse come flying back in great fright the minute he turned the big tussock and saw mr. blacksnake's old suit. peter rabbit waited and waited, but no danny meadow mouse. what did it mean? peter stopped laughing and peeped around the big tussock. there sat danny meadow mouse with both hands clapped over his mouth, and laughing till the tears rolled down his cheeks, and mr. blacksnake's old suit was nowhere to be seen. "he laughs best who laughs last," said danny meadow mouse to himself, late that afternoon, as he sat on his doorstep and chuckled softly. when he had first heard from a merry little breeze that peter rabbit and johnny chuck were planning to play a joke on him and scare him into fits with a suit of mr. blacksnake's old clothes, he had tried very hard to think of some way to turn the joke on the jokers. then he had remembered cresty the fly-catcher and had sent for him. now cresty the fly-catcher is a handsome fellow. in fact he is quite the gentleman, and does not look at all like one who would be at all interested in any one's old clothes. but he is. he is never satisfied until he has lined the hollow in the old apple-tree, which is his home, with the old clothes of mr. snake. so when danny meadow mouse sent for him and whispered in his ear cresty the fly-catcher smiled broadly and winked knowingly. "i certainly will be there, danny meadow mouse, i certainly will be there," said he. and he was there. he had hidden in a tree close by the big tussock of grass, behind which peter rabbit had planned to place mr. blacksnake's old suit so as to scare danny meadow mouse. his eyes had sparkled when he saw what a fine big suit it was. "my, but this will save me a lot of trouble," said he to himself. "it's the finest old suit i've ever seen." the minute peter rabbit and johnny chuck had turned their backs down dropped cresty the fly-catcher, picked up mr. blacksnake's old suit, and taking it with him, once more hid in the tree. presently back came peter rabbit with danny meadow mouse. you know what had happened then. cresty the fly-catcher had nearly dropped his prize, it tickled him so to see peter rabbit on one side of the big tussock laughing fit to kill himself at the scare he thought danny meadow mouse would get when he first saw mr. blacksnake's old suit, and on the other side of the big tussock danny meadow mouse laughing fit to kill himself over the surprise peter rabbit would get when he found that mr. blacksnake's old clothes had disappeared. pretty soon peter rabbit had stopped laughing and peeped around the big tussock. there sat danny meadow mouse laughing fit to kill himself, but not a trace of the old suit which was to have given him such a scare. peter couldn't believe his own eyes, for he had left it there not three minutes before. of course it wouldn't do to say anything about it, so he had hurried around the big tussock as if he was merely trying to catch up. "what are you laughing at, danny meadow mouse?" asked peter rabbit. "i was thinking what a joke it would be if we could only find an old suit of mr. blacksnake's and fool old mr. toad into thinking that it was mr. blacksnake himself," replied danny meadow mouse. "what are you looking for, peter rabbit? have you lost something?" "no," said peter rabbit. "i thought i heard footsteps, and i was looking to see if it could be reddy fox creeping through the grass." danny meadow mouse had stopped laughing. "excuse me, peter rabbit," said he hurriedly, "i've just remembered an important engagement." and off he started for home as fast as he could go. and to this day peter rabbit doesn't know what became of mr. blacksnake's old clothes. viii the fuss in the big pine peter rabbit hopped down the crooked little path to the lone little path and down the lone little path to the home of johnny chuck. johnny chuck sat on his doorstep dreaming. they were very pleasant dreams, very pleasant dreams indeed. they were such pleasant dreams that for once johnny chuck forgot to put his funny little ears on guard. so johnny chuck sat on his doorstep dreaming and heard nothing. lipperty-lipperty-lip down the lone little path came peter rabbit. he saw johnny chuck and he stopped long enough to pluck a long stem of grass. then very, very softly he stole up behind johnny chuck. reaching out with the long stem of grass, he tickled one of johnny chuck's ears. johnny chuck slapped at his ear with a little black hand, for he thought a fly was bothering him, just as peter rabbit meant that he should. peter tickled the other ear. johnny chuck shook his head and slapped at this with the other little black hand. peter almost giggled. he sat still a few minutes, then tickled johnny chuck again. johnny slapped three or four times at the imaginary fly. this time peter clapped both hands over his mouth to keep from laughing. once more he tickled johnny chuck. this time johnny jumped clear off his doorstep. peter laughed before he could clap his hands over his mouth. of course johnny chuck heard him and whirled about. when he saw peter rabbit and the long stem of grass he laughed, too. "hello, peter rabbit! you fooled me that time. where'd you come from?" asked johnny chuck. "down the lone little path from the crooked little path and down the crooked little path from the top of the hill," replied peter rabbit. then they sat down side by side on johnny chuck's doorstep to watch reddy fox hunting for his dinner on the green meadows. pretty soon they heard blacky the crow cawing very loudly. they could see him on the tip-top of a big pine in the green forest on the edge of the green meadows. "caw, caw, caw," shouted blacky the crow, at the top of his lungs. in a few minutes they saw all of blacky's aunts and uncles and cousins flying over to join blacky at the big pine in the midst of the green forest. soon there was a big crowd of crows around the big pine, all talking at once. such a racket! such a dreadful racket! every few minutes one of them would fly into the big pine and yell at the top of his lungs. then all would caw together. another would fly into the big pine and they would do it all over again. peter rabbit began to get interested, for you know peter has a very great deal of curiosity. "now i wonder what blacky the crow and his aunts and his uncles and his cousins are making such a fuss about," said peter rabbit. "i'm sure i don't know," replied johnny chuck. "they seem to be having a good time, anyway. my gracious, how noisy they are!" just then along came sammy jay, who is, as you know, first cousin to blacky the crow. he was coming from the direction of the big pine. "sammy! oh, sammy jay! what is all that fuss about over in the big pine?" shouted peter rabbit. sammy jay stopped and carefully brushed his handsome blue coat, for sammy jay is something of a dandy. he appeared not to have heard peter rabbit. "sammy jay, are you deaf?" inquired peter rabbit. now of course sammy jay had seen peter rabbit and johnny chuck all the time, but he looked up as if very much surprised to find them there. "oh, hello, peter rabbit!" said sammy jay. "did you speak to me?" "no, oh, no," replied peter rabbit in disgust. "i was talking to myself, just thinking out loud. i was wondering how many nuts a jay could steal if he had the chance." johnny chuck chuckled and sammy jay looked foolish. he couldn't find a word to say, for he knew that all the little meadow people knew how he once was caught stealing happy jack's store of nuts. "i asked what all that fuss over in the big pine is about," continued peter rabbit. "oh," said sammy jay, "my cousin, blacky the crow, found hooty the owl asleep over there, and now he and his aunts and his uncles and his cousins are having no end of fun with him. you know hooty the owl cannot see in the daytime very well, and they can do almost anything to him that they want to. it's great sport." "i don't see any sport in making other people uncomfortable," said johnny chuck. "nor i," said peter rabbit. "i'd be ashamed to own a cousin like blacky the crow. i like people who mind their own affairs and leave other people alone." sammy jay ran out his tongue at peter rabbit. "you are a nice one to talk about minding other folk's affairs!" jeered sammy jay. "peter rabbit's ears are long; i wonder why! i wonder why! because to hear what others say he's bound to try! he's bound to try." it was peter rabbit's turn to look discomfited. "anyway, i don't try to bully and torment others and i don't steal," he retorted. "sammy jay's a handsome chap and wears a coat of blue. i wonder if it's really his or if he stole _that_, too." just then johnny chuck's sharp eyes caught sight of something stealing along the edge of the green meadows toward the green forest and the big pine. "there's farmer brown's boy with a gun," cried johnny chuck. "there's going to be trouble at the big pine if blacky the crow doesn't watch out. that's what comes of being so noisy." peter rabbit and sammy jay stopped quarreling to look. sure enough, there was farmer brown's boy with his gun. he had heard blacky the crow and his aunts and his uncles and his cousins and he had hurried to get his gun, hoping to take them by surprise. but blacky the crow has sharp eyes, too. indeed, there are none sharper. then, too, he is a mischief-maker. mischief-makers are always on the watch lest they get caught in their mischief. so blacky the crow, sitting on the tip-top of the big pine, kept one eye out for trouble while he enjoyed the tormenting of hooty the owl by his aunts and his uncles and his cousins. he had seen farmer brown's boy even before johnny chuck had. but he couldn't bear to spoil the fun of tormenting hooty the owl, so he waited just as long as he dared. then he gave the signal. "caw, caw, caw, caw!" shouted blacky at the top of his lungs. "caw, caw, caw, caw!" replied all his aunts and uncles and cousins, rising into the air in a black cloud. then, with blacky in the lead, they flew over on to the green meadows, laughing and talking noisily as they went. farmer brown's boy did not try to follow them, for he knew that it was of not the least bit of use. but he was curious to learn what the crows had been making such a fuss about, so he kept on towards the big pine. johnny chuck watched him go. suddenly he remembered hooty the owl, and that hooty cannot see well in the daytime. very likely hooty would think that the crows had become tired of tormenting him and had gone off of their own accord. farmer brown's boy would find him there and then--johnny chuck shuddered as he thought of what might happen to hooty the owl. "run, peter rabbit, run as fast as you can down on the green meadows where the merry little breezes are at play and send one of them to tell hooty the owl that farmer brown's boy is coming with a gun to the big pine! hurry, peter, hurry!" cried johnny chuck. peter did not need to be told twice. he saw the danger of hooty the owl, and he started down the lone little path on to the green meadows so fast that in a few minutes all johnny chuck and sammy jay could see of him was a little spot of white, which was the patch on the seat of peter's pants, bobbing through the grass on the green meadows. johnny chuck would have gone himself, but he is round and fat and roly-poly and cannot run fast, while peter rabbit's legs are long and meant for running. in a few minutes johnny chuck saw one of the merry little breezes start for the big pine as fast as he could go. johnny gave a great sigh of relief. farmer brown's boy kept on to the big pine. when he got there he found no one there, for hooty the owl had heeded the warning of the merry little breeze and had flown into the deepest, darkest part of the green forest, where not even the sharp eyes of blacky the crow were likely to find him. and back on his doorstep johnny chuck chuckled to himself, for he was happy, was johnny chuck, happy because he possessed the best thing in the world, which is contentment. and this is all i am going to tell you about the fuss in the big pine. ix johnny chuck finds a use for his back door johnny chuck sat in his doorway looking over the green meadows. he felt very fine. he had had a good breakfast in the sweet-clover patch. he had had a good nap on his own doorstep. by and by he saw the merry little breezes of old mother west wind hurrying in his direction. they seemed in a very great hurry. they didn't stop to kiss the buttercups or tease the daisies. johnny pricked up his small ears and watched them hurry up the hill. "good morning, johnny chuck," panted the first merry little breeze to reach him, "have you heard the news?" "what news?" asked johnny chuck. "the news about old mother chuck," replied the merry little breezes. johnny shook his head. "no," said he. "what is it?" the merry little breezes grew very, very sober. "it is bad news," they replied. "what is it? tell me quick!" begged johnny. just then reddy fox came hopping and skipping down the lone little path. "hi, johnny chuck, have you heard the news?" "no," said johnny chuck, "do tell me quick!" reddy fox grinned maliciously, for reddy likes to torment others. "it's about old mrs. chuck," said reddy. "i know that already," replied johnny, "but, please, what is it?" "farmer brown's boy has caught old mrs. chuck, and now i wouldn't wonder but what he will come up here and catch you," replied reddy, turning a somersault. johnny chuck grew pale. he had not seen mother chuck to speak to since he ran away from home. now he was glad that he had run away, and yet sorry, oh, so sorry that anything had happened to mrs. chuck. two big tears came into his eyes and ran down his funny little black nose. the merry little breezes saw this, and one of them hurried over and whispered in johnny chuck's ear. "don't cry, johnny chuck," whispered the merry little breeze. "old mother chuck got away, and farmer brown's boy is still wondering how she did it." johnny's heart gave a great throb of relief. "i don't believe that farmer brown's boy will catch me," said johnny chuck, "for my house has two back doors." johnny chuck awoke very early the next morning. he stretched and yawned and then just lay quietly enjoying himself for a few minutes. his bedchamber, way down underground, was snug and warm and very, very comfortable. by and by, johnny chuck heard a noise up by his front door. "i wonder what is going on out there," said johnny chuck to himself, and jumping up, he tiptoed softly up the long hall until he had almost reached his doorway. then he heard a voice which he had heard before, and it made little shivers run all over him. it was the voice of granny fox. "so this is where that fat little chuck has made his home," said granny fox. "yes," replied another voice, "this is where johnny chuck lives, for i saw him here yesterday." johnny pricked up his ears, for that was the voice of reddy fox. "do you think he is in here now?" inquired granny fox. "i am sure of it," replied reddy, "for i have been watching ever since jolly, round, red mr. sun threw his nightcap off this morning, and johnny chuck has not put his nose out yet." "good," said granny fox, "i think fat chuck will taste good for breakfast." johnny felt the cold shivers run over him again as he heard granny fox and reddy fox smack their lips. then granny fox spoke again: "you lie down behind that bunch of grass over there, reddy, and i will lie down behind the old apple-tree. when he comes out, you just jump into his doorway and i will catch him before he can say jack robinson." johnny waited and listened and listened, but all was as still as still could be. then johnny chuck tiptoed back along the hall to his bedroom and sat down to think. he felt sure that granny fox and reddy were waiting for him, just as he had heard them plan. "however am i going to know when they leave?" said johnny chuck to himself. then he remembered the back doors which he had taken such care to make, and which peter rabbit had laughed at him for taking the trouble to make. he had hidden one so cunningly in the long grass and had so carefully removed all sand from around it that he felt quite sure that no one had found it. very softly johnny chuck crept along the back passageway. very, very cautiously he stuck his little black nose out the doorway and sniffed. yes, he could smell foxes, but he knew that they were not at his back door. little by little he crept out until he could peep through the grass. there lay reddy fox behind a big clump of grass, his eyes fixed on johnny chuck's front door, and there behind the apple-tree lay granny fox taking her ease, but all ready to jump when reddy should give the word. johnny chuck almost giggled out loud as he saw how eagerly reddy fox was watching for him. then johnny chuck had an idea that made him giggle harder. his black eyes snapped and he chuckled to himself. pretty soon along came bumble the bee, looking for honey. he came bustling and humming through the tall grass and settled on a dandelion right on the doorstep of johnny chuck's back door. "good morning," grumbled bumble the bee. johnny put a hand on his lips and beckoned bumble to come inside. now bumble the bee is a gruff and rough fellow, but he is a good fellow, too, when you know him. johnny chuck had many times told him of places where the flowers grew thick and sweet, so when johnny beckoned to him, bumble came at once. "will you do something for me, bumble?" whispered johnny chuck. "of course, i will," replied bumble, in his gruff voice. "what is it?" then johnny chuck told bumble the bee how granny and reddy fox were waiting for him to come out for his breakfast and how they had planned to gobble him up for their own breakfast. bumble the bee grew very indignant. "what do you want me to do, johnny chuck?" he asked. "if i can help you, just tell me how." johnny whispered something to bumble the bee, and bumble laughed right out loud. then he buzzed up out of the doorway, and johnny crept up to watch. straight over to where reddy fox was squatting behind the clump of grass flew bumble the bee, so swiftly that johnny could hardly see him. suddenly reddy gave a yelp and sprang into the air. johnny chuck clapped both hands over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud, for you see bumble the bee had stuck his sharp little lance into one of the ears of reddy fox. granny fox looked up and scowled. "keep still," she whispered. just then reddy yelped louder than before, for bumble had stung him in the other ear. "what's the matter?" snapped granny fox. "i don't know," cried reddy fox, hanging on to both ears. "you are--" began granny fox, but johnny chuck never knew what she was going to say reddy fox was, for you see just then bumble the bee thrust his sharp little lance into one of her ears, and before she could turn around he had done the same thing to the other ear. granny fox didn't wait for any more. she started off as fast as she could go, with reddy fox after her, and every few steps they rubbed their ears and shook their heads as if they thought they could shake out the pain. x billy mink goes dinnerless down the laughing brook came billy mink. he was feeling very good that morning, was billy mink, pleased with the world in general and with himself in particular. when he reached the smiling pool he swam out to the big rock. little joe otter was already there, and not far away, lazily floating, with his head and back out of water, was jerry muskrat. "hello, billy mink," cried little joe otter. "hello yourself," replied billy mink, with a grin. "where are you going?" asked little joe otter. "nowhere in particular," replied billy mink. "let's go fishing down to the big river," said little joe otter. "let's!" cried billy, diving from the highest point on the big rock. so off they started across the green meadows towards the big river. half way there they met reddy fox. "hello, reddy! come on with us to the big river, fishing," called billy mink. [illustration: "come on with us to the big river, fishing," called billy mink.] now reddy fox is no fisherman, though he likes fish to eat well enough. he remembered the last time he went fishing and how billy mink had laughed at him when he fell into the smiling pool. he was just about to say "no" when he changed his mind. "all right, i'll go," said reddy fox. so the three of them raced merrily across the green meadows until they came to the big river. now billy mink and little joe otter are famous fishermen and can swim even faster than the fish themselves. but reddy fox is a poor swimmer and must depend upon his wits. when they reached the bank of the big river they very carefully crawled down to a sandy beach. there, just a little way out from shore, a school of little striped perch were at play. billy mink and little joe otter prepared to dive in and each grab a fish, but reddy fox knew that he could not swim well enough for that. "wait a minute," whispered reddy. "billy mink, you go up the river a little way and swim out beyond where the fish are at play. little joe otter, you go down the river a little way and swim out to join billy mink. then both together rush in as fast as you can swim. the fish will be so frightened they will rush in where the water is shallow. of course you will each catch one, anyway, and perhaps i may be so lucky as to catch one in the shallow water." billy mink and little joe otter agreed, and did just as reddy fox had told them to. when they were between the playing fish and deep water they started in with a rush. the little striped perch were young and foolish. when they saw billy mink and little joe otter they rushed madly away from them without looking to see where they were going to. as reddy fox had foreseen would be the case, a lot of them became stranded where the water was too shallow for swimming, and there they jumped and flapped helplessly. reddy was waiting for them and in a twinkling his little black paw had scooped half a dozen fish high and dry on the beach. billy mink and little joe otter were too busy watching the fish to see what reddy was doing. he had caught six fish and these he hid under a log. when billy mink and little joe otter swam ashore, reddy was the picture of disappointment, for he had nothing to show, while the others each had a plump little fish. "never mind," said little joe otter, "i'll give you the next one i catch." but billy mink jeered at reddy fox. "pooh! you're no fisherman, reddy fox! if i couldn't catch fish when they are chased right into my hands i'd never go fishing." reddy fox pretended to be indignant. "i tell you what, billy mink," said he, "if i don't catch more fish than you do to-day i'll bring you the plumpest chicken in farmer brown's dooryard, but if i do catch more fish than you do you will give me the biggest one you catch. do you agree?" now billy mink is very fond of plump chicken and here was a chance to get one without danger of meeting bowser the hound, who guards farmer brown's chickens. so billy mink agreed to give reddy fox the biggest fish he caught that day if reddy could show more fish than he could at the end of the day. all the time he chuckled to himself, for you know billy mink is a famous fisherman, and he knew that reddy fox is a poor swimmer and does not like the water. by and by they came to another sandy beach like the first one. they could see another school of foolish young fish at play. as before, reddy fox remained on shore while the others swam out and drove the fish in. as before reddy caught half a dozen, while billy mink and little joe otter each caught one this time. reddy hid five and then pretended to be so tickled over catching one, the smallest of the lot, that billy mink didn't once suspect a trick. two or three times more reddy fox repeated this. then he discovered a big pickerel sunning himself beside an old log floating in deep water. reddy couldn't catch mr. pickerel, for the water was deep. what should he do? reddy sat down to think. finally he thought of a plan. very cautiously he backed away so as not to scare the big fish. then he called billy mink. when billy saw the big pickerel, his mouth watered, too, and his little black eyes sparkled. very quietly billy slipped into the water back of the old log. there was not so much as a ripple to warn the big pickerel. drawing a long breath, billy dived under the log, and coming up under the big pickerel, seized it by the middle. there was a tremendous thrashing and splashing, and then billy mink swam ashore and proudly laid the big fish on the bank. "don't you wish it was yours?" asked billy mink. "it ought to be mine, for i saw it first," said reddy fox. "but you didn't catch it and i did," retorted billy mink. "i'm going to have it for my dinner. my, but i do like fat pickerel!" billy smacked his lips. reddy fox said nothing, but tried his best to look disappointed and dejected. all the time he was chuckling inwardly. for the rest of the day the fishing was poor. just as old mother west wind started for the green meadows to take her children, the merry little breezes, to their home behind the purple hills, the three little fishermen started to count up their catch. then reddy brought out all the fish that he had hidden. when they saw the pile of fish reddy fox had, billy mink and little joe otter were so surprised that their eyes popped out and their jaws dropped. very foolish they looked, very foolish indeed, for reddy had four times as many as either of them. reddy walked over to the big pickerel and picking it up, carried it over to his pile. "what are you doing with my fish?" shouted billy mink angrily. "it isn't yours, it's mine!" retorted reddy fox. billy mink fairly danced up and down he was so angry. "it's not yours!" he shrieked. "it's mine, for i caught it!" "and you agreed that your biggest fish should be mine if i caught more fish than you did. i've caught four times as many, so the pickerel is mine," retorted reddy, winking at little joe otter. then billy mink did a very foolish thing; he lost his temper completely. he called reddy fox bad names. but he did not dare try to take the big pickerel away from reddy, for reddy is much bigger than he. finally he worked himself into such a rage that he ran off home leaving his pile of fish behind. reddy fox and little joe otter took care not to touch billy mink's fish, but reddy divided his big pile with little joe otter. then they, too, started for home, reddy carrying the big pickerel. late that night, when he had recovered his temper, billy mink began to grow hungry. the more he thought of his fish the hungrier he grew. finally he could stand it no longer and started for the big river to see what had become of his fish. he reached the strip of beach where he had so foolishly left them just in time to see the last striped perch disappear down the long throat of mr. night heron. and this is how it happened that billy mink went dinnerless to bed. but he had learned three things, had billy, and he never forgot them--that wit is often better than skill; that it is not only mean but is very foolish to sneer at another; and that to lose one's temper is the most foolish thing in the world. xi grandfather frog's journey grandfather frog sat on his big green lily-pad in the smiling pool and--grandfather frog was asleep! there was no doubt about it, grandfather frog was really and truly asleep. his hands were folded across his white and yellow waistcoat and his eyes were closed. three times the merry little breezes blew a foolish green fly right past his nose;--grandfather frog didn't so much as blink. presently billy mink discovered that grandfather frog was asleep. billy's little black eyes twinkled with mischief as he hurried over to the slippery slide in search of little joe otter. then the two scamps hunted up jerry muskrat. they found him very busy storing away a supply of food in his new house. at first jerry refused to listen to what they had to say, but the more they talked the more jerry became interested. "we won't hurt grandfather frog, not the least little bit," protested billy mink. "it will be just the best joke and the greatest fun ever, and no harm done." the more jerry thought over billy mink's plan, the funnier the joke seemed. finally jerry agreed to join billy mink and little joe otter. then the three put their heads together and with a lot of giggling and chuckling they planned their joke on grandfather frog. now jerry muskrat can stay a very long time under water, and his teeth are long and sharp in order to cut the roots on which he depends for much of his food. so jerry swam out to the big green lily-pad on which sat grandfather frog fast asleep. diving way to the bottom of the smiling pool, jerry cut off the stem of the big green lily-pad close to its root way down in the mud. while jerry was at work doing this, billy mink sent the merry little breezes hurrying over the green meadows to call all the little meadow people to the smiling pool. then, when jerry muskrat came up for a breath of air, billy mink dived down and, getting hold of the end of the lily-pad stem, he began to swim, towing the big green lily-pad after him very slowly and gently so as not to waken grandfather frog. when billy had to come up for air, little joe otter took his place. then jerry muskrat took his turn. across the smiling pool, past the big rock, they towed the big green lily-pad, while grandfather frog slept peacefully, his hands folded over his white and yellow waistcoat. past the bulrushes and jerry muskrat's new house, past little joe otter's slippery slide sailed grandfather frog, and still he slept and dreamed of the days when the world was young. out of the smiling pool and into the laughing brook, where the brown water flows smoothly, the three little swimmers towed the big green lily-pad. it floated along of itself now, and all they had to do was to steer it clear of rocks and old logs. once it almost got away from them, on the edge of a tiny waterfall, but all three pulling together towed it out of danger. at last, in a dear little pool with a mossy green bank, they anchored the big green lily-pad. then billy mink hurried back to the smiling pool to tell the little meadow people where to find grandfather frog. little joe otter climbed out on the mossy green bank and jerry muskrat joined him there to rest and dry off. one by one the little meadow people came hurrying up. reddy fox was the first. then came johnny chuck and striped chipmunk. of course peter rabbit was on hand. you can always count peter in, when there is anything going on among the little meadow people. danny meadow mouse and happy jack squirrel arrived quite out of breath. sammy jay and blacky the crow were not far behind. last of all came jimmy skunk, who never hurries. each in turn peeped over the edge of the mossy green bank to see grandfather frog still sleeping peacefully on his big green lily-pad in the dear little pool. then all hid where they could see him when he awoke, but where he could not see them. presently billy mink reached out with a long straw and tickled grandfather frog on the end of his nose. grandfather frog opened his eyes and yawned sleepily. right over his head he saw jolly, round, red mr. sun smiling down on him just as he last saw him before falling asleep. he yawned again and then looked to see if billy mink was sitting on the big rock. where was the big rock? grandfather frog sat up very suddenly and rubbed his eyes. there wasn't any big rock! grandfather frog pinched himself to make sure that he was awake. then he rubbed his eyes again and looked down at the big green lily-pad. yes, that was his, the very same lily-pad on which he sat every day. grandfather frog was more perplexed than ever. slowly he looked around. where were the slippery slide and jerry muskrat's new house? where were the bulrushes and where--where was the _smiling pool_? grandfather frog's jaw dropped as he looked about him. his own big green lily-pad was the only lily-pad in sight. had the world turned topsy-turvy while he slept? "chug-a-rum!" said grandfather frog. "this is very strange, very strange, indeed!" then he turned around three times and pinched himself again. "very strange, very strange, indeed," muttered grandfather frog over and over again. he scratched his head first with one hand and then with the other, and the more he scratched the stranger it all seemed. just then he heard a giggle up on the mossy green bank. grandfather frog whirled around. "chug-a-rum!" he exclaimed. "billy mink, come out from behind that tall grass and tell me where i am and what this means! i might have known that you were at the bottom of it." then out jumped all the little meadow people and the merry little breezes to shout and laugh and dance and roll over and over on the mossy green bank. grandfather frog looked at one and then at another and gradually he began to smile. pretty soon he was laughing as hard as any of them, as billy mink told how they had towed him down to the dear little pool. "and now, grandfather frog, we'll take you home again," concluded billy mink. so, as before, billy mink and little joe otter and jerry muskrat took turns towing the big green lily-pad, while in the middle of it sat grandfather frog, catching foolish green flies which the merry little breezes blew over to him. reddy fox, johnny chuck, peter rabbit, danny meadow mouse, striped chipmunk, happy jack squirrel and jimmy skunk raced and capered along the bank and shouted encouragement to the three little swimmers, while over-head flew sammy jay and blacky the crow. and, never once losing his balance, grandfather frog sat on the big green lily-pad, enjoying his strange ride and smacking his lips over the foolish green flies. and so they came once more to the smiling pool, past the slippery slide, past the bulrushes and jerry muskrat's new house and the big rock, until grandfather frog and his queer craft were once more anchored safe and sound in the old familiar place. "chug-a-rum!" said grandfather frog. "i think i'd like to go again." xii why blacky the crow wears mourning grandfather frog sat on his big green lily-pad in the smiling pool. grandfather frog felt very good that morning, very good indeed, because--why, because his white and yellow waistcoat was full of foolish green flies. it is doubtful, very, very doubtful if grandfather frog could have swallowed another foolish green fly to save his life. so he sat with his hands folded across his white and yellow waistcoat, and into his eyes, his great goggly eyes, there crept a far, far, far away look. grandfather frog was dreaming of the days when the world was young and the frogs ruled the world. pretty soon the merry little breezes of old mother west wind came over to the smiling pool to rock mrs. redwing's babies to sleep in their cradle in the bulrushes. but when they saw grandfather frog they forgot all about mrs. redwing and her babies. "good morning, grandfather frog!" they shouted. grandfather frog awoke from his dream with a funny little jump. "goodness, how you startled me!" said grandfather frog, smoothing down his white and yellow waistcoat. the merry little breezes giggled. "we didn't mean to, truly we didn't," said the merriest one of all. "we just wanted to know how you do this fine morning, and--and--" "chug-a-rum," said grandfather frog, "you want me to tell you a story." the merry little breezes giggled again. "how did you ever guess it?" they cried. "it must be because you are so very, very wise. will you tell us a story, grandfather frog? will you please?" grandfather frog looked up and winked one big, goggly eye at jolly, round, red mr. sun, who was smiling down from the blue sky. then he sat still so long that the merry little breezes began to fear that grandfather frog was out of sorts and that there would be no story that morning. they fidgeted about among the bulrushes and danced back and forth across the lily-pads. they had even begun to think again of mrs. redwing's babies. "chug-a-rum!" said grandfather frog suddenly. "what shall i tell you about?" just then a black shadow swept across the smiling pool. "caw, caw, caw, caw!" shouted blacky the crow noisily, as he flew over toward farmer brown's cornfield. "tell us why blacky the crow always wears a coat of black, as if he were in mourning," shouted the merry little breezes. grandfather frog watched blacky disappear behind the lone pine. then, when the merry little breezes had settled down, each in the golden heart of a white water-lily, he began: "once upon a time, when the world was young, old mr. crow, the grandfather a thousand times removed of blacky, whom you all know, lived in the green forest on the edge of the green meadows, just as blacky does now, and with him lived his brothers and sisters, his uncles and aunts, his cousins and all his poor relations. "now mr. crow was very smart. indeed, he was the smartest of all the birds. there wasn't anything that old mr. crow couldn't do or didn't know. at least he thought there wasn't. all the little meadow people and forest folks began to think so, too, and one after another they got in the habit of coming to him for advice, until pretty soon they were bringing all their affairs to mr. crow for settlement. "now for a while mr. crow showed great wisdom, and this so pleased old mother nature that she gave him a suit of pure, dazzling white, so that all seeing him might look up to him as a shining example of wisdom and virtue. of course all his brothers and sisters, his uncles and aunts, his cousins and all his poor relations at once put on white, that all might know that they were of mr. crow's family. and of course every one showed them the greatest attention out of respect to old mr. crow, so that presently they began to hold their heads very high and to think that because they were related to old mr. crow they were a little better than any of the other little meadow people and forest folks. when they met old mr. rabbit they would pretend not to see him, because he wore a white patch on the seat of his trousers. when old mr. woodchuck said 'good morning,' they would pretend not to hear, for you know mr. woodchuck wore a suit of dingy yellow and lived in a hole in the ground. old mr. toad was ugly to look upon. besides, he worked for his living in a garden. so when they happened to meet him on the road they always turned their backs. "for a long time old mr. crow himself continued to be a very fine gentleman and to hold the respect of all his neighbors. he was polite to every one, and to all who came to him he freely gave of his advice as wisely as he knew how. of course it wasn't long before he knew all about his neighbors and their private affairs. now it isn't safe to know too much about your neighbors and what they are doing. it is dangerous knowledge, very dangerous knowledge indeed," said grandfather frog solemnly. "to be sure it would have been safe enough," he continued, "if mr. crow had kept it to himself. but after a while mr. crow became vain. yes, sir, that is just what happened to old mr. crow--he became vain. he liked to feel that all the little meadow people and forest folks looked up to him with respect, and whenever he saw one of them coming he would brush his white coat, swell himself up and look very important. after a while he began to brag among his relatives of how much he knew about his neighbors. of course they were very much interested, very much interested indeed, and this flattered mr. crow so that almost before he knew it he was telling some of the private affairs which had been brought to him for his advice. oh, dear me, mr. crow began to gossip. "now, gossiping is one of the worst habits in all the world, one of the very worst. no good ever comes of it. it just makes trouble, trouble, trouble. it was so now. mr. crow's relatives repeated the stories that they heard. but they took great care that no one should know where they came from. my, my, my, how trouble did spread on the green meadows and in the green forest! no one suspected old mr. crow, so he was more in demand than ever to straighten matters out. his neighbors came to him so much that they began to be ashamed to ask his advice for nothing, so they brought him presents so that no more need mr. crow hunt for things to eat. instead, he lived on the fat of the land without working, and grew fat and lazy. "as i have told you, mr. crow was smart. yes, indeed, he certainly was smart. it did not take him long to see that the more trouble there was among his neighbors the more they would need his advice, and the more they needed his advice the more presents he would receive. he grew very crafty. he would tell tales just to make trouble, and sometimes, when he saw a chance, he would give advice that he knew would make more trouble. the fact is, old mr. crow became a mischief-maker, the very worst kind of a mischief-maker. and all the time he appeared to be the fine gentleman that he used to be. he wore his fine white coat as proudly as ever. "matters grew worse and worse. never had there been so much trouble on the green meadows or so many quarrels in the green forest. old mr. mink never met old mr. otter without picking a fight. old mrs. skunk wouldn't speak to old mrs. coon. old mr. chipmunk turned his back on his cousin, old mr. red squirrel, whenever their paths crossed. even my grandfather a thousand times removed, old mr. frog, refused to see his nearest relative, old mr. toad. and all the time old mr. crow wore his beautiful suit of white and grew rich and fat, chuckling to himself over his ill-gotten wealth. "then one day came old mother nature to visit the green meadows. it didn't take her long to find that something was wrong, very wrong indeed. old mr. crow and all his relatives hastened to pay their respects and to tell her how much they appreciated their beautiful white suits. old mr. crow made a full report of all the troubles that had been brought to him, but he took great care not to let her know that he had had any part in making trouble. he looked very innocent, oh, very, very innocent, but not once did he look her straight in the face. "now the eyes of old mother nature are wonderfully sharp and they seemed to bore right through old mr. crow. you can't fool old mother nature. no, sir, you can't fool old mother nature, and it's of no use to try. she listened to all that mr. crow had to say. then she sent mr. north wind to blow his great trumpet and call together all the little people of the green meadows and all the little folks of the green forest. "when they had all come together she told them all that had happened. she told just how mr. crow had started the stories in order to make trouble so that they would seek his advice and bring him presents to pay for it. when the neighbors of old mr. crow heard this they were very angry, and they demanded of old mother nature that mr. crow be punished. "'look!' said old mother nature, pointing at old mr. crow. 'he has been punished already.' "every one turned to look at mr. crow. at first they hardly knew him. instead of his suit of spotless white his clothes were black, as black as the blackest night. so were the clothes of his uncles and aunts, his brothers and sisters, his cousins and all his poor relations. "and ever since that long-ago day, when the world was young, the crows have been mischief-makers and have worn black, that all who look may know that they bring nothing but trouble," concluded grandfather frog. "thank you! thank you, grandfather frog," shouted the merry little breezes, jumping up to go rock the redwing babies. "caw, caw, caw, caw!" shouted blacky the crow, flying over their heads with a mouthful of corn he had stolen from farmer brown's cornfield. xiii striped chipmunk fools peter rabbit peter rabbit sat at the top of the crooked little path where it starts down the hill. he was sitting there when jolly, round, red mr. sun threw his nightcap off and began his daily climb up into the blue, blue sky. he saw old mother west wind hurry down from the purple hills and turn her merry little breezes out to play on the green meadows. peter yawned. the fact is, peter had been out nearly all night, and now he didn't know just what to do with himself. presently he saw striped chipmunk whisk up on top of an old log. as usual the pockets in striped chipmunk's cheeks were stuffed so full that his head looked to be twice as big as it really is, and as usual he seemed to be very busy, very busy indeed. he stopped just long enough to wink one of his saucy black eyes and shout: "good morning, peter rabbit!" then he disappeared as suddenly as he had come. a few minutes later he was back on the old log, but this time his cheeks were empty. "fine day, peter rabbit," said striped chipmunk, and whisked out of sight. peter rabbit yawned again. then he closed his eyes for just a minute. when he opened them there was striped chipmunk on the old log just as before, and the pockets in both cheeks were so full that it seemed as if they would burst. "nice morning to work, peter rabbit," said striped chipmunk, in spite of his full cheeks. then he was gone. once more peter rabbit closed his eyes, but hardly were they shut when striped chipmunk shouted: "oh, you peter rabbit, been out all night?" peter snapped his eyes open just in time to see the funny little tail of striped chipmunk vanish over the side of the old log. peter scratched one of his long ears and yawned again, for peter was growing more and more sleepy. it was a long yawn, but peter cut it off right in the middle, for there was striped chipmunk back on the old log, and both pockets in his cheeks were stuffed full. now peter rabbit is as curious as he is lazy, and you know he is very, very lazy. the fact is, peter rabbit's curiosity is his greatest fault, and it gets him into a great deal of trouble. it is because of this and the bad, bad habit of meddling in the affairs of other people into which it has led him that peter rabbit has such long ears. for a while peter watched busy striped chipmunk. then he began to wonder what striped chipmunk could be doing. the more he wondered the more he felt that he really must know. the next time striped chipmunk appeared on the old log, peter shouted to him. "hi, striped chipmunk, what are you so busy about? why don't you play a little?" striped chipmunk stopped a minute. "i'm building a new house," said he. "where?" asked peter rabbit. "that's telling," replied striped chipmunk, and whisked out of sight. now peter rabbit knew where reddy fox and jimmy skunk and bobby coon and happy jack squirrel and johnny chuck and danny meadow mouse lived. he knew all the little paths leading to their homes. but he did not know where striped chipmunk lived. he never had known. he thought of this as he watched striped chipmunk hurrying back and forth. the more he thought of it the more curious he grew. he really _must_ know. pretty soon along came jimmy skunk, looking for some beetles. "hello, jimmy skunk," said peter rabbit. "hello, peter rabbit," said jimmy skunk. "do you know where striped chipmunk lives?" asked peter rabbit. "no, i don't know where striped chipmunk lives, and i don't care; it's none of my business," replied jimmy skunk. "have you seen any beetles this morning?" peter rabbit hadn't seen any beetles, so jimmy skunk went on down the crooked little path, still looking for his breakfast. by and by along came johnny chuck. "hello, johnny chuck!" said peter rabbit. "hello, yourself!" said johnny chuck. "do you know where striped chipmunk lives?" asked peter rabbit. "no, i don't, for it's none of my business," said johnny chuck, and started on down the crooked little path to the green meadows. then along came bobby coon. "hello, bobby coon!" said peter rabbit. "hello!" replied bobby coon shortly, for he too had been out all night and was very sleepy. "do you know where striped chipmunk lives?" asked peter rabbit. "don't know and don't want to; it's none of my business," said bobby coon even more shortly than before, and started on for his hollow chestnut tree to sleep the long, bright day away. peter rabbit could stand it no longer. curiosity had driven away all desire to sleep. he simply had to know where striped chipmunk lived. "i'll just follow striped chipmunk and see for myself where he lives," said peter to himself. so peter rabbit hid behind a tuft of grass close by the old log and sat very, very still. it was a very good place to hide, a very good place. probably if peter rabbit had not been so brimming over with curiosity he would have succeeded in escaping the sharp eyes of striped chipmunk. but people full of curiosity are forever pricking up their ears to hear things which do not in the least concern them. it was so with peter rabbit. he was so afraid that he would miss something that both his long ears were standing up straight, and they came above the grass behind which peter rabbit was hiding. of course striped chipmunk saw them the very instant he jumped up on the old log with both pockets in his cheeks stuffed full. he didn't say a word, but his sharp little eyes twinkled as he jumped off the end of the old log and scurried along under the bushes, for he guessed what peter rabbit was hiding for, and though he did not once turn his head he knew that peter was following him. you see peter runs with big jumps, lipperty-lipperty-lip, and people who jump must make a noise. so, though he tried very hard not to make a sound, peter was in such a hurry to keep striped chipmunk in sight that he really made a great deal of noise. the more noise peter made, the more striped chipmunk chuckled to himself. presently striped chipmunk stopped. then he sat up very straight and looked this way and looked that way, just as if trying to make sure that no one was watching him. then he emptied two pocketfuls of shining yellow gravel on to a nice new mound which he was building. once more he sat up and looked this way and looked that way. then he scuttled back towards the old log. as he ran striped chipmunk chuckled and chuckled to himself, for all the time he had seen peter rabbit lying flat down behind a little bush and knew that peter rabbit was thinking to himself how smart he had been to find striped chipmunk's home when no one else knew where it was. no sooner was striped chipmunk out of sight than up jumped peter rabbit. he smiled to himself as he hurried over to the shining mound of yellow gravel. you see peter's curiosity was so great that not once did he think how mean he was to spy on striped chipmunk. "now," thought peter, "i know where striped chipmunk lives. jimmy skunk doesn't know. johnny chuck doesn't know. bobby coon doesn't know. but _i_ know. striped chipmunk may fool all the others, but he can't fool me." by this time peter rabbit had reached the shining mound of yellow gravel. at once he began to hunt for the doorway to striped chipmunk's home. but there wasn't any doorway. no, sir, there wasn't any doorway! look as he would, peter rabbit could not find the least sign of a doorway. he walked 'round and 'round the mound and looked here and looked there, but not the least sign of a door was to be seen. there was nothing but the shining mound of yellow gravel, the green grass, the green bushes and the blue, blue sky, with jolly, round, red mr. sun looking down and laughing at him. peter rabbit sat down on striped chipmunk's shining mound of yellow gravel and scratched his left ear with his left hindfoot. then he scratched his right ear with his right hindfoot. it was very perplexing. indeed, it was so perplexing that peter quite forgot that striped chipmunk would soon be coming back. suddenly right behind peter's back striped chipmunk spoke. "how do you like my sand pile, peter rabbit? don't you think it is a pretty nice sand pile?" asked striped chipmunk politely. and all the time he was chuckling away to himself. peter was so surprised that he very nearly fell backward off the shining mound of yellow gravel. for a minute he didn't know what to say. then he found his tongue. [illustration: peter was so surprised that he nearly fell backward.] "oh," said peter rabbit, apparently in the greatest surprise, "is this your sand pile, striped chipmunk? it's a very nice sand pile indeed. is this where you live?" striped chipmunk shook his head. "no, oh, my, no!" said he. "i wouldn't think of living in such an exposed place! my goodness, no indeed! everybody knows where this is. i'm building a new home, you know, and of course i don't want the gravel to clutter up my dooryard. so i've brought it all here. makes a nice sand pile, doesn't it? you are very welcome to sit on my sand pile whenever you feel like it, peter rabbit. it's a good place to take a sun bath; i hope you'll come often." all the time striped chipmunk was saying this his sharp little eyes twinkled with mischief and he chuckled softly to himself. peter rabbit was more curious than ever. "where is your new home, striped chipmunk?" he asked. "not far from here; come call on me," said striped chipmunk. then with a jerk of his funny little tail he was gone. it seemed as if the earth must have swallowed him up. striped chipmunk can move very quickly, and he had whisked out of sight in the bushes before peter rabbit could turn his head to watch him. peter looked behind every bush and under every stone, but nowhere could he find striped chipmunk or a sign of striped chipmunk's home, excepting the shining mound of yellow gravel. at last peter pushed his inquisitive nose right into the doorway of bumble the bee. now bumble the bee happened to be at home, and being very short of temper, he thrust a sharp little needle into the inquisitive nose of peter rabbit. "oh! oh! oh!" shrieked peter, clapping both hands to his nose, and started off home as fast as he could go. and though he didn't know it and doesn't know it to this day, he went right across the doorstep of striped chipmunk's home. so peter still wonders and wonders where striped chipmunk lives, and no one can tell him, not even the merry little breezes. you see there is not even a sign of a path leading to his doorway, for striped chipmunk never goes or comes twice the same way. his doorway is very small, just large enough for him to squeeze through, and it is so hidden in the grass that often the merry little breezes skip right over it without seeing it. every grain of sand and gravel from the fine long halls and snug chambers striped chipmunk has built underground he has carefully carried in the pockets in his cheeks to the shining mound of yellow gravel found by peter rabbit. not so much as a grain is dropped on his doorstep to let his secret out. so in and out among the little meadow people skips striped chipmunk all the long day, and not one has found out where he lives. but no one really cares excepting peter rabbit, who is still curious. xiv jerry muskrat's new house jerry muskrat wouldn't play. billy mink had tried to get him to. little joe otter had tried to get him to. the merry little breezes had tried to get him to. it was of no use, no use at all. jerry muskrat wouldn't play. "come on, jerry, come on play with us," they begged all together. but jerry shook his head. "can't," said he. "why not? won't your mother let you?" demanded billy mink, making a long dive into the smiling pool. he was up again in time to hear jerry reply: "yes, my mother will let me. it isn't that. it's because we are going to have a long winter and a cold winter and i must prepare for it." every one laughed, every one except grandfather frog, who sat on his big green lily-pad watching for foolish green flies. "pooh!" exclaimed little joe otter. "a lot you know about it, jerry muskrat! ho, ho, ho! a lot you know about it! are you clerk of the weather? it is only fall now--what can you know about what the winter will be? oh come, jerry muskrat, don't pretend to be so wise. i can swim twice across the smiling pool while you are swimming across once--come on!" jerry muskrat shook his head. "haven't time," said he. "i tell you we are going to have a long winter and a hard winter, and i've got to prepare for it. when it comes you'll remember what i have told you." little joe otter made a wry face and slid down his slippery slide, splash into the smiling pool, throwing water all over jerry muskrat, who was sitting on the end of a log close by. jerry shook the water from his coat, which is water-proof, you know. everybody laughed, that is, everybody but grandfather frog. he did not even smile. "chug-a-rum!" said grandfather frog, who is very wise. "jerry muskrat knows. if jerry says that we are going to have a long cold winter you may be sure that he knows what he is talking about." billy mink turned a back somersault into the smiling pool so close to the big green lily-pad on which grandfather frog sat that the waves almost threw grandfather frog into the water. "pooh," said billy mink, "how can jerry muskrat know anything more about it than we do?" grandfather frog looked at billy mink severely. he does not like billy mink, who has been known to gobble up some of grandfather frog's children when he thought that no one was looking. "old mother nature was here and told him," said grandfather frog gruffly. "oh!" exclaimed billy mink and little joe otter together. "that's different," and they looked at jerry muskrat with greater respect. "how are you going to prepare for the long cold winter, jerry muskrat?" asked one of the merry little breezes. "i'm going to build a house, a big, warm house," replied jerry muskrat, "and i'm going to begin right now." [illustration: "i'm going, to build a house," replied jerry muskrat.] splash! jerry had disappeared into the smiling pool. presently, over on the far side where the water was shallow, it began to bubble and boil as if a great fuss was going on underneath the surface. jerry muskrat had begun work. the water grew muddy, very muddy indeed, so muddy that little joe otter and billy mink climbed out on the big rock in disgust. when finally jerry muskrat swam out to rest on the end of a log they shouted to him angrily. "hi, jerry muskrat, you're spoiling our swimming water! what are you doing anyway?" "i'm digging for the foundations for my new house, and it isn't your water any more than it's mine," replied jerry muskrat, drawing a long breath before he disappeared under water again. the water grew muddier and muddier, until even grandfather frog began to look annoyed. billy mink and little joe otter started off up the laughing brook, where the water was clear. the merry little breezes danced away across the green meadows to play with johnny chuck, and grandfather frog settled himself comfortably on his big green lily-pad to dream of the days when the world was young and the frogs ruled the world. but jerry muskrat worked steadily, digging and piling sods in a circle for the foundation of his house. in the center he dug out a chamber from which he planned a long tunnel to his secret burrow far away in the bank, and another to the deepest part of the smiling pool, where even in the coldest weather the water would not freeze to the bottom as it would do in the shallow places. all day long while billy mink and little joe otter and the merry little breezes and johnny chuck and peter rabbit and danny meadow mouse and all the other little meadow people were playing or lazily taking sun naps, jerry muskrat worked steadily. jolly, round, red mr. sun, looking down from the blue, blue sky, smiled to see how industrious the little fellow was. that evening, when old mother west wind hurried across the green meadows on her way to her home behind the purple hills, she found jerry muskrat sitting on the end of a log eating his supper of fresh-water clams. showing just above the water on the edge of the smiling pool was the foundation of jerry muskrat's new house. the next morning jerry was up and at work even before old mother west wind, who is a very early riser, came down from the purple hills. of course every one was interested to see how the new house was coming along and to offer advice. "are you going to build it all of mud?" asked one of the merry little breezes. "no," said jerry muskrat, "i'm going to use green alder twigs and willow shoots and bulrush stalks. it's going to be two stories high, with a room down deep under water and another room up above with a beautiful bed of grass and soft moss." "that will be splendid!" cried the merry little breezes. then one of them had an idea. he whispered to the other little breezes. they all giggled and clapped their hands. then they hurried off to find billy mink and little joe otter. they even hunted up johnny chuck and peter rabbit and danny meadow mouse. jerry muskrat was so busy that he paid no attention to any one or anything else. he was attending strictly to the business of building a house that would keep him warm and comfortable when the long cold winter should freeze up tight the smiling pool. pretty soon he was ready for some green twigs to use in the walls of the new house. he swam across the smiling pool to the laughing brook, where the alders grow, to cut the green twigs which he needed. what do you think he found when he got there? why, the nicest little pile of green twigs, all cut ready to use, and johnny chuck cutting more. "hello, jerry muskrat," said johnny chuck. "i've cut all these green twigs for your new house. i hope you can use them." jerry was so surprised that he hardly knew what to say. he thanked johnny chuck, and with the bundle of green twigs swam back to his new house. when he had used the last one he swam across to the bulrushes on the edge of the smiling pool. "good morning, jerry muskrat," said some one almost hidden by a big pile of bulrushes, all nicely cut. "i want to help build the new house." it was danny meadow mouse. jerry muskrat was more surprised than ever. "oh, thank you, danny meadow mouse, thank you!" he said, and pushing the pile of bulrushes before him he swam back to his new house. when he had used the rushes, jerry wanted some young willow shoots, so he started for the place where the willows grow. before he reached them he heard some one shouting: "hi, jerry muskrat! see the pile of willow shoots i've cut for your new house." it was peter rabbit, who is never known to work. jerry muskrat was more surprised than ever and so pleased that all he could say was, "thank you, thank you, peter rabbit!" back to the new house he swam with the pile of young willow shoots. when he had placed them to suit him he sat up on the walls of his house to rest. he looked across the smiling pool. then he rubbed his eyes and looked again. could it be--yes, it certainly was a bundle of green alder twigs floating straight across the smiling pool towards the new house! when they got close to him jerry spied a sharp little black nose pushing them along, and back of the little black nose twinkled two little black eyes. "what are you doing with those alder twigs, billy mink?" cried jerry. "bringing them for your new house," shouted billy mink, popping out from behind the bundle of alder twigs. and that was the beginning of the busiest day that the smiling pool had ever known. billy mink brought more alder twigs and willow shoots and bulrushes as fast as johnny chuck and peter rabbit and danny meadow mouse could cut them. little joe otter brought sods and mud to hold them in place. thick and high grew the walls of the new house. in the upper part jerry built the nicest little room, and lined it with grass and soft moss, so that he could sleep warm and comfortable through the long cold winter. over all he built a strong, thick roof beautifully rounded. an hour before it was time for old mother west wind to come for the merry little breezes, jerry muskrat's new house was finished. then such a frolic as there was in and around the smiling pool! little joe otter made a new slippery slide down one side of the roof. billy mink said that the new house was better to dive off of than the big rock. then the two of them, with jerry muskrat, cut up all sorts of monkey-shines in the water, while johnny chuck, peter rabbit, danny meadow mouse and the merry little breezes danced on the shore and shouted themselves hoarse. when at last jolly, round, red mr. sun went to bed behind the purple hills, and the black shadows crept ever so softly out across the smiling pool, jerry muskrat sat on the roof of his house eating his supper of fresh-water clams. he was very tired, was jerry muskrat, very tired indeed, but he was very happy, for now he had no fear of the long cold winter. best of all his heart was full of love--love for his little playmates of the smiling pool and the green meadows. xv peter rabbit's big cousin jumper the hare had come down out of the great woods to the green meadows. he is first cousin to peter rabbit, you know, and he looks just like peter, only he is twice as big. his legs are twice as long and he can jump twice as far. all the little meadow people were very polite to jumper the hare, all but reddy fox, who is never polite to any one unless he has a favor to ask. peter rabbit was very proud of his big cousin, very proud indeed. he showed jumper the hare all the secret paths in the green forest and across the green meadows. he took him to the smiling pool and the laughing brook, and everywhere jumper the hare was met with the greatest politeness. but jumper the hare was timid, oh, very timid indeed. every few jumps he sat up very straight to look this way and look that way, and to listen with his long ears. he jumped nervously at the least little noise. yes, sir, jumper the hare certainly was very timid. "he's a coward!" sneered reddy fox. and billy mink and little joe otter and jimmy skunk, even johnny chuck, seeing jumper the hare duck and dodge at the shadow of blacky the crow, agreed with reddy fox. still, they were polite to him for the sake of peter rabbit and because jumper really was such a big, handsome fellow. but behind his back they laughed at him. even little danny meadow mouse laughed. now it happens that jumper the hare had lived all his life in the great woods, where mr. panther and tufty the lynx and fierce mr. fisher were always hunting him, but where the shadows were deep and where there were plenty of places to hide. indeed, his whole life had been a game of hide and seek, and always he had been the one sought. so on the green meadows, where hiding places were few and far between, jumper the hare was nervous. but the little meadow people, not knowing this, thought him a coward, and while they were polite to him they had little to do with him, for no one really likes a coward. peter rabbit, however, could see no fault in his big cousin. he showed him where farmer brown's tender young carrots grow, and the shortest way to the cabbage patch. he made him acquainted with all his own secret hiding places in the old brier patch. then one bright sunny morning something happened. johnny chuck saw it. jimmy skunk saw it. happy jack squirrel saw it. sammy jay saw it. and they told all the others. very early that morning reddy fox had started out to hunt for his breakfast. he was tiptoeing softly along the edge of the green forest looking for wood mice when whom should he see but peter rabbit. peter was getting his breakfast in the sweet-clover bed, just beyond the old brier patch. reddy fox squatted down behind a bush to watch. peter rabbit looked plump and fat. reddy fox licked his chops. "peter rabbit would make a better breakfast than wood mice, a very much better breakfast," said reddy fox to himself. beside, he owed peter rabbit a grudge. he had not forgotten how peter had tried to save his little brother from reddy by bringing up bowser the hound. reddy fox licked his chops again. he looked this way and he looked that way, but he could see no one watching. old mother west wind had gone about her business. the merry little breezes were over at the smiling pool to pay their respects to grandfather frog. even jolly, round, red mr. sun was behind a cloud. from his hiding place reddy could not see johnny chuck or jimmy skunk or happy jack squirrel or sammy jay. "no one will know what becomes of peter rabbit," thought reddy fox. very cautiously reddy fox crept out from behind the bush into the tall meadow grass. flat on his stomach he crawled inch by inch. every few minutes he stopped to listen and to peep over at the sweet-clover bed. there sat peter rabbit, eating, eating, eating the tender young clover as if he hadn't a care in the world but to fill his little round stomach. nearer and nearer crawled reddy fox. now he was almost near enough to spring. "thump, thump, thump!" the sound came from the brier patch. "thump, thump!" this was peter rabbit hitting the ground with one of his hind feet. he had stopped eating and was sitting up very straight. "thump, thump, thump!" came the signal from the brier patch. "thump, thump!" responded peter rabbit, and started to run. with a snarl reddy fox sprang after him. then the thing happened. reddy fox caught a glimpse of something going over him and at the same time he received a blow that rolled him over and over in the grass. in an instant he was on his feet and had whirled about, his eyes yellow with anger. there right in front of him sat jumper the hare. reddy fox could hardly believe his own eyes! could it be that jumper the hare, the coward, had dared to strike him such a blow? reddy forgot all about peter rabbit. with a snarl he rushed at jumper the hare. then it happened again. as light as a feather jumper leaped over him, and as he passed, those big hind legs, at which reddy fox had laughed, came back with a kick that knocked all the breath out of reddy fox. reddy fox was furious. twice more he sprang, and twice more he was sent sprawling, with the breath knocked out of his body. that was enough. tucking his tail between his legs, reddy fox sneaked away towards the green forest. as he ran he heard peter rabbit thumping in the old brier patch. "i'm safe," signaled peter rabbit. "thump, thump, thump, thump! the coast is clear," replied jumper the hare. reddy fox looked back from the edge of the green forest and gnashed his teeth. peter rabbit and jumper the hare were rubbing noses and contentedly eating tender young clover leaves. "now who's the coward?" jeered sammy jay from the top of the lone pine. reddy fox said nothing, but slunk out of sight. late that afternoon he sat on the hill at the top of the crooked little path, and looked down on the green meadows. over near the smiling pool were gathered all the little meadow people having the jolliest time in the world. while he watched they joined hands in a big circle and began to dance, johnny chuck, jimmy skunk, bobby coon, little joe otter, billy mink, happy jack squirrel, striped chipmunk, danny meadow mouse, peter rabbit, spotty the turtle, even grandfather frog and old mr. toad. and in the middle, sitting very straight, was jumper the hare. and since that day peter rabbit has been prouder than ever of his big cousin, jumper the hare, for now no one calls him a coward. the end * * * * * books by thornton w. burgess bedtime story-books . the adventures of reddy fox . the adventures of johnny chuck . the adventures of peter cottontail . the adventures of unc' billy possum . the adventures of mr. mocker . the adventures of jerry muskrat . the adventures of danny meadow mouse . the adventures of grandfather frog . the adventures of chatterer, the red squirrel . the adventures of sammy jay . the adventures of buster bear . the adventures of old mr. toad . the adventures of prickly porky . the adventures of old man coyote . the adventures of paddy the beaver . the adventures of poor mrs. quack . the adventures of bobby coon . the adventures of jimmy skunk . the adventures of bob white . the adventures of ol' mistah buzzard mother west wind series . old mother west wind . mother west wind's children . mother west wind's animal friends . mother west wind's neighbors . mother west wind "why" stories . mother west wind "how" stories . mother west wind "when" stories . mother west wind "where" stories green meadow series . happy jack . mrs. peter rabbit . bowser the hound . old granny fox the burgess bird book for children the burgess animal book for children uncle wiggily's story book +by+ howard r. garis author of uncle wiggily's airship; uncle wiggily's automobile; uncle wiggily on the farm; uncle wiggily's travels [illustration] +platt & munk+, _publishers_ new york _uncle wiggily's story book_ copyright mcmxxi and mcmxxxix +by+ +platt & munk+ contents story i. +uncle wiggily's toothache+ ii. +uncle wiggily and the freckled girl+ iii. +uncle wiggily and the mud puddle+ iv. +uncle wiggily and the bad boy+ v. +uncle wiggily and the good boy+ vi. +uncle wiggily's valentine+ vii. +uncle wiggily and the bad dog+ viii. +uncle wiggily and puss in boots+ ix. +uncle wiggily and the lost boy+ x. +uncle wiggily and stubby toes+ xi. +uncle wiggily's christmas+ xii. +uncle wiggily's fourth of july+ xiii. +uncle wiggily and the skates+ xiv. +uncle wiggily goes coasting+ xv. +uncle wiggily's picnic+ xvi. +uncle wiggily's rain storm+ xvii. +uncle wiggily and the mumps+ xviii. +uncle wiggily and the measles+ xix. +uncle wiggily and the chicken-pox+ xx. +uncle wiggily's hallowe'en+ xxi. +uncle wiggily and the poor dog+ xxii. +uncle wiggily and the rich cat+ xxiii. +uncle wiggily and the horse+ xxiv. +uncle wiggily and the cow+ xxv. +uncle wiggily and the camping boys+ xxvi. +uncle wiggily and the birthday cake+ xxvii. +uncle wiggily and the new year's horn+ xxviii. +uncle wiggily's thanksgiving+ xxix. +uncle wiggily at the circus+ xxx. +uncle wiggily and the lion+ xxxi. +uncle wiggily and the tiger+ xxxii. +uncle wiggily and the elephant+ xxxiii. +uncle wiggily and the camel+ xxxiv. +uncle wiggily and the wild rabbit+ xxxv. +uncle wiggily and the tame squirrel+ xxxvi. +uncle wiggily and the wolf+ uncle wiggily's greeting +dear children+: this is a quite different book from any others you may have read about me. in this volume i have some adventures with real children, like yourselves, as well as with my animal friends. these stories tell of the joyous, funny, exciting and everyday adventures that happen to you girls and boys. there is the story about a toothache, which you may read, or have read to you, when you want to forget the pain. there is a story of a good boy and a freckled girl. and there is a story about a bad boy, but not everyone is allowed to read that. there is a story for nearly every occasion in the life of a little boy or girl; about the joys of christmas, of a birthday; about different animals, about getting lost, and one about falling in a mud puddle. and there are stories about having the measles and mumps, and getting over them. i hope you will like this book as well as you seem to have cared for the other volumes about me. and you will find some beautiful pictures in this book. now, as nurse jane is calling me, i shall have to hop along. but i hope you will enjoy these stories. your friend, +uncle wiggily longears+. uncle wiggily's story book story i uncle wiggily's toothache once upon a time there was a boy who had the toothache. it was not a very large tooth that pained him, and, really, it was quite surprising how such a very large ache got into such a small tooth. at least that is what the boy thought. "but i'm not going to the dentist and let him pull it!" cried the boy, holding his hand over his mouth. "and i'm not going to let anybody in this house pull it, either! so there!" he ran and hid himself in a corner. girls aren't that way when they have the toothache--only boys. "perhaps the tooth will not need pulling," said mother, as she looked at the boy and saw how much pain he had. "that's so!" exclaimed grandma, who was trying to think of some way in which to help the boy. "maybe the dentist can make a little hole in your tooth, sonny, and fill the hole with cement, as the man filled the hole in our sidewalk, and then all your pain will stop." "no, i'm not going to the dentist! i'm not going, i tell you!" cried sonny. and i think he stamped his foot on the floor, the least little bit. it may have been that he saw a tack sticking up, and wanted to hammer it down with his shoe. but i am afraid it was a stamp of his foot; and afterward that boy was sorry. but, anyhow, his tooth kept on aching, and it was the kind called "jumping," for it was worse at one time than another. sometimes the boy thought the pain jumped from one side of his tongue to the other side, and again it seemed that it leaped away up to the roof of his mouth. the toothache even seemed to turn somersaults and peppersaults, and once it appeared to jump over backward. but it never completely jumped away, which is what the boy wished it would do. "you'd better let me take you to the dentist's," said his mother. "he'll either fix the tooth so it won't ache any more, or he'll take it out, so a new tooth will grow in. and, really, the pain the dentist may cause will only be a little one, and it will be all over in a moment. while your tooth may ache all night." "no, i'm not going to the dentist! i'm not going!" cried sonny boy, and then again he acted just as if there were a tack in the carpet that needed hammering down with his foot. now it was about this time that uncle wiggily longears, the bunny rabbit gentleman, was hopping from his hollow stump bungalow in the woods to go look for an adventure. but, as yet, uncle wiggily knew nothing about the boy with the toothache. that came a little later. "are you going to be gone long?" asked nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper, of the bunny gentleman. "only just long enough to have a nice adventure," answered mr. longears, and away he hopped on his red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch, with his pink, twinkling nose held in front of him like the headlight on a choo-choo train. now, as it happened, uncle wiggily's hollow stump bungalow was not far from the house where the toothache boy lived, though the boy had never seen the rabbit's home. he had often wandered in the woods, almost in front of the bunny's bungalow, but, not having the proper sort of eyes, the boy had never seen uncle wiggily. it needs very sharp eyes to see the creatures of the woods and fields, and to find the little houses in which they live. at any rate the boy had never noticed uncle wiggily, though the bunny gentleman had often seen the boy. many a time when you go through the woods the animal folk look out at and see you, when you never even know they are there. and pretty soon uncle wiggily hopped right past the house where the toothache boy lived. and just then, for about the tenth time, mother was saying: "you had better let me take you to the dentist and have that toothache stopped, sonny." "no! no! i don't want to! i--i'm a--a--i guess it will stop itself," said the boy, hopeful like. uncle wiggily, hiding in the bushes in front of the boy's house, sat up on his hind legs and twinkled his pink nose. by a strange and wonderful new power which he had, the bunny gentleman could hear and understand boy and girl talk, though he could not speak it himself. so it was no trouble at all for uncle wiggily to know what that boy was saying. "he's afraid; that's what the boy is," said the bunny uncle to himself, leaning on his red, white and blue striped crutch. "he's afraid to go to the dentist and have that tooth filled, or pulled. now that's very silly of him, for the dentist will not hurt him much, and will soon stop the ache. i wonder how i can make that boy believe this? his mother and grandmother can't seem to." for mr. longears heard mother and grandma trying to get that toothache boy to let them take him to the dentist. but the boy only shook his head, and made believe hammer tacks in the carpet with his foot, and he held his hand over his mouth. but, all the while, the ache kept aching achier and achier and jumping, leaping, tumbling, twisting, turning and flip-flopping--almost like a clown in the circus. "no! no! i'm not going to the dentist!" cried the boy. then uncle wiggily had an idea. he could look in through the window of the house and see the boy. in front of the window was a grassy place, near the edge of the wood, and close by was an old stump, shaped almost like the easy chair in a dentist's office. "i know what i'll do," said uncle wiggily. "i'll make believe i have the toothache. i'll go get dr. possum and i'll sit down in this stump chair. then i'll tell dr. possum to make believe pull out one of my teeth." "i s'pose if nurse jane were here she might ask what good that would do?" thought uncle wiggily. "but i think it will do a lot of good. if that boy sees me, a rabbit gentleman, having a tooth pulled, which is what he will think he sees, it may make him brave enough to go to the dentist's. i'll try it." away hopped uncle wiggily to dr. possum's office. "what's the matter? rheumatism again?" asked the animal doctor. "no, but i want you to come over and pull a tooth for me," said uncle wiggily, blinking one eye, and twinkling his pink nose surreptitious-like. "pull a tooth! why, your teeth are all right!" cried dr. possum. "it's to give a little lesson to a boy," whispered the bunny, and then dr. possum blinked one eye, in understanding fashion. a little later uncle wiggily sat himself down on the old stump that looked like a chair, and dr. possum stood over him. "open your mouth and show me which tooth it is that hurts," said dr. possum, just like a dentist. "all right," answered uncle wiggily, and, from the corner of his left eye the bunny gentleman could see the toothache boy at the window looking out. the boy saw the rabbit and dr. possum at the old stump, and he saw mr. longears open his mouth and point with his paw to a tooth. "oh, mother!" cried the boy, very much excited. "look! there's a funny rabbit, all dressed up in a tall silk hat, having a tooth pulled. grandma, look!" "well, i do declare!" murmured the old lady. "isn't that perfectly wonderful! i didn't know that animals ever had the toothache!" "oh, i s'pose they do, once in a while," said the toothache boy's mother. "but see how brave that rabbit gentleman is! not to mind having the animal dentist stop his ache! just fancy!" neither grandma nor mother said anything to sonny boy. all three of them just stood at the window, and watched uncle wiggily and dr. possum. and, as they looked, dr. possum put a little shiny thing, like a buttonhook, in the bunny gentleman's mouth. he gave a sudden little pull and, a moment later, held up something which sparkled in the sun. it was only a bit of glass, which uncle wiggily had held in his paw ready for this part in the little play, but it looked like a tooth. "well, i declare!" laughed grandma. "the bunny had his tooth pulled!" "and he doesn't seem to mind it at all," added mother. surely enough, uncle wiggily hopped off the make-believe dentist-stump, and with his red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch, began to dance a little jiggity-jig with dr. possum. "this dance is to show that it doesn't hurt even to have a tooth pulled; much less to have one filled," said the bunny. "i understand!" laughed dr. possum. and as he and uncle wiggily danced, they looked, out of the corners of their eyes, and saw the toothache boy standing at the window watching them. "well, i never, in all my born days, saw a sight like that!" exclaimed grandma. "nor i," said mother. "isn't it wonderful!" sonny boy took his hand down from his mouth. "i--i guess, mother," he said, as he saw uncle wiggily jump over his crutch in a most happy fashion, "i guess i'll go to the dentist, and have him stop my toothache!" "hurray!" softly cried uncle wiggily, who heard what the boy said. "this is just what i wanted to happen, dr. possum! our little lesson is over. now we may go!" away hopped the bunny, to tell nurse jane about the strange adventure, and dr. possum, with his bag of powders and pills on his tail, where he always carried it, shuffled back to his office. sonny boy went to the dentist's, and soon his tooth was fixed so it would not ache again. he hardly felt at all what the dentist did to him. "i--i didn't know how easy it was 'till i saw the rabbit have his tooth pulled," said the boy to the dentist. "hum," said the dentist, noncommittal-like, "some rabbits are very funny!" and if the puppy dog doesn't waggle his tail so hard that he knocks over the milk bottle when it's trying to slide down the doormat, i shall have the pleasure, next, of telling you the story of uncle wiggily and the freckled girl. story ii uncle wiggily and the freckled girl uncle wiggily was hopping through the woods one summer day, when, as he happened to stop to get a drink of some water that the rain-clouds had dropped in the cup of a jack-in-the-pulpit flower, the bunny gentleman heard a girl saying: "oh, i wish i could get them off! i wish i could scrub them off with sandpaper, or something like that! i've tried lemon juice and vinegar, but they won't go. and oh, they make me so homely!" uncle wiggily stopped suddenly and rubbed the end of his pink, twinkling nose with the brim of his tall, silk hat. "this is very queer," said the bunny uncle to himself. "i wonder what is it she has tried to take off with lemon juice? she seems very unhappy, this little girl does." the bunny uncle looked through the trees and, seated on a green, mossy stump, he saw a girl about ten or twelve years old. she held a looking-glass in her hand, and as she glanced at her likeness in the mirror she kept saying: "how can i get them off? how can i make them disappear so i will be beautiful? oh, how i hate them!" "what in the world can be the matter?" thought uncle wiggily to himself. for, as i have told you, the bunny gentleman was now able to hear and understand the talk of girls and boys, though he could not himself speak that language. he hopped a little closer to the unhappy girl on the green, mossy stump, but the bunny stepped so softly on the leaf carpet of the forest that scarcely a sound did he make, and the girl with the mirror never heard him. "i wonder if i said a little verse, such as i have read in fairy books, whether they would go away?" murmured the girl. "i've tried everything but that. i'll do it--i'll say a magical verse! but i must make up one, for i never have read of the kind i want in any book." she seemed to be thinking deeply for a moment and then, shutting her eyes, and looking up at the sun which was shining through the trees of the wood, the girl recited this little verse: "sun, sun, who made them come, make them go away. then i'll be like other girls, happy all the day!" "this is like a puzzle, or a riddle," whispered uncle wiggily to himself, as he kept out of sight behind a bush near the stump. "what is it she wants the sun to make go away? it can't be rain, or storm clouds, for the sky is as blue as a baby's eyes. i wonder what it is?" then, as the girl took up the mirror again, and looked in it, uncle wiggily saw the reflection of her face. it was covered with dear, little brown freckles! "ho! ho!" softly crooned uncle wiggily to himself. "now i understand. this girl is unhappy because she is freckled. she thinks she doesn't look pretty with them! why, if she only knew it, those freckles show how strong and healthy she is. they show that she has played out in the fresh air and sunshine, and that she will live to be happy a long, long while. freckles! why, she ought to be glad she has them, instead of sorry!" but the girl on the stump kept her eyes shut, clenching the mirror in her hand and as she held her face up to the sun she recited another verse of what she thought was a mystic charm. this is what she said: "freckles, freckles, go away! don't come back any other day. make my face most fair to see, then how happy i will be!" slowly, as uncle wiggily watched, hidden as he was behind the bush, the girl opened her eyes and held up the looking-glass. over her shoulder the bunny gentleman could still see the freckles in the glass; the dear, brown, honest, healthy freckles. but when the girl saw them she dropped the mirror, hid her face in her hands and cried: "oh, they didn't go 'way! they didn't go 'way! now i never can be beautiful!" uncle wiggily twinkled his pink nose thoughtfully. "this is too bad!" said the bunny gentleman. "i wonder how i can help that girl?" for, since he had helped the toothache boy by letting dr. possum pretend to pull an aching tooth, the bunny gentleman wanted do other favors for the children who loved him. "i'd like to make that girl happy, even with her freckles," said the bunny. "i'll hop off through the woods, and perhaps i may meet some of my animal friends who will show me a way." the bunny gentleman looked kindly at the girl on the stump. she was sobbing, and did not see him, or hear him, as she murmured over and over again: "i don't like freckles! i hate them!" away through the woods hopped uncle wiggily. he had not gone very far before he heard a bird singing a beautiful song. oh, so cheerful it was, and happy--that song! "good morning, mr. bird!" greeted uncle wiggily, for you know it is the father bird who sings the sweetest song. the mother bird is so busy, i suppose, that she has little time to sing. "you are very happy this morning," the rabbit said to the bird. "why, yes, uncle wiggily, i am very happy," answered mr. bird, "and so is my wife. she is up there on the nest, but she told me to come down here and sing a happy song." "why?" asked the bunny. "because we are going to have some little birds," was the answer. "there are some eggs in our nest, and my mate is sitting on them to keep them warm. soon some little birds will come out, and i will sing a still happier song." "that's fine," said uncle wiggily, thinking of the unhappy freckled girl on the stump. "may i see the eggs in your nest?" "of course," answered the father-singer. "our nest is in a low bush, but it is well hidden. here, i'll show you. mrs. bird will not mind if you look." the father bird fluttered to the nest, and mrs. bird raised her fluffy feathers to show uncle wiggily some beautiful blue eggs. "why--why, they're _freckled_!" exclaimed the bunny gentleman. "aren't you birds sad because you have freckled eggs? why, your little birds will be freckled, too! and, if they are girl birds they will cry!" "why?" asked mr. bird in surprise. "why will our girl birdies cry?" "because they'll be _freckled_," answered the bunny. "i just saw a girl in the woods, crying to break her heart because she is freckled!" "nonsense!" chirped mrs. bird. "in the first place these are not freckles on my eggs, though they look so. my eggs are spotted, or mottled, and they would not be half so pretty if they were not colored that way. besides, being spotted as they are, makes them not so easily seen in the nest. and, when i fly away to get food, bad snakes or cats can not so easily see my eggs to eat them. i just love my _freckled_ eggs, as you call them!" laughed mrs. bird. "well, they are pretty," admitted uncle wiggily. "but will your little birds be speckled, too?" "not at all," sang mr. bird. "say, uncle wiggily!" he whistled, "if we could get that girl here so she could see our spotted eggs, and know how beautiful they are, even if they are what she would call 'freckled'; wouldn't that make her happier?" "perhaps it would," said the bunny rabbit. "i never thought of that. i'll try it! you will not be afraid to let her see your eggs, will you?" he asked. "no; for girls are not like some boys--they don't rob the nests of birds," replied the mother of the speckled eggs. "bring the unhappy girl here, and mr. bird and i will hide in the bushes while she peeps into our nest." "i will!" said uncle wiggily. away he hopped through the woods, and soon he came to the place where the freckled girl was still sobbing on the stump. "now how can i get her to follow me through the woods, to see the nest, when i can't talk to her?" whispered uncle wiggily. then he thought of a plan. "i'll toss a little piece of tree-bark at her," chuckled the bunny. "that will make her look up, and when she sees me i'll hop off a little way. she'll follow, thinking she can catch me. but i'll keep ahead of her and so lead her to the woods. i want to make her happy!" the bunny tossed a bit of bark, hitting the girl on her head. she looked around, and then she saw uncle wiggily, all dressed up as he was with his tall silk hat and his red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch. "oh, what a funny rabbit!" exclaimed the girl, smiling through her tears, and forgetting her freckles, for a while at least. "i wonder if i can catch you?" she said. "well, not if i know it," whispered uncle wiggily to himself, for he knew what the girl had said. "but i'll let you think you can," the bunny chuckled to himself. he hopped on a little farther, and the girl followed. but just as she thought she was going to put her hands on the rabbit, uncle wiggily skipped along, and she missed him. but still she followed on, and soon uncle wiggily had led her to the bushes where the birds had built their nest. mr. and mrs. bird were watching, and when they saw uncle wiggily and the freckled girl, mr. bird began to sing. he sang of blue skies, or rippling waters of sunshine and sweet breezes scented with apple blossoms. "oh, what a lovely song!" murmured the freckled girl. "some birds must live here. i wonder if i could see their nest and eggs? i wouldn't hurt them for the world!" she said softly. uncle wiggily shrank back out of sight. the girl looked around for the singing birds, and just then the wind blew aside some leaves and she saw the nest. but she saw more than the nest, for she saw the eggs that were to be hatched into little birds. and, more than this; the girl saw that the eggs were spotted or mottled--freckled as she was herself! "oh! oh!" murmured the girl, clasping her hands as she looked down at the speckled eggs in the nest. "they have brown spots on, just like my face. they are _freckled eggs_--but, oh, how pretty they are! i never knew that anything freckled could be beautiful! i never knew! oh, how wonderful!" as she stood looking at the eggs, mr. bird sang again, a sweeter song than before, and the wind blew softly on the freckled face of the unhappy girl--no, not unhappy now, for she smiled, and there were no more tears in her eyes. "oh, how glad i am that the funny rabbit led me to the nest of freckled eggs!" said the girl. "i wonder where he is?" she looked around, but uncle wiggily had hopped away. he had done all that was needed of him. the mother bird softly fluttered down into her nest, covering the beautiful mottled eggs with her downy wings. she was not afraid of the girl. the girl reached out her hand and timidly stroked the mother bird. then she gently touched her own freckled cheeks. "i'm never going to care any more," she whispered. "i did not know that freckles could be so pretty. i'm glad i got 'em!" the freckled girl walked away, leaving the mother bird on the nest, while the father of the speckled eggs, that soon would be little birds, sang his song of joy. the freckled girl, with a glad smile on her face, went back to the stump, and, without looking into the mirror, she tossed the bit of looking-glass into a deep spring. "i don't need you any more," she said, as the glass went sailing through the air. "i know, now, that freckles can be beautiful!" and if the pussy cat doesn't think the automobile tire is a bologna sausage, and try to nibble a piece out to make a sandwich for the rag doll's picnic, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the mud puddle. story iii uncle wiggily and the mud puddle did you ever fall down in a mud puddle? perhaps this may have happened to you when you were barefooted, with old clothes on, so that it did not much matter whether you splashed them or not. but that isn't what i mean. did you ever fall into a mud puddle when you had on your very best clothes, with white stockings that showed every speck of mud? if anything like that ever happened to you, when you were going to sunday-school, or to a little afternoon tea party, why, you know how dreadfully unhappy you felt! to say nothing of the pain in your knees! well, now for a story of how a little boy named tommie fell in a mud puddle, and how uncle wiggily helped him scrub the mud off his white stockings--off tommie's white stockings i mean, not uncle wiggily's. tommie was a little boy who lived in a house on the edge of the wood, near where uncle wiggily had built his hollow stump bungalow. no, tommie wasn't the same little boy who had the toothache. he was quite a different chap. one day the postman rang the bell at tommie's house, and gave tommie a cute little letter. "oh, it's for me!" cried tommie. "look, mother! i have a letter!" "that's nice," said mother. "who sent it to you?" "i'll look and tell you," answered the little boy. the writing in the letter was large and plain, and though tommie had not been to school very long he could read a little. so he was able to tell that the letter was from a little girl named alice, who wanted him to come to a party she was going to have one afternoon a few days later. "oh, may i go?" tommie asked his mother. "yes," she answered. "and wear my best clothes?" "surely you will put on your best clothes to go to the party," said mother. "and i hope you have a nice time!" tommie hoped so, too. but if only he had known what was going to happen! perhaps it is just as well he did not, for it would have spoiled his fun of thinking about the coming party. and half the fun of nearly everything, you know, is thinking about it beforehand, or afterward. at last the day came for the tea party alice was to give at her home, which was a little distance down the street from tommie's house. "oh, how happy i am!" sang tommie, as he ran about the porch. but when, after breakfast, it began to rain, tommie was not so happy. he stood with his nose pressed against the glass of the window until it was pressed quite flat. i mean his nose was flat, for the glass was that way anyhow, you know. and tommie watched the rain drops splash down, making little mud puddles in the street. "can't i go to alice's party if it rains?" asked tommie. "well, no, i think not," mother answered. "but perhaps it will stop raining before it is time for you to go. you don't have to leave here until after lunch." tommie turned again to press his nose against the glass, glad that the rain was outside, so that the drops which rolled down the window could not wet his face. and he hoped the clouds would clear away and that the sun would shine before the time for the party. now about this same hour uncle wiggily longears, the bunny rabbit gentleman, was also looking out of the window of his hollow stump bungalow in the woods, wondering, just as tommie wondered, whether the rain would stop. "but surely you won't go out while it is still raining," said nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper. "no," answered uncle wiggily, "my going out is not so needful as all that. i was going to look for an adventure, and i had rather do that in the sunshine than in the rain. i can wait." and then, almost as suddenly as it had started, the rain stopped. "oh, i'm so glad!" sang tommie, as he danced up and down. "now i can go to the party!" "and i can go adventuring," said uncle wiggily. now of course he did not hear tommie, nor did the little boy hear the bunny. but, all the same, they were to have an adventure together. tommie had been ready, for some time, to start down the street to go to the party alice was giving for her little girl and boy friends. all that tommie needed, now, was to have his collar and tie put on, and his hair combed again, for it had become rather tossed and twisted topsy-turvy when he pressed his head against the window, watching the rain. "be careful of mud puddles!" tommie's mother called to him, as, all spick and span, he started down the street toward the home of alice, a block or so distant. "don't fall in any puddles!" "i'll be careful," tommie promised. and as uncle wiggily started out about this same time for his adventure, nurse jane called to the bunny: "be careful not to get wet on account of your rheumatism." "i'll be careful," promised uncle wiggily, just as tommie had done. now everything would have been all right if tommie had not stubbed his toe as he was going along the street, about half way to the party. but he did stumble, where one sidewalk stone was raised up higher than another, and, before he could save himself, down in the mud puddle fell poor tommie! he fell on his hands and knees, and they were both soaked in the muddy water of the puddle on the sidewalk. of course it did not so much matter about tommie's hands. he could easily wash the mud and brown water off them. but it was different with his white stockings. perhaps i forgot to tell you that tommie wore white stockings to the party. but he did, and now the knees of these stockings were all mud! and as he looked at his mud-soiled stockings, and at his hands, from which water was dripping down on the sides of his legs, tommie could not help crying. "i can't go to the party this way!" sobbed tommie to himself, for he was big enough to go down the street alone, and there were no other children on it just then. "i can't go to the party this way! but if i go home mother will make me change my things, and i'll be late, and maybe she won't let me go at all! oh, dear!" and in order to keep out of sight of any other boys or girls who might come along, tommie stepped behind some bushes that grew along the street. [illustration: he looked down at his mud-soiled stockings] and what was his surprise to see, sitting on a stone, behind this same bush, an old gentleman rabbit, wearing glasses, and with a tall silk hat on his head. on the ground beside him was a red, white and blue striped crutch, for rheumatism. but the funniest thing about the rabbit gentleman (who, as you have guessed, was uncle wiggily), the funniest thing was that he had a bunch of dried grass in one paw, and he was busy scrubbing some dried spots of mud off his trousers. so busy was uncle wiggily doing this that he neither saw nor heard tommie come behind the bush. and tommie was so surprised at seeing uncle wiggily that the little boy never said a word. "why--why!" thought tommie, as he saw the bunny take up a pine tree cone, which was like a nutmeg grater, and scrape the dried mud off his trousers, "he must have fallen into a mud puddle just as i did!" and that is just what had happened to uncle wiggily. he had been walking along, thinking of an adventure he might have, when he splashed into a puddle and spattered himself with mud! but, instead of crying, uncle wiggily set about making the best of it--cleaning himself off so he would look nice again, to go in search of an adventure. "i'll let the mud dry in the sun," said uncle wiggily out loud, speaking to himself, with his back partly turned to tommie. "then it will easily scrape off." the sun was so warm, after the rain, that it soon dried the mud on the bunny gentleman's clothes, and with the bunch of grass, and the sharp pine tree cone, he soon had loosened the bits of dirt. "now i'm all right again," said uncle wiggily out loud. and though of course tommie did not understand rabbit talk, the little boy could see what uncle wiggily had done to help himself after the mud puddle accident. "i say!" cried tommie, before he thought, "will you please lend me that pine tree cone clothes brush? i want to clean the mud off my white stockings so i can go to the party!" uncle wiggily looked up in surprise! he had not known, before, that tommie was there; but the bunny heard what the little boy said. with a low and polite bow of his tall silk hat, uncle wiggily tossed the bunch of grass and the pine cone to tommie. by that time the mud had dried so the little boy could scrape most of it off his stockings. "i hope you have a nice time at the party," said uncle wiggily, in rabbit language, of course. and then, as tommie scraped the last of the dried mud away, leaving only a few spots on his stockings, the bunny gentleman hopped out of the bush and on his way. "and i can go to alice's house without having to run home to change my stockings," thought tommie. "i wonder who that rabbit was?" and when tommie reached the party he found that he was not the only little boy who had fallen in a mud puddle. the same thing had happened to sammie and johnnie, two other boys. "but how did you get your stockings so clean, without going home and changing them?" asked the other boys of tommie. "oh, an old rabbit gentleman, with a tall silk hat and a red, white and blue crutch showed me how to scrape off the dried mud with a pine cone," tommie answered. "i cleaned my white stockings as the bunny brushed his clothes." "oh, is that a fairy story?" cried the boys and girls at alice's party. "well, he _looked_ like a fairy!" laughed tommie, who had washed his hands in the bath room at alice's house, so they were clean for eating cake and ice cream. "and i'm not afraid of mud puddles any more. i know what to do if i fall in one," said tommie. and if the onion doesn't make tears come into the eyes of the potato when they're playing tag around the spoon in the soup dish, the next story will be about uncle wiggily and the bad boy. story iv uncle wiggily and the bad boy once upon a time there was a bad boy. he lived on the edge of the wood in which uncle wiggily longears, the bunny rabbit gentleman, had built his hollow stump bungalow. the bad boy did not know uncle wiggily, but mr. longears knew about the bad boy, and so did nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, the bunny's muskrat lady housekeeper. "don't ever go near that bad boy's house," said miss fuzzy wuzzy one morning, as the rabbit gentleman started out with his red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch. "why not?" asked uncle wiggily. "because," answered miss fuzzy wuzzy, "that boy will throw stones at you, and maybe hit you on your pink, twinkling nose." "he can't throw stones now," said uncle wiggily. "he can't find any. the ground is covered with snow." "then he'll throw snowballs at you," said the muskrat lady housekeeper. "please keep away from him." "i'll think about it," promised the bunny gentleman, as he hopped away, with his tall, silk hat on his head. now you know why, once upon a time, there was a bad boy. he was bad because he threw stones and snowballs at rabbits and other animals. there were more things bad about him than this, but one is enough for a story. uncle wiggily hopped on and on, across the fields and through the woods, and soon he came to the house of the bad boy. it was a regular house, not a hollow stump bungalow, such as that in which mr. longears lived. "i wonder if there isn't any way of making that bad boy good?" thought the bunny rabbit gentleman. "bad boys aren't of much use in the world, but good boys, or girls, who put out crumbs for the hungry birds to eat in winter--they are of great use in the world! i wonder if i could make that bad boy good?" but, no sooner had uncle wiggily began to wonder in this fashion, than, all of a sudden, he heard a loud voice shouting: "hi! there he is! a rabbit! i'm going to throw a snowball at him!" uncle wiggily looked over his shoulder and saw the bad boy rushing out of his house, followed by another boy. "oh, what a nice, funny rabbit!" cried the second boy. "he looks as if he came from a circus--all dressed up!" "i'll make him turn a somersault if i can whang him with a snowball!" shouted the bad boy, running toward the bunny gentleman. "perhaps i had better be going," said uncle wiggily, who could understand boy and girl talk, though he could not speak it himself. "i'll wait until some other day about trying to make this boy good." mr. longears started to run, but he had not taken many hops before, all of a sudden, he felt a sharp, thumping pain in his side, and he was almost knocked over by a snowball thrown by the bad boy. "hi there! i hit him! i hit him!" howled the bad boy, dancing up and down. "yes," sadly said the other chap. "you hit him, but what good did it do?" "it shows i'm a straight shot!" proudly answered the other. "maybe i can catch that rabbit now." he ran over the snow. but though uncle wiggily had been knocked down by the ball thrown by the bad boy, the rabbit gentleman managed to get to his feet, and away he hopped on his rheumatism crutch--so fast that the bad boy could not get him. then the bad boy and the other chap, who was not so bad, played in the snow, until it was time to go home. uncle wiggily hopped to his hollow stump bungalow, but he said nothing to nurse jane about the pain in his side. "if i tell her she won't let me go out to the movies to-night with grandpa goosey," thought mr. longears. so, though his side pained him, uncle wiggily said never a word, but early that evening he hopped over to grandpa goosey's home in the duck pen. and on the way uncle wiggily had to pass the house of the bad boy. "but it is getting dark, and he will not see me," thought the bunny gentleman. "i guess it will be safe." now it happened that, just as uncle wiggily was hopping under the window of the bad boy's house, the bunny heard a voice inside saying: "oh, dear! how my ear aches! oh, what a pain! can't you do something to stop it, mother?" "if i had some soft cotton i could put a little warm oil on it and that, in your ear, would make it feel better," answered a lady's voice. "but i have no cotton in the house. if you'll wait until i go to the drug store----" "no! no!" howled the voice of the bad boy. "i don't want you to go to the store and leave me alone! can't you get some cotton without going to the store?" "no," answered the mother. "you shouldn't have played out in the cold, and thrown snowballs at the rabbit. you must have gotten some snow in your ear to make it ache!" "oh, do something to make it stop!" cried the bad boy. "oh, why haven't we some cotton?" uncle wiggily, outside under the window, heard all this talk. now the bunny gentleman knew where to find something like cotton without going to the drug store. inside each of the big brown buds of the horse-chestnut tree is a little wad of cotton. mother nature puts the cotton there to keep the bud warm through the winter, so green leaves will come out in the spring. uncle wiggily looked around and saw, lying on the snow, a branch which the wind had broken from a horse-chestnut tree. hopping across the newly-fallen spring snow to this branch, uncle wiggily gnawed off some of the buds. breaking these open with his teeth, he took out some of the soft, fluffy cotton. "i'll just leave this on the bad boy's doorstep," thought the bunny. "i'll tap with my crutch and hop away." so the bunny gentleman, with the wad of cotton, skipped up the front steps of the house when no one saw him. his paws made funny little marks in the soft snow. uncle wiggily put the cotton on the sill, tapped once, twice, three times with his rheumatism crutch, and then hopped away. "somebody's at the door!" said the bad boy. "maybe that's daddy coming home, so he can go to the drug store and get that cotton for my aching ear." "maybe," said his mother. "i hope it is." she opened the door, and when she saw there the bunch of cotton--just what she wanted--you can imagine how surprised she was! "why, who could have left it?" asked the bad boy, when his mother told him what had happened. "who do you s'pose did?" "i don't know," she answered. "but i saw some rabbit tracks in the snow on our steps." "rabbit tracks?" repeated the boy, wonderingly, as his mother softly put some warm cotton and oil in his ear, making the pain almost stop. "yes, rabbit tracks," said mother. "and, if i were you, i'd never throw any more snowballs at rabbits." the boy (i'll not call him bad any more) put his head down on the pillow of his bed. he could go to sleep now, as the pain in his ear had almost stopped. "i wonder if that funny rabbit, dressed up like a little old man, could have brought me the cotton?" said the boy. "i wonder, too," softly spoke mother with a smile. "anyhow, i won't ever throw stones or snowballs at rabbits any more," promised the boy. "or cats or dogs, either?" his mother asked. "or cats or dogs, either," added the boy. then he went to sleep, and uncle wiggily, picking the bits of fuzzy horse-chestnut tree cotton off his tall, silk hat, hopped on to grandpa goosey's house and went to the movies. so that's the story of the bunny gentleman and the bad boy, and i hope you liked it. but if the rag doll's go-cart doesn't race with the baby carriage and slip on the banana skin as though it had on roller skates, i'll tell you in the next story about uncle wiggily and the good boy. story v uncle wiggily and the good boy "now do be careful to-day, please, uncle wiggily," begged nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper of the bunny rabbit gentleman, as he hopped down off the steps of his hollow stump bungalow one morning. [illustration: "now do be careful to-day."] "careful? why, i'm always careful," answered the bunny, as he twinkled one side of his pink nose and looked to make sure that his red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch was not painted green. "don't you think so, nurse jane?" asked mr. longears. "indeed i do not," miss fuzzy wuzzy answered. "you get so excited, looking for adventures, that you don't care whether you are chased by the pipsisewah or skeezicks." "but i always get away from them; don't i?" asked uncle wiggily. "and the woozie wolf, the fuzzy fox and even the skillery scallery alligator. i always get away, nurse jane." "it is hard work for you, sometimes," said the muskrat lady. "i do wish you would be more careful, wiggy. besides, these new adventures of yours--helping real girls and boys out of their troubles--are dangerous. of course, i love children, and i know you do, also. but some day you'll be caught by one of these bad boys or girls." "there aren't any bad girls," laughed uncle wiggily. "they are just a bit funny; that's all. as for bad boys; well, i hope to see them all turn good. and, anyhow, the children love me so much i don't believe they'll harm me." "well, you'd better be careful just the same," nurse jane said. then she went in to dust the dishes and sweep the furniture, and uncle wiggily hopped over the fields and through the woods, looking for an adventure. the bunny gentleman had not gone far from his hollow stump bungalow before he saw a crowd of boys on their way to school. one of the boys had a tin can in his hand, and another carried a piece of rope. "oh, maybe those boys are going camping," thought uncle wiggily, "and they're going to build a campfire and cook their carrot soup, or whatever they eat, in the tin can over the fire. i'll hide in the bushes and watch them. and i can hear what they say." by means of a gift which a good fairy gave him, uncle wiggily, for a time, was able to hear and understand the talk of boys and girls, though he could not, himself, speak their language. he wanted to hear what these boys would say, so the bunny gentleman hid in the bushes. the boys came along, laughing, shouting and trying to sing, but that last they did not do as well as girls would have done. somehow or other, girls are better singers than boys. well, anyhow, the boys came nearer to where uncle wiggily was hiding in the bushes, and, all of a sudden, one of the lads gave a whoop like a wild indian, and cried: "there's a dog! let's get him!" "there, now!" thought uncle wiggily to himself. "i knew boys were good. they want to take that dog with them to camp and give him some of the soup they are going to boil in the tin can. i hope they don't give it to him too hot, though, and burn his tongue." uncle wiggily peeked over the top of the bush, and saw one of the boys chasing the dog. it was a little dog; rather thin, so you could almost count his ribs, and he did not seem to have had much to eat of late. and as soon as the dog saw the boy running after him, that dog began to run also. "why, that's queer," said uncle wiggily. "why does the dog run away from that good boy? if i were only nearer i'd tell the dog that the boy is going to be kind to him and give him tomato-can camp-soup." "oh, let the dog go!" called a red-haired boy to the one who was running along with the tin can in his hand. "no, i'm going to catch him and tie this tin can on his tail," the first boy answered. "you ought to see how fast he'll run when he has this tin can on his tail!" "dear me!" thought uncle wiggily, hardly able to believe what he heard. "tie a tin can on a dog's tail! and i thought that boy was going to be kind! oh, oh, what a mistake i made!" most of the boys turned off on another path and went to school, but the one with the tin can chased after the dog, and another boy, who seemed very nice and quiet, stayed near the bush, behind which uncle wiggily was hidden. finally the boy with the tin can caught the poor, thin, yelping dog, and carried him back to the bush. "where's that piece of rope?" asked the bad boy, holding the yelping, squirming little dog under one arm, while in the other hand he carried the empty tin can. "what are you going to do with the rope?" asked the quiet boy. he held his hands behind his back. "i'm going to use the rope to tie this tin can on the dog's tail," answered the bad boy. "that's what i am!" "then i won't give it to you," spoke the quiet lad. "i'm not going to let you tie any tin can to a dog's tail if i can help it! there! you can't have the rope!" with a sudden motion he threw, away over in the weeds, the rope, which he had picked up after another lad had dropped it to go to school. "oh, ho! so that's what you're going to do, is it?" cried the bad boy. "i'll fix you for that!" he dropped his tin can; but still holding the poor dog under his arm, the bad boy rushed at the quiet chap. "i'll make you get that rope and help me tie the tin can on this dog's tail!" cried the bad boy. "i think it is about time for me to do something," said uncle wiggily to himself. the bunny gentleman, hidden behind the bush, had heard all that was said. all of a sudden, just as the bad boy was going to hit the quiet lad, for not helping to tie the tin can on the dog's tail, uncle wiggily turned, and, in the soft sand and dirt, began to dig very fast with his paws. now a rabbit gentleman is one of the best diggers in the world. with his paws he can make himself a burrow, or underground house, almost before you can eat a lollypop. and uncle wiggily, pawing in the dirt, made a regular shower of sand, gravel and little stones fly right in the face of the bad boy. by looking over his shoulder uncle wiggily could see which way to dig so that the sand would go in the eyes of the bad boy, but not in the face of the one who was kind to animals. whiff! whiff! whiff! the sand, gravel and little stones shot over the top of the bushes, and spattered all over the bad boy. "say! who's doing that?" cried the unkind chap, trying to hold his arm in front of his face to keep the sand out of his eyes. "if you fellows don't stop that----" but he couldn't say any more, for a lot of sand went flying into his mouth. he dropped the poor, thin dog, who ran away and hid himself in a hollow tree, and then the bad boy had to use both hands to wipe out the gravel that rattled down inside his shirt, and so he couldn't hit the kind boy. "who's scattering that gravel?" cried the bad boy, scowling. "i don't see anyone," said the other, smiling. but there was uncle wiggily, behind the bush, scattering the gravel with his paws in a regular shower. "i wish nurse jane could see me now," chuckled the bunny gentleman. "she surely would laugh." at last so much gravel, sand and little stones showered into the face of the bad boy that he ran away, crying: "oh! oh! oh! something terrible must have happened! i guess i'd better not tie any tin cans on dogs' tails any more." "i guess you'd better not," said the other boy. "and i say the same," laughed uncle wiggily, as he brushed some dust off his tall, silk hat, and straightened his necktie. then the bunny gentleman watched, while the kind boy went to the hollow tree and patted the poor, frightened little dog. and then this boy hid the tin can where no other boys could find it, and went on to school. and i think--mind you i'm not sure--but i think that bad boy turned good after that. anyhow if he didn't he ought to. "well, i had quite an adventure," said the bunny rabbit gentleman, as he hopped on to his hollow stump bungalow. "a very good adventure!" and if the jumping jack doesn't cut a slice off the mud pie with the bread-knife, and tell the rag doll it's a piece of chocolate cake, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily's valentine. story vi uncle wiggily's valentine uncle wiggily quickly hopped across the room and closed the door of his hollow stump bungalow, where he was busy in the sitting room. he heard nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy coming along. "well, that's queer!" exclaimed the muskrat lady housekeeper, as she noticed what uncle wiggily did. "i wonder what he means? wiggy," she called, "are you getting ready for some strange, new adventure, such as stopping bad boys from tying tin cans on dogs' tails?" "nothing like that now; no, my dear," answered the bunny rabbit, and he quickly pulled the table cover over something he had been looking at. "this is a secret!" "oh--a secret!" exclaimed nurse jane, puzzled-like. the muskrat lady looked at a calendar hanging on the wall, and noticed that the day was february . "i think i can guess what your secret is, uncle wiggily," she said to herself. "i s'pose it's something for mrs. twistytail, the pig lady, or maybe for grandpa goosey gander. well, i hope you enjoy it." then nurse jane went back to the dining room, where she was giving the dishes their morning bath; and uncle wiggily began to rustle some paper and tie knots in a piece of gold string, the while murmuring to himself: "i hope she likes it! oh, i do hope she likes it. i'll put it on the steps, throw a stone at the door so she thinks someone is knocking, and then i'll run and hide behind a bush and watch how surprised she is when she opens it." uncle wiggily had been very busy all that morning, after having been out in the woods the day before. what he had made i shall tell you about in a little while. enough now for you to know that the bunny rabbit had something he did not want nurse jane to see. pretty soon, after opening the door a crack, and listening to miss fuzzy wuzzy wash the face of the clock, uncle wiggily hopped softly out and down the front steps, with a box under his paw. his tall silk hat was on rather sideways, and he carried his red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch upside down, but when you remember that it was february , i think you will kindly excuse the bunny gentleman. uncle wiggily hopped on through the woods, and over the fields. every now and then he would stop, and, with his crutch, brush to one side the dried leaves and little heaps of snow that were scattered here and there in the forest. "i hope i may find some," said mr. longears to himself. "it won't be half so pretty without them. i hope i find some." he searched in many places, and at last he found what he was looking for. carefully he picked something up off the ground, and put it in the box he carried. "nurse jane will surely like this," said the bunny gentleman. he was about to hop on again when, all of a sudden, he heard someone crying in the woods. there was a sobbing sound and, looking around the corner of a tree, uncle wiggily saw a little girl, sitting on a log. and she was crying as hard as she could cry! "that isn't the freckled girl," said the bunny gentleman to himself. "she said she wouldn't mind her freckles after she looked at the pretty speckled birds' eggs. it isn't the freckled girl. i wonder who she is, and what's the matter?" and pretty soon uncle wiggily found out, for he heard the sobbing girl say: "oh, i wish i had money enough to buy one! all the other girls and boys can buy valentines to send teacher, but i can't! and she'll think i don't like her, but i do! oh, i wish i had a valentine!" "my goodness me sakes alive and some peanut pudding!" whispered the bunny rabbit gentleman. "that girl is crying because she hasn't a valentine for her teacher!" then the bunny gentleman looked down at the box, wrapped in tissue paper, which he carried under his paw--the box in which he had placed something he had found under the leaves and snow of the forest a little while before. "she wants a valentine," murmured the bunny rabbit gentleman. "and here i have one that i made for nurse jane. i was going to leave it on the steps and surprise my muskrat lady housekeeper. but i suppose i could give it to this little girl, and--well, nurse jane won't care, when i tell her." "i'll do it! i'll give this girl my valentine," said uncle wiggily so suddenly that his pink nose almost twinkled backward. he looked over the top of a bush behind which he had sat down to wrap up nurse jane's valentine. then the bunny hopped over to the girl who sat on the log, still sobbing because she had no token for her teacher. the girl heard the rustling in the leaves, made by uncle wiggily's paws as he hopped, and she looked up suddenly. then she rubbed her eyes, hardly able to believe what she saw. "why! why!" she murmured. "am i dreaming? is this a fairy? a rabbit gentleman, dressed in a tall silk hat, and with his red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch! oh! why, it's uncle wiggily! it's uncle wiggily out of my bedtime story books! oh, how glad i am to see you, dear uncle wiggily! please come up and sit by me on this log!" but uncle wiggily was not allowed to do this. he put his paw over his lips, to show that though he could hear, and understand what the girl said, he could not talk to her in reply. then he placed his valentine beside her on the log and quickly hopped away. "oh, uncle wiggily! wait a minute! please wait a minute!" cried the girl, but the bunny gentleman dared not stay. "i must try and find nurse jane another valentine," he said to himself, as he skipped along the woodland paths. left alone, the girl on the log opened the box uncle wiggily had left. it was made from pieces of white birch bark, such as the indians used for their canoes. inside, were some sprigs from an evergreen tree, with some round, brown buttons from the sycamore tree. and in the middle of the evergreen sprigs were some lovely pink and white blossoms of the trailing arbutus--the earliest flower of spring--growing under the leaves and late snows. it was these arbutus flowers which the bunny had come to the woods to find and complete his valentine. now he had given it to the girl. "oh, how lovely!" she murmured, tears no longer in her eyes. "won't teacher be surprised when i put this on her desk and tell her uncle wiggily gave it to me? oh, there's a verse, too!" and there was! written on a piece of white birch bark, which is what the animal folk use instead of paper, was this little verse: "these twigs of cedar, like my heart, are ever green for you. the blossoms whisper that i am your valentine so true!" "i know teacher will just love this!" said the little girl, and she was so excited she could hardly run to school. she had to hop and skip. "here's a valentine uncle wiggily gave me in the woods," the little girl told her teacher, all excited and out of breath. "uncle wiggily? how strange!" exclaimed the teacher. "i--i hope you didn't dream it," she said to the little girl. "but, at any rate, the valentine is real. and how lovely! it's the very nicest one i ever saw!" then you can imagine how pleased the little girl was. uncle wiggily, hopping back to his bungalow through the woods, gnawed a piece of white birch bark off a tree, and, with a burned, black stick for a pencil, he scribbled on it: "dear nurse jane: this is my valentine. i love you!" "+uncle wiggily.+" and when the muskrat lady found that on the doorstep a little later, she laughed and said it was the nicest valentine she could wish for. and when uncle wiggily told about giving the other valentine to the sad little girl, the muskrat lady said: "you did just right, wiggy! now let's go to the movies!" so they did. and if electric light doesn't cry when it has to go down cellar in the dark, to get a piece of coal for the fire to play with, you shall next hear about uncle wiggily and the bad dog. story vii uncle wiggily and the bad dog once upon a time, about as many years ago as it takes a lollypop to slide down the back cellar door, there lived in a kennel, not far from uncle wiggily's hollow stump bungalow, a bad dog. and the bunny rabbit gentleman, more than once, wished that this dog would always stay in his kennel, or remain chained in front of it so he couldn't get loose. "for that dog," said uncle wiggily to nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, "is the pest of my life! every time he sees me he chases me. he isn't at all like jackie and peetie bow wow, or old dog percival." "why don't you scratch sand and gravel in his eyes as you did in the face of the bad boy?" asked the muskrat lady housekeeper. "you can't treat dogs as you do boys," replied uncle wiggily. "though, of course, some boys and some dogs are great friends. but this dog seems always to want to chase me." "then you must be very careful if you go off in the woods to-day, looking for an adventure," said miss fuzzy wuzzy. "i will," promised the bunny rabbit gentleman. away he hopped on his red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch, and his tall, silk hat. and this time uncle wiggily took with him his glasses, which he sometimes wore in order to see better. "and i want to see the very best i can to-day," said mr. longears to himself, as he hopped along. "i want to see that bad, unpleasant dog before he sees me!" uncle wiggily was skipping along, thinking perhaps that he had better pick a bunch of violets and take them to the lady mouse teacher in the hollow stump school, when, all of a sudden, there sounded through the woods a loud: "wuff! wuff!" "that isn't the fox, nor yet the wolf, nor even the skillery scallery alligator," said uncle wiggily, looking around the corner of the mulberry bush. "i think it must be that savage dog!" and, surely enough it was. and a moment later the dog came bursting through the bushes, barking and growling and headed straight for uncle wiggily. "i'll make believe i'm playing baseball and try for a home run!" said the rabbit gentleman to himself, and through the bushes, turning and twisting this way and that, he ran for his hollow stump bungalow. uncle wiggily reached it only just in time, too. for as he hopped up the steps, and closed the door, locking it, the dog jumped over the gate. "my goodness me sakes alive and a basket of soap bubbles!" cried nurse jane. "what's the matter, wiggy? is the house on fire?" "it's that dog--chasing--me!" panted the bunny, for he was quite out of breath. "the idea! how impolite of him!" exclaimed the muskrat lady, and she shook her broom out of the window at the bad chap. "well, you got away from me this time, but the next time i'll get you," growled the dog, as he slunk away. "why is he so anxious to catch you?" asked nurse jane, as uncle wiggily sat down in an easy chair to rest. "oh, i guess he'd chase any of the animal folk he saw in the wood," answered the bunny gentleman. "he'd chase sammie or susie littletail the rabbits, johnnie or billie bushytail the squirrels and i'm sure he would make lulu, alice and jimmie wibblewobble, the duck children, lose their feathers in trying to flutter away from him." "it's too bad," said nurse jane. "you ought to speak to old percival, the policeman dog about this bad chap." "i shall," said uncle wiggily. he did, too, but the bad dog was so sly that old percival could not catch him. uncle wiggily also spoke to the little dog, whom he had saved from having a tin can tied on his tail by a bad boy. "i'll tell this savage dog to let you alone," the little chap promised. but all this did no good. every time the bad dog saw uncle wiggily in the woods he chased the rabbit gentleman, and once nearly caught the bunny. i don't know why this dog was so unpleasant and mean toward uncle wiggily. i guess maybe the dog didn't know any better. perhaps he thought uncle wiggily didn't like dogs, but mr. longears did--especially jackie and peetie bow wow, the little puppy chaps. well, as it happened, one day the people who owned the big, savage dog, that always chased uncle wiggily, went away on a visit. and they went in such a hurry that they left the dog chained to his kennel, and they forgot to leave him any water to drink, or food to eat. at first the dog was not hungry, but later in the day, when it was time for him to have had a meal, and some water, that dog began to feel very unhappy. "bow! wow! wow!" he barked, trying to call someone out to feed him, and pour water in the sun-dried pan. but no one came, and the dog grew more hungry, and so thirsty that his tongue hung down out of his mouth. just about this time uncle wiggily was going through the woods on his way to the six and seven cent store to get nurse jane a spool of thread. the bunny rabbit heard the barking of the dog, and started to run, for he knew that voice. but as he paused to listen, and find out from which direction the sound came, so he could run away from it, instead of toward it, uncle wiggily heard a voice saying: "bow wow! oh, how hungry i am! how thirsty i am!" it was the savage dog speaking, and uncle wiggily of course understood animal talk, even better than he had learned to know, as he had of late, what boys and girls said. "hum! so that dog is hungry and thirsty, is he?" said the bunny to himself. "well, why doesn't he go and dig up some of the bones he must have buried? and why doesn't he go to the duck pond and get a drink, i wonder?" uncle wiggily thought there was something strange about this, and as the barking and animal-talking voice of the dog did not come any nearer, the bunny hopped over to see what was the matter. there he saw the savage dog, fastened by a heavy chain to his kennel, with nothing to eat, no water to drink and no one to bring him any. "oh, how hungry i am! how thirsty i am!" barked the dog. [illustration: "oh, are you?" politely asked uncle wiggily] "oh, are you?" politely asked uncle wiggily, looking out from behind a stone. he was not afraid to be this near the bad dog, for the savage chap was chained, and could not get loose. "yes, i am very thirsty and hungry," whined the dog. "but of course i don't expect you to feed me or give me water. i've been too bad to you--i've chased you too often! i can't ask you to help me!" "i don't see why not," said uncle wiggily politely. "if i were ill in my bungalow, with rheumatism, and nurse jane wasn't there to wait on me, and you came along, wouldn't you get me a drink of water?" the dog thought a moment before answering. then he sort of drooped his tail, sorry-like and softly said: "yes, i believe i would." "then," said the bunny gentleman, "i'll bring you a drink, and if you tell me where you have buried some bones, i'll dig them up for you, since i can't loosen your kennel chain to let you dig them yourself." "oh, how kind you are!" said the dog. "i--i really don't deserve this." "stuff and nonsense!" laughed uncle wiggily. "we all make mistakes--that's why they put rubbers on the end of lead pencils, as someone has said. i'll help you when you're in trouble." then the bunny found a half a cocoanut shell, and dipping this in the nearby brook, brought water to the thirsty dog. and when he had taken a long drink, cooling his parched and hot tongue, the dog pointed to where he had buried some bones, behind the barn. uncle wiggily dug up the bones with his paws, which were just made for such work, and carried them to the dog. "oh, i can't thank you enough," said gurr-rup, which was the dog's name. "and i promise, mr. longears, that i'll never chase you again." "thank you!" laughed the bunny, as he hopped on to the three and four cent store. "i hoped you wouldn't." so this teaches us that it doesn't hurt the needle to put the thread in its eye, and if the apple doesn't jump out of the dumpling, and try to hide in the chocolate cake, when it ought to take the pie to the moving pictures, on the next page you will find a story about uncle wiggily and puss in boots. story viii uncle wiggily and puss in boots "where are you going, uncle wiggily?" called nurse jane fuzzy one day, as the muskrat lady saw the bunny gentleman hopping away from his hollow stump bungalow. "i am going to get myself a new pair of rubber boots," said mr. longears. "my old ones are wearing out, and they have little holes in, so they leak. we have had so much rain, of late, that i will need a new pair of boots if i am to look for any more adventures. so i am going to the shoemaker's." "but why are you taking your old boots along?" asked nurse jane, for uncle wiggily had them under his paw. "i am taking them to the shoemaker to show him what size i want my new boots," answered the bunny. "also he may be able to mend these old ones so they will do to wear in the garden." "that's a good idea," said miss fuzzy wuzzy. "and while you are out i wish you would go to the seven and eight cent store for me. i want some needles and thread, some balls of red yarn and some white flannel." "my! all that! are you going to make a bedquilt?" asked the bunny gentleman. "no," laughed nurse jane. "i am going to use the white flannel to make me a new petticoat, the red yarn i am going to use to knit sammie and susie littletail, the rabbit children, some mittens, and the needle and thread i will use to sew up a hole in the lace curtain." "very well," spoke uncle wiggily politely, "you shall have all three, and i'll get myself a new pair of boots." it did not take the bunny rabbit gentleman long to hop to the shop of the monkey doodle shoemaker, where mr. longears bought himself a new pair of rubber boots. "as for those old ones," said the monkey chap, "i can mend them for you, so they will do to wear many times yet." "please do so," begged the bunny. and when his old boots were mended he carried them over his shoulder with the new ones, for he was wearing his shoes. along he hopped to the seven and eight cent store. uncle wiggily bought the needles, thread, white flannel and red yarn for the rabbit children's mittens, and he was hopping back to his hollow stump bungalow, when, all of a sudden, coming from behind a sassafras bush, he heard a voice saying: "oh, dear! how sad! now i suppose they'll take me out of all the story books, and the children will never love me any more!" "hum! this is strange," said uncle wiggily to himself. "i wonder who it is that can't be in the story books any more? that is very sad! i wouldn't want them to put me out of all the bedtime story books in which i have my adventures." so the bunny gentleman looked around the corner of a lollypop bush, and there he saw a cat, dressed in a coat, trousers and cap, but without anything on his hind paws, sitting on a stump. "good afternoon, mr. cat!" politely greeted uncle wiggily. "you seem to be in trouble." "i am," was the answer. "only my name is puss, and not cat, though, of course, that's what i really am. puss in boots is my right name, but there is no use trying to keep it any longer." "why not?" uncle wiggily asked. "because i have lost my boots," answered puss. "a little while ago i met a cross dog who chased me. i ran across a swamp and became stuck in the mud. i managed to pull my paws out of the boots, but the boots themselves remained fast in the mud. now i have no boots and i can be called puss in boots no longer! i shall have to keep out of all the story books!" [illustration: "i have lost my boots," answered puss] "nonsense!" laughed uncle wiggily. "why, i have two pairs of boots here! take one of them, i can only wear one pair of boots at a time," and very politely mr. longears gave his new boots to the cat. "oh, but i can't take your new boots!" objected puss. "the old ones will do me very well." "no," kindly insisted uncle wiggily. "please take the new ones. since my old ones were mended they will answer me very well, and they'll be easier on my paws." so uncle wiggily gave puss the new boots, keeping the old mended ones for himself, and as the cat put the boots on his paws he looked just as he ought to--like his pictures in the story books. "now i can keep my place, the children will not miss me. thank you, uncle wiggily," mewed puss. "pray do not mention it," said the bunny. "i am glad i don't have to carry two pairs of boots." so mr. longears hopped on a little farther, and soon he heard some tiny voices saying: "oh, mother dear! look here! look here! our mittens we have lost!" "ho! i should know who they are!" said the bunny. "those must be the three kittens!" and, surely enough, they were, as the bunny saw a moment later, when he turned around the corner of a mulberry tree. there were three little pussy kittens, holding up their paws for their mother to see, and there wasn't a single mitten on any one of the paws! what do you think of that? "what, lost your mittens! you careless kittens! now you can't have any pie!" thus sang the mother cat. and when the three little kittens, who had lost their mittens, began to cry, uncle wiggily felt so sorry for them that he stepped up and said: "excuse me, mrs. cat. but i have a lot of red yarn i bought for nurse jane to knit mittens for sammie and susie littletail. there is more than miss fuzzy wuzzy needs, i'm sure, so i shall give you some to knit mittens for your pussies." "oh, how kind you are!" mewed the mother cat, as uncle wiggily gave her three balls of red yarn, still leaving plenty for the rabbit children's mittens. "now you may have some pie, and i'll give uncle wiggily a piece, too," said the cat mother to her kittens. "you are very kind," remarked mr. longears. "but i must hop on with the needle and thread, and the piece of white flannel nurse jane is going to use to make herself a new petticoat." so on hopped the bunny, while the mother cat sat down to knit some new mittens for her kittens. and uncle wiggily had not gone very far before, all of a sudden, he heard another sad mewing sound and a voice said: "dear me! the hole goes all the way through! i shall never be able to go to see old mother hubbard this way! oh, what an accident!" "that sounds like more trouble," thought uncle wiggily, and, looking over the top of a stone wall, he saw a pussy cat lady sitting on a stump, sadly looking at her skirt. "what is the matter?" asked mr. longears. "oh! how you surprised me!" mewed the cat lady. "but here is the trouble. i'm pussy cat mole. i jumped over a coal, and in my best petticoat burned a great hole!" and she showed the edge of her petticoat where, surely enough, a hole was burned through. "and i ought to be at mother hubbard's now, to go with her to the movies," said pussy cat mole. "but, alas, i can not go!" "oh, yes, you can!" said uncle wiggily. "not with this big burned hole in my petticoat!" mewed the cat. "ah, but you shall sew on a patch," said the bunny. "i have here needle and thread, and some white flannel. can't you mend your best petticoat with all those?" "indeed i can," mewed pussy cat mole. "thank you, so much!" uncle wiggily gave her a needle and thread, and with her claws miss mole tore off a piece of white flannel, for there was more than nurse jane needed. she sewed the patch neatly on, and then, with her petticoat nicely mended, pussy cat mole went on to mother hubbard's. "ah, how delightful it is to be helpful," said uncle wiggily, as he hopped back to his bungalow. and he was very glad he had met the three cats, one after another. for a little later that day the bad woozie wolf chased the bunny. but the mother of the three kittens, after she had knit their mittens, tickled the wolf with her knitting needles. puss with the boots, stepped on the wolf's tail so hard that he cried "ouch!" and pussy cat mole ran at the wolf with a piece of red stone, which she pretended was a red hot coal that in her best petticoat had burned a great hole. "i'll burn you! i'll burn you!" she mewed at the wolf. "then this is no place for me!" he howled, and away he ran, not hurting the bunny at all. and how the bunny gentleman and the three cats laughed! so if the elephant from the noah's ark doesn't drop a cold penny down the back of the gold fish and make it sneeze, the next story is going to be about uncle wiggily and the lost boy. story ix uncle wiggily and the lost boy "there goes that boy out again, flying his kite," said nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, as she looked from the window of the hollow stump bungalow one morning. "what boy?" uncle wiggily wanted to know. "the new boy who has just moved into the red brick house," answered the muskrat lady housekeeper. "i hope he isn't a bad boy, who will chase you, uncle wiggily, and come to the forest to play tricks on sammie and susie littletail, and the other animal boys and girls." "oh, he doesn't look like that kind of a boy," said the bunny rabbit gentleman, as he sat down to eat his breakfast of carrot pancakes with turnip maple sugar gravy sprinkled down the middle. "but i'll be careful until i get to know him better." uncle wiggily's hollow stump bungalow had lately been rebuilt near the edge of a wood, and, just beyond the thicket of trees and tangle of bushes was a small town, where lived many boys and girls. only a few of these boys and girls knew about the bunny rabbit gentleman, and his muskrat lady nurse, and those who did were kind to uncle wiggily, because the rabbit gentleman had been kind to them, doing them many favors. but now that a new boy had moved into the red brick house, uncle wiggily felt that he must not hop around in too lively a fashion, until he found out whether the boy was bad or good. for there are some bad boys, you know. "he seems quiet enough," said nurse jane, as she spread some lettuce marmalade on a slice of bread for uncle wiggily. "he sits there flying his kite. i guess it will be safe for you to go to the store for me, wiggy." "what do you want from the store?" asked the bunny gentleman, as he took his tall, silk hat down off the piano. sometimes he went to the store quite dressed up. at other times he would put on an old cap and overalls, just as he came from the garden. "i want another ball of red yarn," nurse jane answered. "i did not have quite enough to knit the mittens for sammie and susie, the rabbit children." "i suppose that's because i gave some of the yarn to the three little kittens who lost their mittens," said the bunny, twinkling his pink nose upside down, to make sure it would not fall off as he hopped along. "well, that's one of the reasons," nurse jane answered. "but i'm glad you helped the little kittens. you can easily get me another ball of yarn." "of course," uncle wiggily agreed, and soon he was hopping over the fields and through the woods, on his way to the store. not one of the stores where the boys and girls bought their toys and lollypops, but a special animal store, kept by a monkey doodle gentleman. and as uncle wiggily hopped along under the bushes, near the house of the kite boy, the bunny heard the boy's mother say: "don't go away and get lost, buddie!" "no'm, i won't!" promised the boy, as he held his kite string in his hand and watched his toy fly high in the air. uncle wiggily stopped for a moment, underneath a big burdock plant, and looked at buddie, which was the boy's pet name. buddie could not see the rabbit gentleman. if he had, buddie would have been much surprised to notice a bunny with glasses and a tall silk hat. the wind blew the kite higher into the air, and uncle wiggily thought of the many times he had helped johnnie and billie bushytail, the squirrels, fly their kites, and how he had, more than once, made kites for jackie and peetie bow wow, the puppy dog boys. then the bunny gentleman hopped on to the store to get the ball of red yarn for nurse jane. he stayed some little time, mr. longears did, for he met grandfather goosey gander, and talked to the old gentleman duck about rheumatism, and what to do when you sneezed too much. but finally uncle wiggily started back for his hollow stump bungalow, and soon he was in the middle of the wood, about half way home. and all of a sudden the bunny gentleman heard a crying voice saying: "oh, dear! oh, dear! i don't know where my home is! i'm lost! oh, dear! i'm lost!" mr. longears peered through the bushes, and there he saw the boy from the red brick house, who held in his hand a broken kite. "ah, i see what has happened!" said the bunny. "his kite broke loose from the string. forgetting what he promised his mother, about not going away, the boy ran after his kite, over into the woods, and now he is lost. i wonder if i can help him find his way home?" uncle wiggily did not show himself yet. hiding behind the bushes, the bunny followed the lost boy as he wandered about among the trees, not knowing which way to go. "oh, where is my house?" said the boy over and over again. "why can't i find it?" then a mournful voice cried: "woo! woo! woo!" "oh, dear! what's that?" exclaimed the lost boy, suddenly stopping. "it's only an owl bird," said uncle wiggily to himself. he wished he might speak to the boy, and tell him this, but though the bunny could understand boy-talk, the boy couldn't understand rabbit language. the kite boy went on a little farther, and then he heard a rustling in the dried leaves. "oh-o-o-o!" gasped the lost boy. "maybe that's a snake!" "nonsense!" laughed uncle wiggily to himself. "it is only a brown thrush bird, scattering the leaves to look for something to eat. and, even if it were a snake it wouldn't hurt the boy. i wish i might tell him so." the boy wandered along a little farther, and suddenly there boomed out through the forest a sound of: "ga-rump! ga-roomp! ga-zing!" "oh, maybe that's a giant!" cried the boy, dropping his broken kite. "ha! ha!" laughed uncle wiggily. "that's only grandpa croaker, the big bull frog who tells such funny stories to bully and bawly no-tail, the frog boys! how grandpa croaker will laugh when i tell him the lost boy thought him a giant! but i must help this boy out of the woods, or his mother will be worried." "let me see, how can i do it without letting him see me? ha! i have it. this ball of red yarn. i'll hop to the edge of the wood, near his house, and fasten one end of the red yarn to a tree there. then i'll come back, unwinding the ball on the way, and when i get to the boy, i'll toss him what is left of the ball. then all he'll have to do will be to follow the red cord right to his house." [illustration: it lead the boy home] no sooner said than done! uncle wiggily knew his way through the forest, even in the dark, and he soon reached the edge of the wood and saw the boy's red brick house. then, tying one end of the red yarn to the bush near where the boy had been sitting to fly his kite, uncle wiggily turned back, unrolling the ball as he hopped along. he soon came to the lost boy again, and the poor little chap was crying harder than ever. over the bush and at the feet of the boy, the bunny tossed the little ball of yarn that remained. "oh, what's that?" cried buddie, almost ready to jump out of his skin. but when he saw the little red ball, and the red string stretching off through the trees, he was no longer afraid. "oh, maybe this is a fairy string, and will lead me home!" he joyfully cried, as he began to follow it. and, though we know it wasn't a fairy string, still it was just as good, for it led the boy home, as he followed the yarn, winding up the ball as he walked along. and, oh, how fast he ran when he came within sight of his house, crying, as he dropped the ball: "here i am, mother! here i am. i'm not lost any more!" "well, i'm glad of that," mother answered. "you shouldn't have gone into the woods. i was just coming to look for you." "well," whispered uncle wiggily to himself, "i'm glad i could be of some help in this world." then the rabbit, who had followed the lost boy until buddie found his home, wound up the red yarn again, and took it to nurse jane. "my! that was quite an adventure," said the muskrat lady when the bunny gentleman told her about it. and if the boiled egg doesn't try to go sailing in the gravy boat, and splash condensed milk on the bread-knife, i'll tell you on the page after this about uncle wiggily and stubby toes. story x uncle wiggily and stubby toes there are some children who are always stubbing their toes and falling down. that was what happened, far too often, to the little boy in this story. and i am going to tell you how uncle wiggily helped cure him. perhaps you may think it strange that an old rabbit gentleman, with a pink, twinkling nose and a tall, silk hat could cure a boy of stubbing his toes. but this only goes to show that you never can tell what is going to happen in this world. so we shall start by saying that, once upon a time, there was a boy who slipped and stumbled so often that he was called "stubby toes." stubby toes was not a very big boy. in fact, one of the reasons he stubbed his toe so often (first the big toe of one foot, and then the big toe of the other foot), the reason, i say, was because he was so small. he had not yet grown up so that he knew how to step over things that lay in his path, causing him to stumble. why, sometimes that boy would stumble over a pin on the sidewalk. and again i have known him to trip and almost fall because he saw, in his way, a leaf from a tree. "upsi-daisey!" his sister would cry as she caught him by the hand, so he would not fall. "upsi-daisey, stubby toes!" it was sister who really gave stubby toes his name, but she was only in fun, of course. well, one day when uncle wiggily had started out of his hollow stump bungalow to look for an adventure, sister took her little brother stubby toes for a walk. and, as it happened, the path taken by sister and stubby toes stretched along through the woodland where the bunny gentleman lived. "i think i'll go see baby bunty to-day," said uncle wiggily to himself, as he hopped along, twinkling his pink nose in the sunshine. "i have a little touch of the rheumatism, and baby bunty is so lively, always playing tag, or something like that in the way of games, that she'll make me spry, and chase the pain away." but as the bunny gentleman came near the place where the little boy and his sister were walking, all of a sudden stubby toes tripped over a little stone, about as large as the end of your lollypop stick, and--down he almost fell! "upsi-daisey!" cried sister as she pulled brother to his feet. "upsi-daisey!" "oh, ho! boo hoo! i--i stubbed my toe!" cried the little boy. "of course you did!" said sister, laughing. i think i forgot to tell you that stubby toes often cried when he slipped this way. yes, almost every time he cried, and sister wished he wouldn't, and so did mother. "boo hoo! boo hoo!" the boy wailed. "i bunked myself!" sister laughed and recited this little verse, which is a good one to sing whenever anything happens. it is a verse i read once, many years ago. "oh, fie, do not cry, if you stub your toe. say 'oh!' and let it go. be a man, if you can, and do not cry!" after sister had sung this for brother, she wiped away his tears, which just started to trickle down his cheeks, and they walked on again. "this is a good little girl," said uncle wiggily to himself, for, hidden in the bushes he had heard and seen all that went on. "i wish i could teach stubby toes not to stumble so much. i wonder how i can? i'll ask baby bunty about it." so uncle wiggily hopped on to baby bunty's bungalow, and, meanwhile brother and sister walked through the woods. well, i wish you could have seen what happened to stubby toes! but, no! perhaps, on second thought, it is better that you did not. but, oh! so many times as he almost fell! he tripped over a little baby angle worm, who was crawling to the store to get a loaf of cake for his mother. and next stubby toes almost landed on his nose, because the shadow of a bird flitted across his path. "oh, stubby toes!" cried sister, as she kept him from falling on his face. "will you ever learn to walk without stumbling?" "boo hoo!" was all that stubby toes answered, for, just then he tripped over a blade of grass, and this time he fell down all the way. only he happened to land on some soft, green moss, so he was not much hurt, i'm glad to say. "this is too bad!" uncle wiggily said to himself, for he had heard and seen it all. "i must get baby bunty to teach this little chap how to walk more carefully." it was not far to the home of baby bunty. that little rabbit girl was out skipping her rope in front of her house. "tag, uncle wiggily! you're it!" she cried, as soon as she saw the bunny gentleman. "tut! tut! we have no time for a game now," said mr. longears. "i want you to come with me, baby bunty, and teach stubby toes a lesson," and he told about the little boy. "oh, i see what you mean," said baby bunty. "you want me to hop along in front of him, and show him how not to stub his toe." "that's it!" said uncle wiggily. "stubby toes and sister are kind to animals and will not harm us." so, a little later, uncle wiggily and baby bunty were walking along the woodland path just ahead of the little boy and his sister. "now, baby bunty," said mr. longears, "show this boy how nicely you can hop along, even if there are sticks and stones on the path." away skipped the little rabbit girl. she came to a stone, but over it she stepped as nicely as you please. she reached a stick, but she gave a hop, and there she was on the other side! and she never stubbed her toe once, because she was careful! by this time the little boy and his sister had seen uncle wiggily and baby bunty. "oh, look at the funny rabbits!" cried stubby toes. "i want to catch 'em!" "no! no! mustn't touch!" said sister, and she reached out to catch hold of stubby toes, but it was too late! he tripped his foot on a dandelion blossom in the grass, and down he went! "boo hoo!" he cried. "oh, fie!" said sister, singing the little verse again. "look at the baby rabbit! she doesn't stub her toes!" and, surely enough, baby bunty, skipping along on the path in front of stubby toes, never fell once. she skipped over pebbles and stones, sticks and clumps of grass, and never once stepped on a flower. "see if you can't do that, stubby toes!" begged sister. and of course that boy didn't want a little baby rabbit girl to walk better than he did. so he dried his tears, stood up straight and began to walk more firmly, watching where he set down his feet. he came to a big stone and--over it he stepped without stumbling. he reached a stick--and, over that he put both feet without falling! he passed a lump of dirt--and right over it he jumped--and he didn't stub his toe once! what do you think of that? "oh, i'm not going to call you stubby toes any more!" laughed sister. "now you have learned to walk as well as that baby rabbit." uncle wiggily laughed so hard that his tall silk hat almost slipped down over his pink, twinkling nose. "i think we have done enough, baby bunty," he said, "come on now, and i'll buy you a carrot lollypop!" away hopped the bunnies, and back home went sister and brother who was stubby toes no longer. baby bunty had taught him a good lesson. and if the jumping jack doesn't fall off his stick when he is trying to play hop scotch with the bean bag, you shall next hear about uncle wiggily's christmas. story xi uncle wiggily's christmas down swirled the snow, its white flakes blown by the cold december wind. from the north it came, this wind; and a bird--not a robin, for they had long ago flown south--a bird went in the barn, and hid his head under his wing, poor thing! it was cold in the woods around uncle wiggily's hollow stump bungalow, and the rabbit gentleman brought in stick after stick of wood for nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy to pile on the blazing fire that roared up the chimney. uncle wiggily, having filled the wood box, took his cap, and his fur-lined coat down from the rack. "dear me, wiggy! you aren't going out on a day like this, are you?" asked nurse jane. "yes," answered the bunny gentleman, "i am, if you please, nurse jane. i promised grandfather goosey gander i'd go down town shopping with him. he wants to look through the five and ten cent stores to see what they have for christmas." "oh, well, if it's about christmas, that's different," said the muskrat lady. "but wrap yourself up well, for it is storming hard. i don't want you to take cold." "nor do i want a cold," said uncle wiggily. "my pink nose gets very red when i sneeze. i'll be careful, nurse jane." out into the snowy, blowy woods went uncle wiggily. he passed the burrow-house where sammie and susie littletail, the rabbit children, lived. susie was at the window and waved her paw to the bunny gentleman. "only three more days until christmas! aren't you glad, uncle wiggily?" called susie. "indeed i am," answered mr. longears. "very glad!" johnnie and billie bushytail, the squirrels, looked from the window of their house. johnnie held up a string of nuts that he was getting ready to put on the christmas tree. "billie and i are going to help santa claus!" chattered johnnie. "good!" laughed uncle wiggily. "santa claus needs help!" the bunny hopped along through the snow until he reached the kennel of jackie and peetie bow wow, the puppy dog boys. "we're popping corn!" barked jackie. "getting ready for christmas! that's why we can't be out!" "stay in the house and keep warm!" called uncle wiggily. he hopped on a little farther until he met mr. gander, and the rabbit gentleman and the goose grandpa made their way through the five and ten, the three and four and the sixteen and seventeen cent stores. each place was piled full of christmas presents for animal boys and girls, and animal fathers and mothers were shopping about, to tell santa claus what to bring to the different houses, you know. uncle wiggily saw some things he knew nurse jane would like, and grandpa goosey bought some presents that had come directly from the workshop of santa claus. then along came mr. whitewash, the polar bear gentleman. "ho! ho!" roared mr. whitewash, in his jolly voice. "come to my ice cave, gentlemen, and have a cup of hot, melted icicles!" "i'd like to, but i can't," said uncle wiggily. "nurse jane wanted me to get her some spools of thread. i'll buy them and go back to my bungalow." "then i'll go with you, mr. whitewash," quacked grandpa goosey, and he waddled off with the bear gentleman, while uncle wiggily, having bought the thread, hopped toward his bungalow. the bunny uncle had not gone very far before he heard some children talking behind a bush around which the snow was piled in a high drift. uncle wiggily could hide behind this drift and hear what was said. "is santa claus coming to your house?" asked one boy of another. "i don't guess so," was the answer. "my father said our chimney was so full of black soot that santa claus couldn't get down. he'd look like a charcoal man if he did, i guess." "it's the same way at our house," sighed the first boy. "our chimney is all stopped up. i guess there'll be no christmas presents this year." "my! that's too bad!" thought uncle wiggily to himself. "there ought to be a christmas for everyone, and a little thing like a soot-filled chimney ought not to stand in the way. all the animal children whom i know are going to get presents. i wish i could help these boys. and they probably have sisters, also, who will get nothing for christmas. too bad!" uncle wiggily peered over the top of the snowbank. he saw the boys, but they did not notice the rabbit, and mr. longears knew where the boys lived. their homes were in houses near the brick one, where dwelt the lad who was once lost in the woods. uncle wiggily unwound a ball of red yarn, if you will kindly remember, and by following this the kite boy found his house. "i wish i could help those boys who are not going to have any christmas," said the bunny gentleman to himself, as he hopped on with nurse jane's spools of thread. and just then, in the air overhead, he heard the sounds of: "caw! caw! caw!" "crows!" exclaimed uncle wiggily. "my friends the black crows! they stay here all winter. black crows--black--black--why, a chimney is black inside, just as a crow is black outside! i'm beginning to think of something! yes, that's what i am!" the rabbit's pink nose began twinkling very fast. it always did when he was thinking, and now it was sparkling almost like a star on a frosty night. "ha! i have it!" exclaimed uncle wiggily. "a crow can become no blacker inside a sooty chimney than outside! if santa claus can't go down a black chimney, why a crow can! i'll have these crows pretend to be st. nicholas!" no sooner thought of than done! uncle wiggily put his paws to his lips and sent out a shrill whistle, just as a policeman does when he wants the automobiles to stop turning somersaults. "caw! caw! caw!" croaked the black crows high in the white, snowy air. "uncle wiggily is calling us," said the head crow. "caw! caw!" down they flew, perching on the bare limbs of trees in the wood not far from the bunny's hollow stump bungalow. "how do you do, crows!" greeted the rabbit. "i called you because i want you to take a few christmas presents to some boys who, otherwise, will not get any. their chimneys are choked with black soot!" "black soot will not bother us," said the largest crow of all. "we don't mind going down the blackest chimney in the world!" "i thought you wouldn't," said uncle wiggily. "that's why i called you. now, of course, i know that the kind of presents that santa claus will bring to the animal children will not all be such as real boys and girls would like. but still there are some which may do." "i can get willow whistles, made by grandpa lightfoot, the old squirrel gentleman. i can get wooden puzzles gnawed from the aspen tree by grandpa whackum, the beaver. grandpa goosey gander and i will gather the round, brown balls from the sycamore tree, and the boys can use them for marbles." "those will be very nice presents, indeed," cawed a middle-sized crow. "the boys ought to like them." "and will you take the things down the black chimneys?" asked uncle wiggily. "i'll give you some of nurse jane's thread so you may easily carry the whistles, puzzles, wooden marbles and other presents." "we'll take them down the chimneys!" cawed the crows. "it matters not to us how much black soot there is! it will not show on our black wings." so among his friends uncle wiggily gathered up bundles of woodland presents. and in the dusk of christmas eve the black crows fluttered silently in from the forest, gathered up in their claws the presents which the bunny had tied with thread, and away they flapped, not only to the houses of the two boys, but also to the homes of some girls, about whom uncle wiggily had heard. their chimneys, too, it seemed, were choked with soot. but the crows could be made no blacker, not even if you dusted them with charcoal, so they did not in the least mind fluttering down the sooty chimneys. and so softly did they make their way, that not a boy or girl heard them! as silently and as quietly as santa claus himself went the crows! all during christmas eve they fluttered down the chimneys at the homes of poor boys and girls, helping st. nicholas, until all the presents that uncle wiggily had gathered from his friends had been put in place. then, throughout woodland, in the homes of sammie and susie littletail the rabbits, of johnnie and billie bushytail the squirrels, jackie and peetie bow wow the dogs, curly and floppy twistytail the piggie boys--in all the homes of woodland great changes took place. firefly lights began to glow on christmas trees. mysterious bundles seemed to come from nowhere, and took their places under the trees, in stockings and on chairs or mantels. and then night came, and all was still, and quiet and dark--as dark as the black crows or the soot in the chimneys. but in the morning, when the stars had faded, and the moon was pale, the glorious sun came up and made the snow sparkle like ten million billion diamonds. "merry christmas, uncle wiggily!" called nurse jane. "see what santa claus brought me." "merry christmas, nurse jane!" answered the bunny. "and what a fine lot of presents st. nicholas left for me! see them!" "oh, isn't he a great old chap!" laughed nurse jane, as she smelled a bottle of perfume. and all over the land voices could be heard saying: "merry christmas! merry christmas!" near the hearth in the homes of some boys and girls who had not gone to bed with happy thoughts of the morrow, were some delightful presents. how they opened their eyes and stared--these boys and girls who had expected no christmas. "why! why!" exclaimed one of the two lads whom uncle wiggily had heard talking near the snowbank. "how in the world did santa claus get down our black chimney?" but, of course, they knew nothing of uncle wiggily and the crows. and please don't you tell them. so all over, in the land of boys and girls, as well as in the snow forest of the animal folk, there echoed the happy calls of: "merry christmas! merry christmas!" once again there was joy in the land. and if the sunflower doesn't shine in the face of the clock, and make its hands go whizzing around backward, i shall take pleasure, next, in telling you about uncle wiggily's fourth of july. story xii uncle wiggily's fourth of july "you must be extra careful to-morrow, uncle wiggily," said nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy to the bunny rabbit gentleman one morning, as he stood on the steps of his hollow stump bungalow. "why be careful to-morrow, more than on any other day in the year?" asked mr. longears. "is it going to rain or snow?" "whoever heard of snow on the fourth of july?" inquired the muskrat lady housekeeper, as she fastened a fluffy brush to the end of her tail, for she was presently going in the house to dust the furniture. "oh, so to-morrow is the fourth of july!" exclaimed the bunny. "i had forgotten all about it. yes, indeed, i must be careful! i am living near the real children, now, and some of them might think it fun to explode a torpedo under my pink, twinkling nose, or try to fasten a fire-cracker to my little tail." "that's what i was thinking of," went on nurse jane. for uncle wiggily's bungalow, while still in the woods, was near to the homes of some boys and girls. and though only one boy, so far, had been bad to the bunny (and this boy soon turned good), there was no telling what might happen. so as uncle wiggily hopped along the forest path, he took care not to get too far away from the bushes, behind and under which he could hide. for sometimes boys and girls came to the forest, and once a kite boy was lost, and the bunny helped him find his way home, you may remember. "hello, uncle wiggily!" suddenly called a voice, and mr. longears quickly jumped around, thinking it might be a real boy or girl. but it was only neddie stubtail, the little boy bear. "i've been buying my fire-crackers," said neddie to his uncle, the bunny. "i'm going to have lots of fun fourth of july," and he showed mr. longears a bundle of dry sticks, painted red, white and blue like the bunny's rheumatism crutch. you must know that in animal land the boys and girls have the same sort of fun you children do on holidays, but in a different manner. instead of real fire-crackers, that have to be set off with a match, or piece of punk, with sparks that, perhaps, burn you, the animal children get some dried sticks. these they break, with loud, cracking sounds, but without any fire. and they have lots of fun. after the sticks are broken they can be put in the stove to boil the tea kettle. "did you get your sister, beckie, any fourth of july things?" asked uncle wiggily of the boy bear. "oh, yes, i got her some little stick crackers," answered neddie. "that's good!" spoke mr. longears. then he went on through the woods, meeting toddle and noodle flat-tail the beaver boys, joie, tommie and kittie kat the kittens, nannie and billie wagtail the goats, and many other animal boys and girls. all of them called: "hello, uncle wiggily! happy fourth of july!" and the bunny answered back: "thank you! i wish you the same!" thus hopping through the woods, meeting the animal children, and learning of the fun they were to have next day, the bunny rabbit gentleman at length came to the end of the forest. a little farther on were the houses and homes of real boys and girls, some of whom had been helped by mr. longears. "i think this is as far as i had better go, seeing it's so close to the fourth of july," thought uncle wiggily. "if the real children are anything like those of my animal friends who live in the woods, they'll be shooting off their crackers and torpedoes ahead of time." and, just as he said that, uncle wiggily heard a loud: "bang! bang!" the bunny jumped to one side, and hid under the broad leaf of a burdock plant. then he laughed. "i thought that was a hunter-man's gun," whispered uncle wiggily. "but i guess it was some boy setting off a fire-cracker. i need not have been afraid." he was just going to hop along a little farther, before turning back to his hollow stump bungalow when, all at once he saw a hammock swinging between two trees near the edge of the wood. in the hammock lay a boy with a thin, pale face, and beside him sat a nurse, gently pulling on a rope that caused the little nest-like swinging bed to sway to and fro. "oh ho!" thought uncle wiggily. "a sick boy! i'm sorry for him! he won't be able to run around and have fun on fourth of july as jackie and peetie bow wow will." and then the bunny heard the boy in the hammock speaking. and, being able, as he was of late, to understand the talk of real persons, uncle wiggily heard the boy say: "do you think i'll ever be able to run around again, and have fun, and shoot off fire-crackers?" "of course you will," the nurse answered cheerfully. "but i can't have any fire-crackers now, can i?" asked the boy, timidly, as though knowing what the answer would be. "no, buddie! you are not quite well enough," the nurse gently replied. "no fire-crackers for you!" "how about torpedoes?" "you couldn't have those, either, i'm afraid," and the nurse smiled as she leaned over to give the boy a drink of orange juice. "oh, dear!" sighed the boy in the hammock, just like that. "oh, dear!" uncle wiggily felt very sorry for him. "i wish i could do something," thought the bunny gentleman. "this boy won't have much fun on the fourth of july--not even as much fun as curly and floppy twistytail, the piggie chaps, will have throwing corncobs against a tin pan and making believe they are skyrockets." "oh, dear!" again sighed the boy in the hammock. "oh, dear!" "what's the matter now?" asked his nurse. "i don't s'pose i could even have a roman candle, or a pinwheel, could i?" the invalid asked. "oh, indeed no!" laughed the nurse. "what a funny chap you are!" but the boy didn't feel very funny. uncle wiggily twinkled his pink nose. then he put his tall, silk hat firmly on his head and, tucking under his paw his red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch, off through the woods hopped the bunny uncle. "i'm going to get some fourth of july for that boy," said mr. longears. "he simply must have some." uncle wiggily spent some time hopping here and there through the woods, and early the next morning, when the real boys and girls were shooting off real fire-crackers and torpedoes, and when the animal lads and lassies were cracking sticks and making torpedoes from broad, green leaves, mr. longears hopped to where the boy was, once more, swinging in his hammock. the boy's head was turned to one side, and he was looking at some of his friends, over in the vacant lots, setting off fire-crackers. uncle wiggily, when the nurse wasn't looking, tossed into the hammock, from the bush behind which the bunny was hidden, a bundle of green things. they fell near the boy's hands. hardly knowing what he was doing the sick lad pinched one of the green things between his fingers. "pop!" it went. "what's that?" cried the nurse. "it sounded like a fire-cracker." the boy pinched another green leaf-like ball between his fingers. "pop!" sounded again, as the ball burst. "why," cried the nurse. "that's like a torpedo! what have you there, buddie?" "i don't know," the boy answered. "but these round, green balls, that burst and pop when i squeeze them, fell into my hammock. there's a lot of 'em! i can pinch them and make a noise for fourth of july." "so you can!" exclaimed the nurse, pinching one herself, and jumping when it went "pop!" "and they won't hurt me, will they?" asked the boy. "no," answered the nurse, "they won't hurt you at all. they must have fallen off this tree, but i never knew, before, that such things as green fire-crackers grew on trees!" "ha! ha!" laughed uncle wiggily to himself, hidden under a bush. "she doesn't know i brought the puff balls to the boy." for that is what the bunny had done. in the woods he had found the green puff balls, inside which were the seeds of the plant. later on, in the fall, the puff balls would be dry, and would crackle when you touched them, opening to scatter the seeds. but now, being green, and filled with air, they burst with a fourth of july noise when squeezed. "oh, now i can have some fun!" laughed the sick boy, as he cracked one puff ball after another. "hurrah! now i'm celebrating fourth of july!" and he was. uncle wiggily had helped him, and the bunny gentleman had brought enough puff balls to last all day. "pop! pop!" that is how they sounded as the boy pinched them in his hammock. some were large, like big fire-crackers, and others were small, like little torpedoes. "oh, what a lovely fourth of july!" sighed the boy, when evening came to put the sun to bed, and the nurse wheeled the boy into the house. and then, when it grew dark, uncle wiggily called together ten thousand firefly-lightning bugs, and they flittered and fluttered about the porch, on which the boy had been taken after supper. the fireflies made pinwheels of themselves, they went up like skyrockets, they leaped about in bunches like the balls from roman candles and finally, when it was time to go to bed, they took hold of each others' legs and, clinging together, spelled out: [illustration: "oh, it's just like real fireworks!"] "oh, it's just like real fireworks!" cried the happy boy. "i'm glad he liked it!" said uncle wiggily, as he hopped home to his hollow stump bungalow. so if the pussy cat doesn't claw the tail off the letter q and make it look like a big, round o, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the little boy's skates. story xiii uncle wiggily and the skates there was once a little boy to whom santa claus brought a pair of skates at christmas. and, of course, that boy, as soon as he saw the shiny, steel runners, wished that the pond would freeze over so that he might try his new playthings. "when do you s'pose there'll be skating?" he asked his mother again and again, for, as yet, there was only a "skim" of ice on the pond. "oh, pretty soon," his mother would answer. "you mustn't go skating when the ice is too thin, you know. if you did you would break through, into the cold water." "and that would spoil my skates, wouldn't it?" asked the boy. "yes, but besides that you might be drowned, or catch cold and be very ill," mother said. "so keep off the ice with your new skates until the pond has frozen good and thick." "yes'm, i will," promised the little boy, and, really, he meant to keep his word. but as the days passed, and the weather was not quite cold enough to freeze thick ice, the little boy became tired of waiting. every chance he had, after school, he would go down to the edge of the pond, and throw stones on the ice to see how thick it was. often the stones would break through, and fall into the cold, black water with a "thump!" then the boy would know the ice was not thick enough. "i don't want to fall through like a stone," he would say, and back to his house he would go with his new skates dangling and jingling at his back, over which they were hung by a strap. but one day, when the boy threw a large stone on the ice of the pond, instead of breaking through, the rock only made a dent and stayed there. "oh, hurray!" cried the boy. "i guess it's strong enough to hold me now! i'm going skating!" however, first he started to walk on the edge of the ice near the shore, and when he did so, and heard cracking sounds, he jumped quickly back. "i guess i'd better not try it yet," said the boy to himself. "i'll wait a little while until it freezes harder." so he sat down by the edge of the pond to wait for the ice to freeze harder. but as he sat there, and saw how white and shiny it was, and as he looked at his new skates, which he had only put on in the house, that boy couldn't wait another minute. he walked along the shore a little farther, to a place where the ice seemed more hard and shiny and there, after throwing some stones, and venturing out a little way, finding that there was no cracking sound, the little boy made up his mind to try to skate. there was no one else on the pond--no other boys and girls, and it was a bit lonesome. but the boy was so eager to try his new skates that he did not think of this. down he sat on the ground, and began putting on his christmas skates. and it was just about this time that nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, uncle wiggily's muskrat lady housekeeper, happened to look out of the window of the hollow stump bungalow. the bunny's bungalow was so hidden in the woods, near the pond, that few boys or girls ever saw the queer little house. but uncle wiggily could see them, as they came to the woods winter and summer, and often he was able to help them. "well, i declare!" exclaimed nurse jane, as she looked out of the window a second time. "what's the matter?" asked uncle wiggily, who was just finishing his breakfast of lettuce bread and carrot coffee, with some turnip marmalade. "why, there's a boy--a real boy and not one of the animal chaps--getting ready to go skating!" said the muskrat lady, for she could see the boy putting on his skates. "that ice isn't thick enough for real boys or girls to skate on," the bunny gentleman said. "it would be all right for sammie littletail, or johnnie or billie bushytail, but real boys are too heavy--much heavier than my nephew sammie the rabbit, or than the bushytail squirrel chaps." "well, this boy is going on all the same," cried nurse jane. "and i know he'll break through, and he'll frighten his mother into a conniption fit!" "that will be too bad!" exclaimed uncle wiggily, as he wiped a little of the turnip marmalade off his whiskers, where it had fallen by mistake. "i must try to save him if he does fall in!" "it would be better to keep him from going on the ice," spoke nurse jane. "safety first, you know!" "if i could speak boy language i'd hop down there and tell him the ice is too thin," answered uncle wiggily. "but though i know what the boys and girls say, i cannot, myself, speak their talk. however, i think i know a way to save this boy, if he happens to break through the ice." "well, he's almost sure to break through," declared miss fuzzy wuzzy, "so you'd better hurry." "no sooner said than done!" exclaimed uncle wiggily, and, catching up his red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch, and putting on his fur cap (for the day was cold), away the bunny hopped from his hollow stump bungalow. instead of going to the place where the boy, with his skates fastened on his shoes, was about to try the ice, the bunny gentleman went to the house of some friends of his. the house would seem queer to you, for all it looked like was a pile of sticks half buried in the frozen pond. but in this house lived a family of beavers--queer animals whose fur is so warm and thick that they can swim in ice water and not feel chilly. in fact the beavers had to dive down under the ice and water to get into their winter home. "are toodle and noodle in the house?" asked uncle wiggily, as he reached the stick-house. on shore, not far from it, was grandpa whackum, the old beaver gentleman, with his broad, flat tail. "why, yes, toodle and noodle are inside," answered grandpa whackum. "shall i call them out?" "if you please," spoke uncle wiggily. "i want them to come and help me save a boy who, i think, is going to break through the thin ice with his new skates." "that will be too bad!" exclaimed grandpa whackum. then with his broad tail he pounded or "whacked" on the ground, and soon up through a hole in the ice came swimming toodle and noodle flat-tail, the two beaver boys. [illustration: "oh, hello, uncle wiggily!"] "oh, hello, uncle wiggily!" they called. "we're glad to see you!" "hello!" answered the bunny gentleman. "will you come with me, and help save a real boy?" "of course," said toodle, shaking off some ice water from his fur coat. "he won't try to catch us, will he?" asked noodle. "i think not," the bunny gentleman replied. "if what i think is going to happen, does really happen, that boy will be too surprised to catch anything but a cold! come along, beaver chaps!" so toodle and noodle, wet and glistening from having dived out of their house, and down under water to come up through the hole in the ice, followed uncle wiggily. the sun and wind soon dried their fur. "there's the boy," said uncle wiggily, as he and the beaver chaps reached the edge of the pond. "he's skating on thin ice. he'll go through in a minute!" and, surely enough, hardly had the bunny spoken than there was a cracking sound, the ice broke beneath the boy's feet and into the dark, cold water he fell. "oh! oh!" cried the boy. "help me, somebody! oh! oh!" "ha! it's a good thing nurse jane saw him!" said uncle wiggily. "quick now, toodle and noodle! i brought you along because you have such good, sharp teeth--much sharper and better than mine are for gnawing down trees. i can gnaw off the bark, but you can nibble all the way through a tree and make it fall." "is that what you want us to do?" asked toodle. "yes," answered uncle wiggily. "we'll go close to shore, where the boy has fallen in. near him is a tree. you'll gnaw that so it will fall outward across the ice, and he can reach up, take hold of it and pull himself out of the hole." by this time the poor boy was floundering around in the cold water. he tried to get hold of the edges of the ice around the hole through which he had fallen, but the ice broke in his hands. "help! help!" he cried. "we're going to help you," answered uncle wiggily, but, of course, he spoke animal language which the boy did not understand. but toodle and noodle understood, and quickly running to the edge of the shore they gnawed and gnawed and gnawed very extra fast at an overhanging tree until it began to bend and break. uncle wiggily gnawed a little, also, to help the beaver boys. then, just as the real boy was almost ready to sink down under water, the tree fell on the ice, some of its branches close enough so the boy skater could grasp them. "oh, now i can pull myself out!" he said. "this tree fell just in time! now i'll be saved!" he did not know that uncle wiggily and the beaver boys had gnawed the tree down, making it fall just in the right place at the right time. for the boy was so frightened at having broken through the ice, that he never noticed the bunny gentleman and the beaver boys on shore. he caught hold of the tree branches in his cold fingers, pulled himself up out of the water, that boy did; and to shore. then as he sat down, all wet and shivering, to take off his skates, so he could run home, uncle wiggily called to toodle and noodle: "come on, beaver boys! our work is done! we have saved that boy, and i hope he never again tries to skate on thin ice." then uncle wiggily hopped toward his hollow stump bungalow, and the beaver boys slid on the ice, near shore, toward their own stick-house, for the pond was frozen hard and thick enough to hold them. and the boy ran home as fast as he could, and drank hot lemonade so he wouldn't catch cold. he did get the snuffles, but of course that couldn't be helped, and it wasn't much for falling through the ice; was it? "you never should have gone skating until the pond was better frozen," his mother said. "i know it," the boy answered. "but wasn't it lucky that tree fell when it did?" "very lucky!" agreed his mother. and neither the boy nor his mother knew that it was nurse jane, uncle wiggily and the beaver boys who had caused the tree to topple over just in time. but that's the way it sometimes is in this world. and if the cow doesn't tickle the man in the moon with her horns, when she jumps over the green cheese, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily going coasting. story xiv uncle wiggily goes coasting "oh, it's stopped snowing! it's stopped snowing! now we can go coasting; can't we, mother?" "and on our new christmas sleds! oh, what fun!" a boy and a girl ran from the window, against which they had been pressing their noses, looking out to see when the white flakes would stop falling from the sky. now the storm seemed to be over, leaving the ground covered with the sparkling snow crystals. "yes, you may go coasting a little while," said mother. "but don't stay too late. when daddy comes to supper you must be home." "we will!" promised the boy and girl, and, laughing in glee, they ran to get on their boots, their mittens and warm coats. "i want to go coasting! take me to slide down hill!" cried bumps, the little sister of the boy and girl. "i want a sleigh ride." "oh, bumps, you're too little!" objected sister. "and she'll fall down and bang herself," added brother. in fact the "littlest girl" did fall down so often that she was called "bumps" as a pet name. "i won't fall down!" bumps promised. "i'll be good! please take me coasting?" "i think you might take her," said mother. "yes, we will," spoke sister. "come on, bumps!" "well, if she falls off the sled when it's going down hill, and she gets bumped, it won't be my fault!" declared brother. "i--i'll be good--i won't fall!" promised bumps. so mother bundled her up, and out she went to the coasting hill with brother and sister, each of whom had a sled. "i'm not going to give her rides on my sled all the while!" said brother, half grumbling. "we'll take turns," more kindly suggested sister. "take hold of my hand, bumps, and don't fall any more times than you can help, dear!" "no; i won't," answered bumps. the littlest girl was smiling and happy because she was going coasting with sister and brother. and she made up her mind she would try very, very hard not to fall. on the other side of the forest, near which was the coasting hill of the children, lived uncle wiggily in his hollow stump bungalow. from afar he had often watched the boys and girls sliding down on their sleds, but the bunny gentleman had never gone very close. "for," he said to himself, "they might, by accident, run over me. and, though i haven't much of a tail to be cut off, i would look queer if anything should happen to my long ears. i'll keep away from the coasting hill of the boys and girls." but not far from the bunny's bungalow was another and smaller hill, down which the animal boys and girls coasted. of course, very few of them had such sleds as you children have, with shiny steel runners, and with the tops painted red, blue, green and gold. in fact, some of the animal boys didn't bother with a sled at all. take toodle and noodle flat-tail, the beaver chaps, for instance. they just slid down hill on their broad, flat tails. and as for johnnie and billie bushytail, the squirrels, they sat on their fuzzy tails and scooted down the hill of snow. others of the animal children sometimes used pieces of wood, an old board or some sticks bound together with strands from a wild grape vine. and about the time that sister, brother and bumps went coasting, sammie and susie littletail, the rabbits, passed the hollow stump bungalow of uncle wiggily longears. the little bunnies were each pulling a sled made from pieces of birch bark they had gnawed from trees. "let's ask uncle wiggily to go coasting with us," spoke susie. "oh, yes! let's!" echoed sammie. "it'll be lots of fun!" and uncle wiggily was very glad to go coasting. out of his bungalow he hopped, his pink nose twinkling twice as fast as the shiny star on top of the christmas tree. "dear me, wiggy!" cried nurse jane. "you don't mean to say you're going coasting with your rheumatism!" "no, i'm going coasting with sammie and susie," the laughing bunny answered. "i haven't any rheumatism to go coasting with to-day, i'm glad to tell you." and, surely enough, he didn't need to take his red, white and blue striped crutch. when sammie, susie and uncle wiggily reached the coasting hill, they found there many of the animal children. "oh, uncle wiggily! ride on my sled!" invited one after another. "ride on mine! coast with me!" "i'll take turns with each one!" promised the bunny gentleman, and so he did, riding with sammie and susie first, then with the bushytail squirrel brothers, next with lulu, alice and jimmie wibblewobble, the ducks, and so on down to dottie and willie flufftail, the lamb children. oh, such fun as uncle wiggily had on the animal children's coasting hill. and on the other side of the forest, sister, brother and bumps had their fun, with the real boys and girls. at last it began to grow dusk, and when uncle wiggily was thinking of telling the animal children it was time for them to leave for home, up came rushing jackie and peetie bow wow, the puppy dog boys. "oh, uncle wiggily!" barked jackie. "we were just over to the big hill, where the real boys coast, and we saw----" "we saw a little baby girl--that is, almost a baby--in a pile of snow!" finished peetie, for his brother jackie was out of breath and couldn't bark any more. "what's that?" cried uncle wiggily. "a real, live little girl in the snow?" "right in a snow drift!" barked jackie. "all alone!" "why," said the bunny gentleman, as he thought it over, "she must have been coasting with her brother or sister, and maybe she fell off a sled and went down deep in the snow. and they played so hard they never missed her! but she mustn't be allowed to stay asleep in the snow. she'll freeze!" "if she's only a little one--almost a baby--couldn't we put her on one of our sleds?" asked sammie. "and ride her home," went on susie. "if we all pull together we'd be strong enough to pull a real, live girl, if she wasn't too large," quacked jimmie wibblewobble, the duck. "we'll try!" said uncle wiggily. "all of you take the grape-vine ropes from your sleds and follow me." quickly the animal children did this, taking with them only the large double sled of neddie stubtail, the boy bear, which was the largest sled of all. it was low and flat, and uncle wiggily thought it would be easy to roll a little girl up on it and pull her along. soon uncle wiggily and the animal children reached the hill where the real boys and girls had coasted. none of them was there now, all having gone home to their suppers. "here she is!" softly barked jackie, leading the way to a snowbank, at the foot of the hill. and there, sound asleep in the soft, warm snow was--bumps! yes, as true as i'm telling you--bumps! the little girl had been sliding down with her sister, and had rolled off the sled at the bottom of the hill after about the forty-'leventh coast. and bumps was so tired, and sleepy, from having been outdoors so long, that, as soon as she rolled from the sled into the snow, she fell asleep! think of that! and as sister wanted to have a race with brother and some of the other children, she never noticed what happened to bumps. but there she was--in the snow asleep. poor little bumps! "it will never do to leave her here!" whispered uncle wiggily to the animal boys and girls. "don't awaken her, but roll her over on neddie's sled, and we'll pull her to her home. i know where she lives. we'll leave her in front of the door, i'll throw a snowball to make a sound like a knock, and then we can run away. her father and mother will come out and take her in." so all working together, pushing, pulling, tugging and rolling most gently, the bunny gentleman and the animal boys and girls slid bumps upon the low sled of the bear boy. then they fastened the grape-vine ropes to it, and, all taking hold, off they started over the snow toward the village. it was almost dark, so no one saw the strange procession of uncle wiggily and his friends; and the bunny gentleman was glad of this. right up to the home of bumps they pulled her, and just as they got the sled in her yard bumps opened her eyes. "oh! oh! oh!" she cried when she saw all the animal children, and uncle wiggily, too, standing around her. "i'm in fairyland! oh, how i love it!" "quick, sammie--susie--jackie--peetie--scoot away!" called uncle wiggily in animal talk, and the rabbits, squirrels, guinea pigs, ducks, bears, beavers and others, all hopped away through the soft snow, out of sight. uncle wiggily tossed a snowball at the door, making a sound like a knock, and then the bunny gentleman also hopped away, laughing to himself. he turned back in time to see the door open and sister, brother, daddy and mother rush out. "oh, here's bumps, now!" cried brother. "we must have forgotten and left her at the hill." "oh, that's what we did!" exclaimed sister. "yes, but how did she get home?" asked mother. "she never walked, i'm sure!" "and look at the queer wooden sled!" said sister. "who brought you home, bumps?" asked daddy. "a--a nice bunny man, and some little bunnies, and squirrels, and a little bear boy and some ducks and chickens and little lambs and--and----" but bumps was out of breath now. "oh, she's been asleep and _dreamed_ this!" laughed brother. "some man must have found her and put her on this board for a sled, to bring her home." "nope!" declared bumps, "it was a bunny! it was a funny bunny!" "bring her in the house!" laughed mother. "she must have been dreaming!" but we know it wasn't a dream; don't we? and if the strawberry shortcake doesn't go swimming with the gold fish in the lemonade and catch cold, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the picnic. story xv uncle wiggily's picnic "come on, uncle wiggily! wake up! wake up!" called nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy in the hollow stump bungalow one morning. "come on!" "what's that? what's the matter? is the chimney on fire again?" asked the bunny gentleman, and he was so excited that he slid down the banister, instead of hopping along from step to step as he should have done. "of course the chimney isn't on fire!" laughed miss fuzzy wuzzy. "but this is the day for the picnic of the animal children, and you promised to go with them to the woods." "oh, so i did!" exclaimed uncle wiggily, and he put one paw on his pink nose to stop the twinkling, which started as soon as he grew excited over thinking the chimney was on fire. "well, i'm glad you called me, nurse jane. i'll get ready for the picnic at once. what are you going to put up for lunch?" "oh, some carrot bread, turnip cookies, lettuce sandwiches and nut cake," answered the muskrat lady. "that sounds fine!" laughed uncle wiggily. "i'm very glad i'm going to the picnic!" "well, you had better hurry and get ready," remarked miss fuzzy wuzzy. "here come jackie and peetie bow wow to see if you aren't soon going to start." uncle wiggily looked from the window of his hollow stump bungalow, and saw the two little puppy dog boys coming along. jackie was so excited that he stubbed his paw and fell down twice, while peetie was so anxious to show uncle wiggily what was in the package of lunch the puppies were going to take to the woods, that peetie fell down three times, and turned a back somersault. "uncle wiggily! uncle wiggily! aren't you coming?" barked jackie. "hurry or it may rain and spoil the picnic," added peetie. "oh, i hope not!" answered the bunny gentleman. "for if there is one thing, more than another, that spoils a picnic, it is rain! snow isn't so bad, for we don't have picnics when it snows." "maybe it won't rain," hopefully spoke nurse jane, who was busy putting up lunch for uncle wiggily. "there isn't a cloud in the sky!" and, surely enough, when uncle wiggily, nurse jane and dozens of animal children started off to the woods for their picnic, the sun shone bravely down from the blue sky and a more lovely day could not have been wished for. the forest where the bunny gentleman, nurse jane and the animal children went for their picnic was a large one, with many trees and bushes. there were dozens of places for the squirrels, rabbits, goats, ducks, dogs, pussy cats and others to play; and when they reached the grove they put their lunches under bushes, on the soft cool, green moss and began to have fun. "oh, uncle wiggily! please turn skipping rope for us?" begged brighteyes, the little guinea pig girl. "and please come play ball with us!" grunted curly and floppy twistytail, the piggie boys. "have a game of marbles with us," teased billie wagtail, the goat, and jacko kinkytail, the monkey chap. "i'll play with you all in turn," laughed the bunny gentleman. he was in the midst of having fun, and was just gnawing off a piece of wild grape vine to make a swing for lulu and alice wibblewobble, the ducks, when up came hopping bully no-tail, the frog boy. bully was quite excited. "what's the matter, bully?" asked uncle wiggily. "oh, gur-ump!" croaked bully. "there is a big crowd of boys and girls over on the other side of the pond. they're having a picnic, too! ger-ump! ger-ump!" "real boys and girls!" added bawly, who was bully's brother. "hump-bump!" "well, that will do no harm!" laughed uncle wiggily. "let the real boys and girls have their picnic. they will not see us, for very few boys and girls know how to use their eyes when they go to the woods. i have often hidden beside a bush close to where a boy passed, and he never saw me. let the boys and girls have their picnic, and we'll have ours!" so that's the way it was. uncle wiggily and the animal children played tag, and they slid down hill. perhaps you think they could not do this in summer when there was no snow. but the hills in the forest were covered with long, smooth, brown pine needles, and these layers of needles were so slippery that it was easy to slide on them. and then, all of a sudden, just about when it was time to eat lunch, it began to rain! oh, how hard the drops pelted down! rain! rain! rain! "scurry for shelter--all of you!" cried nurse jane. "get out of the rain!" the animal boys and girls knew how to take care of themselves in a rain storm, even if they had no umbrellas. most of them had on fur or feathers which water does not harm. and they snuggled down under trees and bushes, finding shelter and dry spots so that, no matter how hard it poured, they did not get very wet. they hid their lunches under rocks and overhanging trees so nothing was spoiled. and when the rain was over and the sun came out, as it did, the animal picnic went on as before, and when the food was set out on flat stumps for tables, there was enough for everyone, and plenty left over. nurse jane was looking at what remained of the good things to eat when jackie bow wow, who, with peetie, had been splashing in a mud puddle, came running up wagging his tail. "oh, uncle wiggily!" barked jackie. "what you think? those real children, on the other side of the wood, they had their things to eat out on some stumps for tables, just as we had, and when the rain came, oh! it spoiled everything!" "they didn't know how to keep their lunches dry," added peetie. "now they haven't anything to eat for their picnic, and they are starting home, and some of the little girls are crying." "that's too bad!" murmured uncle wiggily, kindly. "too bad that the rain had to spoil their picnic! now we have plenty of things left that children could eat--nuts, apples, some popcorn and pears," for the animal folk had brought all these, and many more, to the woods with them. "we have lots left over." "we could give them something to eat," spoke nurse jane, "but how are we going to get it to them? we can't call them here; and it would never do to let them see us carrying the things to them." "no," agreed uncle wiggily. "but i think i have a plan. we can make some baskets of birch bark. some of the animal children--such as jacko and jumpo kinkytail, the monkeys, joie and tommie kat, johnnie and billie bushytail, the squirrels--are good tree climbers. let them climb trees near where the real children are having their picnic, and lower to them, on grape-vine ropes, the food we have left." "oh, yes!" mewed tommie, the kitten boy. "what jolly fun!" quickly nurse jane began to gather up the food. uncle wiggily put it in birch bark baskets the animal children made and then, with the baskets, fastened to vines, in their paws or claws, the animal boys went through the wood to the place of the other picnic. uncle wiggily and the remaining animal children followed. there the poor, disappointed real children were, looking at their rain-soaked and spoiled lunches. some of the little girls were crying. "we might as well go home," grumbled a boy. "our picnic is no good!" "mean old rain!" sighed a girl. but just then the animal chaps with lunch from uncle wiggily's picnic--lunch which had not been rained on--climbed up into trees over the heads of the boys and girls. not a sound did the animal chaps make. and when the real boys and girls had their backs turned, there were lowered to the stump tables enough good things for a jolly feast--apples, pears, popcorn, nuts and many other dainties. [illustration: the animal boys scurried off] a little girl happened to turn around and see the birch bark baskets of good things just as the animal boys scurried off through the trees. "oh, look!" cried the girl. "the fairies have been here! they have left us some lunch in place of ours that the rain spoiled. oh, see the fairy lunch!" and i suppose that is as good a name for it as any, since the boys and girls didn't see uncle wiggily's friends lower the baskets from the trees. and the real boys and girls ate the lunch and had a most jolly time, and so did the bunny gentleman and his picnic crowd. now if the rubber plant doesn't stretch over and tickle the teapot so that it pours coffee instead of milk into the sugar bowl, you may next hear about uncle wiggily in the rain storm. story xvi uncle wiggily's rain storm down pelted the rain in animal land. it also poured in boy and girl land, which was on the other side of the forest from where uncle wiggily longears lived in his hollow stump bungalow. the bunny rabbit gentleman looked out of a window, and saw the drops fall drip, drip, dripping from trees and bushes, making little puddles amid the leaves where birds could come, later, and take a bath. "you aren't thinking of going out in this storm; are you?" asked nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, the muskrat lady bungalow-keeper, as she saw mr. longears putting on his coat. "why, i was, yes," slowly answered the bunny gentleman. "i am neither sugar nor salt, that i will melt in the rain. and, as it isn't freezing, i think i'll take a hop through the woods, and see grandfather goosey gander." "well, as long as you are going out, i wish you'd go to the store for me," requested miss fuzzy wuzzy. "what do you want?" asked the bunny gentleman. "oh, bring a muskmelon for dinner," said nurse jane. "a watermelon would be much easier to carry through the rain," uncle wiggily answered. "i think i'll bring a watermelon. if it gets wet no harm is done." "all right," agreed nurse jane, laughing, so away hopped the bunny rabbit uncle, over the fields and through the woods. it seemed to rain harder and harder, but uncle wiggily did not mind. he had an umbrella, though he did not always carry one. it was made from a toadstool, and it kept off most of the rain. though, as mr. longears said, he was neither a lollypop nor an ice-cream cone that would melt in a shower. but not everyone was as happy as uncle wiggily in this storm. on the other side of the forest, as i told you, was boy and girl land, and in one of the houses lived a brother and a sister. they, too, stood at the window, pressing their noses against the glass as the rain beat down, and they were not happy. "rain, rain, go away! come again some other day! brother and i want to go and play!" that is the verse the little girl recited over and over again as she watched the rain pelting down. but the storm did not stop for all that she said the verse backward and frontward. "will it ever stop?" crossly cried the boy. "why doesn't it stop?" and he drummed on the window sill, banged his feet on the floor and whistled. and his sister loudly recited over and over again: "rain, rain, go away!" "children! children!" gently called mother from where she was lying down in the next room. "can't you please be a little quiet? my head aches and i am trying to rest. the noise makes my pain worse." "we're sorry, mother," said the girl. "but being quiet isn't any fun!" grumbled the boy. "why can't we go out and play?" "because you would get all wet," answered his mother. "i've told you that two or three times, dear. now please be quiet. it will stop raining sometime, and then you may go out." "what can we play with?" asked the boy, not very politely i'm sorry to say. "why, some of your toys," replied his mother. "surely you have enough." "i'm tired of 'em!" grunted the boy. "so'm i," echoed his sister. then she began once more to say the verse about the rain, as if that would do any good, and the boy rubbed his nose up and down the window, making queer marks. uncle wiggily, on his way to see grandpa goosey gander, and get a watermelon for nurse jane, took a short cut through a field, and passed the house where the children were kept in on account of the rain. and, as it happened, the window near which the boy and girl stood was open a little way at the top. so, as the bunny gentleman hopped past, he not only saw the children, but he heard what they said, being able, as i have before related to you, to understand real talk. but the children were looking up at the sky so intently, trying to see if it would stop raining, that they never noticed uncle wiggily. though if they had seen him, all dressed as he was like a gentleman from the moving pictures, they would have been very much surprised. "too bad those children have to stay in on account of the rain," thought uncle wiggily. "i wonder if i couldn't find some way of amusing them? if they are tired of their own playthings i might toss in, through the open window, some of the things the animal boys and girls play with. i'll do it!" off through the woods in the rain hopped uncle wiggily. he found a number of smooth, brown acorns, some of which had the cups, or caps still on. he filled one pocket with the acorns. next the bunny picked up some cones from the pine tree. there were large and small cones, and nurse jane always used one as a nutmeg grater, it was so rough, while uncle wiggily kept one near his bed to scratch his back at night. "let me see, what else would the animal children take?" said the bunny to himself. "i think they would take some green moss, and the girls would make beds with it for their dolls. the animal boys would take hollow reeds and blow little pebbles through them as real boys blow beans in their tin shooters. i'll take some moss and reeds." this the bunny uncle did, also picking up some empty snail and periwinkle shells he found on the bank of a brook. "the little girl can string these shells for beads," thought the bunny. "and i'll strip off some pieces of white birch bark so the boy can make a little canoe, as the indians used to do." having gathered all these things--playthings which the animal children found in the woods every day--the bunny hopped back to the house of the boy and girl. the window was open, but the boy and girl had left it. the girl was giving her mother a drink of water, and the boy was bringing up some coal for the fire. "this is my chance!" thought uncle wiggily. standing outside, he tossed in through the open window the acorns, the pine cones, the shells, the moss and other things. then he hopped quickly away and hid behind a bush. he could hear the children come back into the room, and soon he heard the girl cry: "oh, look what the wind blew in! some acorns! i can make little cups of them, and use the tops for saucers! and i'll set a play-party table for my doll, and decorate it with green moss. oh, how perfectly lovely!" "i'm going to make a boat out of this birch bark!" cried the boy. "and look! a hollow reed, like a bean blower! now i can have some fun!" "look at the lovely shells i can string and make a necklace of!" went on the girl. "and i can make wooden legs, and a wooden head and stick em on these pine cones and make believe they're noah's ark animals!" laughed the boy. "hurray!" he cried most happily. "what is going on out there?" called mother from where she was lying down. "have you found something to play with?" "yes'm," answered the boy. "we'll be quiet now." "and we don't care if it does rain," said the girl. "the wind blew a lot of lovely things in the window!" but of course we know that uncle wiggily tossed them in. "i guess they'll be all right now, no matter how much it rains," said the bunny, as he hopped along to see grandpa goosey, and buy the snowmelon--excuse me, i mean the watermelon--for nurse jane. so this teaches us that sometimes a rain storm is good for letting you find out new ways of having fun. and if the looking-glass doesn't make funny faces at the rag doll, when she's trying to see if her hair ribbon is on backward, on the next page you may read about uncle wiggily and the mumps. +note+ uncle wiggily specially requests that the following story will not be read to children who have the mumps. please wait until they are better. story xvii uncle wiggily and the mumps uncle wiggily longears, the bunny rabbit gentleman, was hopping through the woods one day, and he was thinking of making his way over to the other side of the forest, where the real boys and girls lived, hoping he might have an adventure, when, all at once, mr. longears heard some voices talking behind a mulberry bush. "i know what we can do," said the voice of a boy, as uncle wiggily could tell, for he had learned to know the talk of boys and girls. "what can we do?" asked the voice of another boy. "we can pick up a lot of stones," went on the first boy, "and we can make believe we're hunters, and we can walk through the woods and throw stones at the birds, and squirrels, and rabbits! come on! let's do it!" "oh, no! i don't want to do _that_," said the second boy. "it isn't any fun to throw stones at birds and bunnies. if you hit a mother bird, and break her wing, she can't take anything to eat to the little birds, and they'll starve." "pooh! that's nothing!" exclaimed the first boy, and uncle wiggily peeked over the top of the bush to see what manner of boys these were. but the bunny rabbit gentleman kept himself well hidden. "i don't want any stones thrown at me," he thought. "and," went on the second boy, who seemed rather kind, "if you throw a stone at a rabbit you might break its leg, and then it couldn't hop home to the baby rabbits." "that is very true!" thought uncle wiggily, who was listening to all that went on. "i wish there were more boys like this kind one." "well, i don't care!" grumbled the first boy. "i'm going off and throw stones at birds and rabbits and squirrels!" "and i'm going home," said the second boy. "i don't feel very good. i have a pain in my cheek and maybe i'm going to have the toothache." "goodness me, sakes alive! i hope nothing like _that_ happens to such a kind boy," thought uncle wiggily. "and as for that other chap, i'll run ahead of him, through the woods, and tell my friends to hide so he can't throw stones at them." so, while one boy went home and the other picked up some stones, uncle wiggily skipped along through the woods, calling, in his animal talk, to his friends to hide themselves. "for a boy is coming to stone you!" exclaimed the bunny rabbit gentleman. "hide! hide away from the stone-throwing boy!" and so it happened that when the unkind chap came tramping through the woods, the only bird he saw to stone was an old black crow, as black as black could be. "i'll hit you!" cried the boy, as he threw a stone. but the crow was a wise old bird, and wastn't even afraid of the scary, stuffed men that farmers put in their cornfields. so the crow dodged the stone and then he laughed at the boy. "haw! haw! haw!" laughed the old black crow. "haw! haw! haw!" the boy grew very cross at this, and threw more stones, and some fell among the flower bushes where some bees were gathering the sweet juices of flowers to make into honey. one stone knocked a bee off a blossom, and spilled the honey it was gathering. "just for that i'm going to sting that boy!" buzzed the bee. out it flittered, making such a zipping sound around that boy's head as to cause the bad chap to drop his stones and run away. so the bee did not have to sting him after all. "boys are no good!" buzzed the bee to uncle wiggily, as the honey chap flew back to the flowers. "oh, _some_ boys are good," said the bunny gentleman. "the boy who was with this bad chap was good, and kind to animals. and that reminds me; this boy said he didn't feel very well. i must hop over to-morrow, and take a look at his house. i know where he lives. i hope he isn't going to have the toothache." but the kind boy, as i call him just for fun, you know, had something worse than the toothache. his neck and jaws began to swell in the night, and he could hardly swallow a drink of water which his mother gave him when she heard him tossing in bed. "what you s'pose is the matter of me, mother?" asked the boy. "well," said mother, as she smoothed his pillow, "perhaps you caught cold in the woods to-day." but it was worse than that. when the doctor came in the morning, and looked at the boy, and gently felt of his neck (even which gentle touch made the boy want to cry) the doctor said: "hum! mumps!" "did you say 'bumps,' doctor?" asked the boy's mother. "did he fall down and bump himself?" "no, i said _mumps_!" exclaimed the doctor. "that's a swelling inside his neck, and it will hurt him a lot. but if you keep him in bed, and warm, and give him easy things to eat, he'll soon be all right again." "poor boy!" murmured mother. "well, i suppose _mumps_ are better than _bumps_!" "i'm not so sure about that," spoke the doctor as he walked to the door with the boy's mother. "whatever you do," he said in a whisper, "don't give him anything _sour_--such as lemons or pickles. sour things make the mumps pain more than ever. don't even _speak_ of vinegar in front of him, or so much as _whisper_ it!" "i won't," promised mother. but the boy's little sister overheard what doctor and mother were saying, and, being a mischievous sort of girl, she decided to have some fun. at least _she_ called it fun. "i'm going to stand in front of brother and hold up a pickle so he can see it," said sister to herself. "i want to see what he'll do!" so sister hurried down to the kitchen and brought up a pickle. then she went in the room where brother was in bed and, holding the sour pickle in front of him, called: "look!" and, no sooner did the boy look than he felt a sharp pain in his throat, almost as bad as toothache, and he cried: "go on away! stop showing me that--that----" well, he couldn't even say the word "pickle," for just the thought of anything sour hurts your mumps, you know. the boy hid his face in his pillow, and when he couldn't see the pickle he felt a little better. but his sister was still full of mischief. "lemons! lemons! nice sour lemons!" she called teasingly. "stop it! stop it!" begged the boy. "oh, how my mumps hurt! mother, make sister stop hurting my mumps!" and when mother came, and found what sister was doing, she made the little girl go to bed, even though it was daytime. "you will, very likely, get the mumps yourself," said mother. "and i hope no one says anything sour to _you_." and, later on, sister did get the mumps, but i'm glad to say her brother did not hold a lemon up in front of her. for, as i told you, even the _thought_ of anything sour hurts the mumps. now you know the reason why i didn't want you to read this story when you had the swelling in your neck. it was better to wait until your mumps were gone; wasn't it? so this boy had the mumps, and he had them on both sides at once, which is the very worst form. he could hardly swallow anything because of the pain, even things that were not sour. now and then he managed to sip a little hot chocolate. his mother put a warm flannel bandage around his face, which was much swelled, and, thus wrapped up, the little boy could, now and then, get out of bed. it was on one of these times, when his jaws were wrapped up, and his face swollen, that uncle wiggily happened to hop along through the woods, not far from the mump boy's house. and, having very good eyes, mr. longears saw the sick lad. "poor fellow!" thought the bunny gentleman. "he is ill, just as he thought he was going to be! toothache it is, too!" "who has the toothache!" asked dr. possum, for the animal doctor came along just then, with his bag of medicine held fast in the curl of his tail. "that boy," answered uncle wiggily, pointing from the bush, where he and dr. possum were hiding, to the window of the boy's home. "he hasn't the toothache! those are the mumps!" said dr. possum, who knew all about such things. "mumps!" exclaimed uncle wiggily. "oh, that's too bad. why, if that boy is mumpy he must have trouble eating. i wonder if i could leave on his doorstep something he would like--something that he wouldn't have to chew and which would slip down easily?" "whatever you leave for him, don't have it _sour_," advised dr. possum, as he hurried along to see curly twistytail, the piggie boy, who had cut his nose on a piece of glass while digging for wild sunflower roots in the woods. "ha! nothing sour for the mump boy!" said uncle wiggily to himself, as dr. possum hopped away. "then something sweet will be just the proper thing. sweet honey! i have it! i'll ask my friends, the bees, for some of their honey. i'll get nurse jane to make a little pail of birch bark, and i'll leave the wild honey on the boy's stoop." off hopped the bunny gentleman, until he found where the bees had their home in a hollow tree. "could you give me some honey for a good boy with bad mumps?" asked the rabbit. "some honey for a good boy with the bad mumps?" said the queen bee. "certainly, uncle wiggily! as much as you like!" nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, the bunny's muskrat lady housekeeper, made a little box of white bark from the birch tree, and when this pretty box was filled with wild, sweet honey, uncle wiggily took it with him one evening. it was time for the mump boy to go to bed, but the pain in his neck was so bad that he cried. "i'm hungry, too," he said. "oh, why can't i eat something that won't hurt my mumps?" "i'll try to think of something for you," said mother wearily. just then uncle wiggily hopped to the edge of the forest, close to the mump boy's house, and running up, he put the birch box of wild honey on the stoop. then the bunny threw some little stones at the door and hopped away, hiding in the bushes. "wait until i see who's at the door," said mother, as she smoothed the boy's pillow. "then i'll get you something." she looked out on the porch, and saw the little birch bark box. "it looks like a valentine," she thought, "though this isn't valentine's day." "what is it?" asked the boy. "is it anything i can eat that won't hurt my mumps?" "why, yes, it is!" joyfully said his mother, as she saw what it was. "sweet, wild honey!" even the name, so different from sour pickles or lemons, made the mumps boy feel better. "please give me some," he begged. "it sounds good!" [illustration: uncle wiggily saw him at the window] the wild sweet honey slipped down as gently as a feather, not hurting the boy's neck at all. and soon after that he went to sleep and in a few days he was better. uncle wiggily saw the boy at the window, the bandage no longer on his face, and he even saw the boy eating the last of the wild honey. "i guess he liked it," thought the bunny, as he hopped away. when the boy was all better, and could be out and play, he asked all of his friends which one it was who had left the honey on the porch. one and all answered: "i didn't do it!" "i wonder who it was?" said the boy, over and over again. well, we know; don't we? but we aren't allowed to tell. and when the boy's sister caught the mumps, uncle wiggily left her some honey also. which was very kind of him, i think. so if the little pussy cat doesn't drop her penny in the snowbank, thinking it will turn into a dollar so she can buy a box of lollypops, you may next hear about uncle wiggily and the measles. story xviii uncle wiggily and the measles once upon a time there was a boy who didn't like to go to school. every chance he had he stayed at home instead of going to his classes to learn his lessons. sometimes he would get up in the morning and say: "mother, i think i'm going to have the toothache. i guess i better not go to school to-day." but his mother would laugh and say: "oh, run along! if you get the toothache in school the teacher will let you come home." then the boy would go to school, though he didn't want to, and he would be thinking up some new excuse for staying home, so really he did not recite his lessons as well as he might. one day this boy came running in the house, all excited, and called out: "oh, mother! i just know i can't go to school to-morrow!" "why not?" asked mother. "'cause i've been playing with the boy across the street, an' he's got the measles, an' i'll catch 'em an' i can't go to school. you ought t' see! he's all covered with red spots!" the boy who didn't like school was much excited. "he's all red spots!" he exclaimed. "is he?" asked mother. "well, the measles aren't painful, though they are 'catching,' as you children say. however, you can't catch them quite as soon as one day. so you may go to school until you break out with red spots. then it will be time enough to stay at home." "can't i stay home to-morrow?" begged the boy. "oh, of course not!" laughed mother. "i want you to go to school and become a smart man! time enough to stay home when you get the measles!" now, of course, this did not suit that boy at all. when he went to bed he was thinking and thinking of some plan by which he could stay home from school. for there was to be a hard lesson next day, and, though i am sorry to say it, that boy was too lazy to study as he ought. "if i could only break out with the measles i could stay home," he kept saying over and over again as he lay in bed. every now and then he would get up, turn on the electric light in his room and look at himself in the glass to see if any red spots were coming. but he could see none. "what's the matter, boysie?" his mother called to him from her room. "why are you so restless?" "maybe i'm getting the measles," he hopefully answered. "nonsense! go to sleep!" laughed daddy. finally the boy did go to sleep, but either he dreamed it, or the idea came to him in the night, for, early in the morning, he awakened and, slipping on his bath robe, went into his sister's room. "hey, sis!" he whispered. "where's your box of paints?" "what you want 'em for?" asked sister. "oh, i--i'm going to paint something," mumbled the boy. sister was too sleepy--for it was only early morning as yet--to wonder much about it, so she told her brother where to find the paints, and then she turned over and went to sleep again. now what do you suppose that boy did? why, he went back to his room, and with his sister's brush and color box he painted red spots on his face, just as he had seen them on the face of the real measles boy across the street. then this boy put the paints away and waited. after a while mother called: "come, boysie! time to get up and go to school!" "i--i don't guess i'd better go to school this morning," said the boy, trying to make his voice sound weak and ill and faint-like. "not go to school! why not?" cried mother in surprise. "i--i'm all red spots," the boy answered. and when his mother went in his room, and saw that he really was spotted, she exclaimed: "why, you _have_ the measles! i didn't think they'd break out so _soon_! well, you must stay in the dark on account of your eyes. i'll bring you in some breakfast, and of course you can't go to school!" then that boy had to put the bedquilt over his mouth so he wouldn't laugh. if his room had been light his mother, of course, would have seen that the spots were only red paint. but in the dimness of early morning she didn't see. "isn't brother going to school?" asked sister as she ate her breakfast. "he has the measles," said mother. "i expect you'll come down with them next, and break out in a day or so. but wait until you do." and if sister thought anything about her red paint she said nothing. i don't believe she ever imagined her brother would play such a trick. at first, after his sister had gone to school, and he had been given his breakfast in bed, the boy thought it was going to be lots of fun to pretend to have the measles and stay home from school. but after a while this began to grow tiresome. it was a beautiful, warm sunshiny day outside, and staying in a dark room wasn't as much fun as that boy had thought. he could hear the bees humming outside his open window, and the birds were singing. his mother opened the door and spoke to him. "i'm just going across the street a few minutes," she said. "you'll be all right, won't you?" "yes'm," answered the boy. "my measles don't hurt hardly any." and of course they couldn't, being only painted measles, you know. when mother went away, softly closing the door after her, the sound of the buzzing bees and the singing birds came to the boy through his window. he knew it must be lovely outside, and yet he had to stay in bed. "but i can get up and run out for a little while," he said to himself. "mother will never know!" no sooner thought of than done! the boy quickly put on some clothes--not many, for it was summer--and out into the yard he went, his face all red paint spots. he didn't dare wash them off or his mother would have noticed. now it happened that uncle wiggily, the bunny rabbit gentleman, was out that day, taking a walk with grandfather goosey gander. the two friends passed through the woods, close to the edge of the yard of the house where the make-believe measles boy lived. and the boy saw the bunny gentleman, all dressed up as uncle wiggily was. grandpa goosey, also, had on his coat and trousers. uncle wiggily wore his golf suit that day--black and white checkered trousers and a cap. [illustration: "hop faster!" quacked grandpa] "oh, what a funny rabbit! what a funny goose!" cried the boy. "i'm going to catch 'em and have a play circus in my yard!" forgetting that he was supposed to be suffering from measles, this boy chased after uncle wiggily and grandpa goosey. "we'd better run," quacked the goose gentleman. "boy, you know! chase us! throw stones, you know. better run; what?" "i believe you!" answered uncle wiggily. "run it is!" off hopped the bunny! off waddled the goose! but the boy was a fast runner, in spite of the red spots on his face and he came nearer and nearer to uncle wiggily. "i'm afraid he's going to catch me, grandpa!" spoke mr. longears in animal talk, of course, which the boy could not hear, much less understand. "hop faster!" quacked grandpa, who was half running and half flying. on came the boy! grandpa goosey, who was ahead, looked back and saw that uncle wiggily was soon going to be caught. "there is only one way to save the bunny," thought grandpa goosey. "i'll splash some water in that boy's face and eyes so he can't see for a moment. then uncle wiggily and i can get away!" near the path along which the boy was chasing the bunny and goose was a puddle of water. as quick as a wink grandpa goosey splashed into this, and, with his wings and webbed feet, he sent such a shower of water into the face of the boy that the bad chap had to stop. "oh! ouch! stop splashing me!" cried the boy. his face was all wet, but he wiped it off on his sleeve, and with his handkerchief. and when he had cleared his eyes of water he started to run again. but by this time uncle wiggily and grandpa goosey were far off, hidden in the forest, and the boy could not find them. "i guess i'd better go back home and get into bed," thought the boy. "mother will be looking for me." he was just going in the house when his mother came up the steps. "why, boysie!" exclaimed mother. "you shouldn't have gone out with the measles! why--where _are_ your measles?" she asked, for the spots were gone. "your face is all red, like a lobster; but you haven't any more measles spots! what happened?" the boy remembered the water that grandpa goosey had splashed up from the puddle. he took out his handkerchief and looked at it. that, too, was red! "why, it's _red paint_!" cried mother. "oh, boysie! how could you play such a trick?" and she felt so sad that tears came into her eyes. "what made you do it, boysie?" "i--i didn't want to go to school," the boy answered, softly and much ashamed. "oh, how foolish of you!" said mother. "now i'll have to take you to school myself, but i won't tell teacher what you did--that is, i will not if you study your lessons well." "i will, mother! i will!" the make-believe measles boy promised. "i'll never want to stay home from school again!" and he never did--even when he really had the measles which broke out on him about a week later. but he did not have them very hard, though he didn't need any of his sister's paints to make red spots. and when grandpa goosey looked in the window of the boy's house, and saw the little chap with his face all speckled, the goose gentleman said: "serves him right for chasing uncle wiggily and me!" well, perhaps it did. who knows? anyhow, if it should happen that the doorknob doesn't turn around and try to crawl through the keyhole when the milk bottle chases the pussy cat off the back stoop, then i may tell you next about uncle wiggily and the chicken-pox. story xix uncle wiggily and the chicken-pox one day charlie and arabella chick, the little rooster and hen children of mrs. cluck-cluck, the hen lady, came fluttering over to uncle wiggily's hollow stump bungalow. "oh, uncle wiggily!" cackled arabella. "what you think has happened?" "well, i hardly am able to guess," answered the bunny gentleman. "i do hope, though, that your coop isn't on fire. you seem much excited, my dears!" "well, i guess you'd be excited, too, if a boy threw stones at you!" crowed charlie. "wouldn't you?" "indeed i would," admitted uncle wiggily. "once a boy did stone me and i didn't like it at all." "we don't like it either," cawed arabella. "isn't there some way you can stop that boy from throwing sticks and stones at us?" charlie wanted to know. "tell me about it," suggested uncle wiggily. "well, it's this way," began arabella. "this boy lives on the other side of the big forest. sometimes charlie and i go over there to pick up beechnuts and other good things to eat, and every time that boy sees us he pegs things at us! wouldn't you call him a bad boy, uncle wiggily?" "most surely i would," answered the rabbit gentleman. "but why does he do it? you don't crow over him; do you, charlie?" "no, indeed," answered the rooster boy. "i only crow to warn arabella when i see that fellow coming, to tell her to run and hide under a bush." "and i don't pick him, or scratch gravel at him or anything like that," cackled the little hen girl. "i wish he'd let us alone, uncle wiggily." "we came over to see if you could think up a way to make him stop," crowed charlie. "can you?" "hum! i'll try," promised the bunny gentleman, twinkling his pink nose like the frosting on top of an orange shortcake. "suppose we go look for this boy," went on uncle wiggily. "so i'll know him when i see him." "i can show you his house," offered charlie. "but we'll have to be careful. for if he sees us he'll peg things at us." "let us hope not," murmured uncle wiggily. but it was a vain hope, as they say in fairy books. for after uncle wiggily, charlie and arabella had gone to the other side of a forest, there, all of a sudden, they saw the boy. "hi! there are those funny dressed-up chickens!" shouted the boy, who had red hair, and a face full of freckles. "and there's a rabbit with them, all dressed up in a tall silk hat! oh, my! what style! i'm going to see if i can knock his hat off with a stone! i'm going to peg rocks at 'em!" "see! what did i tell you?" cackled arabella, who could understand boy-talk, as could also charlie and uncle wiggily. "bang!" bounced a stone on uncle wiggily's tall silk hat, sending it spinning through the air. "ha! ha!" laughed the boy, as he picked up another stone. "i'm a good shot, i am!" "i should call that rather a _bad_ shot--for my hat," remarked uncle wiggily, as he picked up his silk hat and hopped toward the bushes. "come on, arabella and charlie!" called the bunny gentleman. "this boy is acting just as you said he did. i must think up some way of teaching him a lesson!" the little hen girl and rooster boy scooted under the bushes, and only just in time, for the boy threw many more stones, and one struck charlie on the comb. not the comb that he used to make his feathers smooth, but the red comb on his head--one of his ornaments; his tail feathers being others. "hi, fellows! come on chase the funny chickens and the dressed-up rabbit!" cried the boy. but though some of his chums ran up, as he called, with sticks and stones, uncle wiggily, with charlie and arabella, managed to hide away from the thoughtless lads. for they were thoughtless. they didn't think that stones hurt animals. "yes, i certainly must teach that boy a lesson," said uncle wiggily. "i--i wish he'd catch the chicken-pox!" crowed charlie. "or maybe the roosterpox! then he'd have to stay in and couldn't chase us!" "i wouldn't care if he had the mumps and toothache at the same time!" cackled arabella. for several days uncle wiggily watched for a chance to teach the thoughtless boy a lesson, and at last it came. the bunny gentleman was out hopping in the woods one morning when he met charlie and arabella fluttering along the forest path. [illustration: the boy was asleep under a tree----] "oh, uncle wiggily!" said arabella in a cackling whisper. "that boy is asleep now, on a bed of moss under a tree. he's sleeping hard, too, for charlie and i went close to him and he didn't awaken. maybe you can do something to him now." "maybe i can," said uncle wiggily. "i'll go see!" he hopped through the woods with the chicken children, and soon came to where the boy was asleep under a tree. it was a pine tree, with sticky gum oozing from the trunk and branches. and as soon as the bunny gentleman saw this gum he whispered: "i have an idea! i'll teach this boy a lesson." "how?" asked charlie. "i'll make him think he has the chicken-pox, or something worse," answered the bunny, with a silent laugh. "goodie!" cackled arabella. "ha! ha!" crowed charlie. "quiet now, chicken children," whispered uncle wiggily. "each of you pull me out a few loose feathers." charlie and arabella did this. then the bunny uncle took some of the soft gum from the pine tree, and put spots of it on the face and hands of the sleeping boy. though he stirred a little, the boy did not awaken. when the boy was well spotted with the sticky gum, uncle wiggily took the chicken feathers that charlie and arabella had plucked, and fastened these feathers on the boy's face and hands in the gum. "oh, how funny he looks!" softly cackled arabella. "hush!" cautioned uncle wiggily, putting his paw on his pink, twinkling nose. "let him sleep!" drawing back into the bushes, uncle wiggily, charlie and arabella waited for the boy to awaken, which he did pretty soon. he turned over, sat up and stretched. then he looked at his hands, and saw chicken feathers stuck on them. "oh! oh!" cried the boy. "what has happened to me?" he jumped to his feet and caught sight of himself in a spring of water that was like a looking glass. "oh! oh!" cried the boy again. "this is terrible! oh, my face!" home he ran through the woods, while charlie and arabella laughed to see him go. "oh, mother! mother! look at me!" cried the boy. "i'm all feathers! i must have the chicken-pox!" "goodness me, sakes alive and a basket of eggs!" exclaimed the boy's mother. "you must have gone to sleep in a hen's nest! but you haven't the chicken-pox! the chicken-pox is spots like the measles, but you are covered with _feathers_!" "but how did i get this way?" asked the boy, as he pulled off some of the feathers. "i wasn't like it when i went to sleep in the woods." "maybe a fairy did it," spoke his little sister, who believed in them. "pooh! there aren't any fairies!" sneered the boy. "i guess it was that hen and rooster i stoned." "did you do that?" asked his mother. "did you?" "a--a little!" stammered the boy. "well, it isn't any wonder you're this way, then," mother said. "and, for all i know, you may get the real chicken-pox!" and, as true as i'm telling you that boy did! but he was not made very ill, for some reason or other. perhaps because he had to be washed so clean, to get off the sticky pine gum and the feathers, the chicken-pox didn't go in very deeply. at any rate, when the boy was all well again, he threw no more stones at charlie or arabella. "you cured him, uncle wiggily!" crowed the rooster boy. and i really think the bunny did. so if toy balloon doesn't take the spout off the teakettle to blow beans through at the egg beater, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily's hallowe'en. story xx uncle wiggily's hallowe'en hopping along under the bushes one day, near the edge of the forest nearest to where lived the real boys and girls, uncle wiggily longears, the bunny rabbit gentleman, heard two boys talking together. "we'll put a tick-tack on her window," said the first boy. "and she'll be scared stiff!" said the second boy. "oh, what fun we'll have this hallowe'en!" "hum!" thought the bunny rabbit gentleman to himself, after hearing this. "it may be fun for _you_, but how about whoever it is you're going to scare stiff? i only hope it isn't my nice muskrat lady housekeeper, nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy!" uncle wiggily twinkled his pink nose, and listened with both ears. "yes," went on the first boy, "we'll have a lot of fun this hallowe'en with tick-tacks and the like of that! and we'll put on false faces so the little old lady of mulberry lane won't know us!" "oh ho! so that's the one they're going to play tricks on; is it?" thought uncle wiggily to himself. "the little old lady of mulberry lane! i know her--poor creature; she lives all alone, and she may have a cupboard, like old mother hubbard, but she hasn't a dog or a bone. i suppose," thought uncle wiggily, "that jackie or peetie bow wow would stay with her, if she wanted them. i must see about it." "but, first of all, i must plan some way so these mischievous boys won't put a tick-tack on the window of the little old lady of mulberry lane. i know what tick-tacks are!" and well uncle wiggily knew, for sometimes the boys and girls of woodland, near the orange ice mountains, where the bunny had built his hollow stump bungalow, put one of the scary things on his window. that is, they were scary if you didn't know what they were, but uncle wiggily did. oftentimes sammie littletail, the rabbit, or johnnie and billie bushytail, the squirrels, would take some string, a pin and an old nail, or little stone, and make a tick-tack. they fastened a short piece of string to the pin, and on the other end of the string they tied a dangling stone. when it grew dark the animal chaps would sneak up to uncle wiggily's window, and stick the pin in the wooden sash so the stone, or nail, hung dangling down against the glass. then they would tie the long string, or thread, about half way down on the short cord and hide off in the bushes, with one end of the long string in their paws. from their hiding place the animal boys would pull the long string. the pebble, or stone, would rattle against uncle wiggily's window, making a sound like: "tick! tack!" that's how it got its name, you see. "so they are going to play tick-tack on the little old lady of mulberry lane; are they?" said uncle wiggily to himself, as the two boys walked away. "well, i must try to stop them!" mulberry lane was a street near the forest where the bunny gentleman lived in his hollow stump bungalow, and the little old lady was the only one whose house was built there. the bunny liked the little old lady, for in winter she scattered crumbs for the birds. uncle wiggily hopped home to his hollow stump, and from the attic he took down one of his old, tall silk hats. "what in the world are you doing, uncle wiggily?" asked nurse jane. "do you think it is april fool, and are you going to wear an old hat so the animal boys won't play tricks on you?" "well, not exactly," the bunny answered. "i'll tell you later, miss fuzzy wuzzy--if it works." "hum!" said the muskrat lady housekeeper, as she saw mr. longears put in his pocket some pieces of white paper and a pot of paste. "i do believe he's going to fly a kite--and on hallowe'en of all nights!" for it quickly became hallowe'en night. as soon as the dusky shadows of evening began to fall, strange figures flitted to and fro, not only in the woods of the animal folk, but on the other side, in the village where the real boys and girls lived. real boys, with the heads of wolves, the faces of clowns and some as black as the charcoal-man skipped here and there, ringing doorbells, outlining in chalk on the steps something that looked like an envelope, or else they tapped on windows with long sticks so that when the windows were opened no one could be seen. uncle wiggily, hopping off through the darkness toward the edge of the forest, carried with him one of nurse jane's old brooms, an old, tall silk hat and a coat the bunny gentleman had, long ago, tried to throw in the rag bag. only miss fuzzy wuzzy wouldn't let him. "i'll mend it, sew on some new buttons and it will be as good as ever," she said. well, uncle wiggily found this coat and took it with him. "i'll stop those boys from putting a tick-tack on the window of the little old lady of mulberry lane," thought the bunny as he hopped along. "i'll tick-tack them!" he kept in the shadows of the trees so none of the animal children saw him. but the bunny gentleman saw them. he saw neddie stubtail, the boy bear, dressed up like the pipsisewah. and billie wagtail, the goat, had on a false face just like the skinny skeezicks. here and there animal girls were hurrying to hallowe'en parties. lulu and alice wibblewobble, the ducks, were giving one, and baby bunty, the little rabbit girl, had been invited to "bob" for carrots at the house of buddy and brighteyes, the guinea pigs. jackie and peetie bow wow, who were dressed in clown suits, hurrying to have fun with johnnie and billie bushytail, the squirrels, caught sight of uncle wiggily. "come and have some hallowe'en fun with us!" barked jackie. "i will in a little while," promised the bunny. on and on he hopped, and soon he came to the house of the little old lady of mulberry lane. the bunny could look in her window and see her reading a book by the light of a candle. "i'll hide under her window," thought the bunny, "and when those boys come with the tick-tack--well, we'll see what happens!" uncle wiggily did not have long to wait. pretty soon he heard a rustling in the bushes and some whisperings. "here they come!" thought mr. longears. he put the extra tall silk hat on top of the broom, and fastened his old coat to the handle, on a cross-stick he had nailed there. then, taking the pieces of white paper from his pocket, uncle wiggily pasted them on the shiny part of the old silk hat in the shape of a grinning jack o' lantern face. then the bunny crouched down behind the bushes with the scarecrow he had made. "you sneak up and fasten on the tick-tack," whispered one boy, "and i'll pull the string so it will rattle and scare the old lady stiff!" "i want to pull the string, too!" said the other boy. "yes, you can, after you fasten on the tick-tack." "well, give it here then," said the second boy. they were so close to the bush, behind which uncle wiggily was hidden, that the bunny could have reached out and touched them with his paw if he had wished. but he didn't do that. instead, uncle wiggily suddenly lifted up the broom, dressed as it was in the old coat and the tall hat with the grinning, white paper face like a jack o' lantern. "boo-oo-oo-bunk!" groaned the bunny rabbit, scary-like. the boys, who were just getting ready to frighten the little old lady of mulberry lane, jumped up in fright themselves. they saw the queer face laughing at them. "oh, it's a hallowe'en hobgoblin! a hobgoblin!" cried one boy. "come on! come on!" shouted the other. "let's get out of here!" and dropping string, tick-tack and everything, away they ran. they never knew that it was only a bunny rabbit gentleman who had surprised them. "ha! ha!" laughed uncle wiggily, as he peered out from behind the broomstick and the scary tall-hat creature he had made. "i guess they won't bother the old lady now!" the little old lady of mulberry lane laid aside the book she had been reading and opened her door. "is anybody there?" she gently asked, looking out over her dark garden. "seems to me i heard a noise-like. is anybody there, trying to play hallowe'en tricks on a poor, lone body like me? anybody there?" no one answered--not even uncle wiggily--for he couldn't speak real talk, you know. but he heard what the old lady said. "nobody there! i guess it must have been the wind," said the little old lady of mulberry lane, as she shut the door. but we know it wasn't the wind; don't we? then the bunny hopped back to his own part of the forest, to have hallowe'en fun with the animal boys and girls. the frightened boys ran home and jumped into bed. and if the piano key doesn't unlock the door of the phonograph, and let all the music run down the pussy cat's tail, you may next hear of uncle wiggily and the poor dog. story xxi uncle wiggily and the poor dog once upon a time there was a dog so poor that he had no kennel to sleep in. he made his bed in old boxes and barrels along the street, or behind stores. and as for things to eat--that poor dog thought himself lucky if he found a bone without any meat on it! oh, he was dreadfully poor, was that dog! he had no collar to wear, though of course he did not miss a necktie, for dogs never wear those. but when this dog saw other dogs, with shiny brass or nickel collars around their necks, when he saw some of them riding in automobiles as he splashed through the mud, and when he looked over in yards and saw some dogs gnawing juicy, meaty bones in front of their warm kennels--this poor dog sometimes felt sad. "i don't see what use i am in this world," thought the poor dog, as he chased away a tickling fly who wanted to ride on his tail. "i certainly can't help anyone, for i can hardly help myself! i think i'll go off in the woods and get lost! yes, that's what i'll do," barked the poor dog. "get lost!" perhaps if he had had a good breakfast that morning, with a biscuit or two, or even a slice of puppy cake, he might have been more happy. as it was, after crawling out of an empty rain-water barrel, where he had slept all night, and after finding only a small bone for his breakfast, this dog went off to the woods. "good-bye, everybody!" he softly barked, as he stood on the edge of the forest, and looked back toward the village he was leaving. but there was no one even to bark a farewell to him. all alone the poor dog started into the woods. "good-bye!" he whined. now in this same forest, on the opposite side from the trees nearest the village, stood the hollow stump bungalow of uncle wiggily longears. and this same morning that the poor dog decided to lose himself, the bunny rabbit gentleman started out with his tall, silk hat, his red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch, and his pink twinkling nose to look for an adventure. "keep your eyes open for the woozie wolf or the fuzzy fox!" called nurse jane, the muskrat lady housekeeper as mr. longears hopped away. "i will!" promised the bunny uncle. uncle wiggily hopped along and along and along, looking behind bushes and rocks for an adventure when, all of a sudden, he saw a sort of hole down in between two logs. "perhaps there is an adventure down in there for me," said the rabbit gentleman. "i'll poke my paw down in and find out. this hole isn't large enough to be the den of the fox or wolf." uncle wiggily thrust one of his forepaws down into the hole, and began feeling around between the logs. he touched something soft and fuzzy, and he was just beginning to think that perhaps baby bunty was hiding down there so he couldn't tag her when, all of a quickness, those logs rolled together. before uncle wiggily could pull out his paw it was caught fast, and there he was, held just as if he were in a trap. "oh, my goodness me, sakes alive, and a basket of soap bubbles!" cried the bunny rabbit gentleman. "i'm caught! how dreadful! i must get out!" well, he pulled and he pulled and he pulled, but still his paw was held fast. he scrabbled around among the dried leaves, he tried to lift one log off the other with his rheumatism crutch, and he tried to gnaw a hole in the top log that held him fast. but it was all of no use. "oh, i'm afraid i'll have to stay here forever, unless i get help!" thought uncle wiggily. "but i must call for aid! perhaps grandpa goosey, or nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, will hear me!" [illustration: "who calls for help?"] uncle wiggily stopped his pink nose from twinkling, so that he could call more loudly, and then he shouted: "help! help! help!" for a time there was no answer, only the wind blowing among the leaves of the trees. and then, all at once, there was a rustling in the bushes and a voice asked: "who calls for help?" "i do," answered uncle wiggily. "oh, even if you are the woozie wolf or the fuzzy fox, please help me!" "i am neither the wolf nor the fox," was the answer. "i am only a poor dog who came to this forest to lose himself. i never have been able yet to help anyone." "well, perhaps you can help me," said uncle wiggily, as cheerfully as he could speak. "come here and see where the logs have fallen on my paw, holding me fast." so the poor dog, with his ragged clothes which made him look almost like a tramp, came through the bushes, close to uncle wiggily. "my, but you're stylish!" said the dog, as he saw uncle wiggily's tall, silk hat. "that isn't anything," sadly said the bunny rabbit gentleman. "tall hats do not make for happiness. i'd rather have on an old, ragged cap, like yours, and be free, than wear a diamond and gold crown like a king and be held fast here." "yes, it isn't fun to be caught in a trap," barked the poor dog. "but i think i can gnaw through one of those logs and set you free." then he began to gnaw. he gnawed and he gnawed and he gnawed, and, in a little while, one of the logs was cut in two, just as if it had been sawed, and uncle wiggily could pull out his paw. "i can't tell you how thankful i am," said the bunny to the dog. "what fine, strong white teeth you have. how did you get them?" "from gnawing bones without any soft meat on them, i suppose," answered the dog. "poor dogs must have strong teeth, or they would starve. rich dogs, who get soft food, can afford to have soft teeth." "well, then i am very glad you are a poor dog!" laughed uncle wiggily. "you are?" barked the other, in great surprise. "certainly; of course i am!" exclaimed the bunny. "just think! suppose you had been one of those rich dogs, with soft, crumbly teeth! you would not have been able to gnaw through the log and i would still be held fast." "yes, that's so," agreed the dog, wagging his tail. "i never thought of that." "then be thankful, as i am, that you are poor, and have strong teeth," went on mr. longears. "you have been of great help to me." "have i?" barked the dog. "then i am very glad! i never before helped anyone. i thought i was too poor!" "well, you aren't going to be poor any more," went on the bunny rabbit gentleman. "come to the woods and live near my hollow stump bungalow. i have a friend, old dog percival, who will let you stay in his kennel. he is rich!" "oh, that makes me very happy!" said the dog, who used to be poor. "i have always wanted a kennel to live in!" then he went home with the bunny rabbit. and, though he never became a very rich dog, still he had a warm kennel, which percival shared with him, and he always had enough to eat; and he became great friends with mr. longears and nurse jane. so this teaches us that even if a lollypop has a stick this does not mean it needs a whipping. and if the sunflower doesn't shine so brightly in the eyes of the potato that it can't see to get out of the oven, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the rich cat. story xxii uncle wiggily and the rich cat once upon a time there was a very rich cat, but with all she had she was not happy. she owned an automobile and kept a little mouse servant girl to wait on her. and an old gentleman rat did all the heavy work around the house, such as putting out the ashes and cutting the grass. "heigh-ho!" sighed the rich cat lady one morning, after she had lapped up some thick, heavy cream, which was left on her doorstep each day. "heigh-ho! i am so tired!" "tired of what?" squeaked the little mouse servant, as she brought a paper napkin for the rich cat to wipe the cream from her whiskers. even though she was well-off, the cat lady had whiskers, and she was very proud of them. "oh, i am tired of sitting around doing nothing!" purred the rich cat. "then why not go for a ride in your auto?" asked the poor little mouse servant girl. "i am tired of that, too," spoke the rich cat. "it is the same old thing every day! dress and go out. come back and dress to eat! dress to go out again! come back and undress to go to bed and get up in the morning to dress and do it all over again! i--i'd like to have an _adventure_!" mewed the cat lady. "oh, mercy! an _adventure_!" squeaked the mouse. "never!" "yes," went on the cat, "a real, exciting adventure. i saw a poor dog the other day--at least he used to be poor, and he is far from rich now. but he looked so well, and so lively, with such strong, white teeth! i heard him telling another dog he had had a most wonderful adventure in the woods with an old rabbit gentleman named uncle wiggily. i quite envied that poor dog!" "oh, and you so rich!" murmured the mousie girl. "i don't care!" mewed the wealthy cat lady. "i'd almost be willing to be poor if i could have an adventure. come, i'll go for a ride in the auto. it will be better than dawdling around the house." so the cat lady ordered out her auto, with the rat gentleman to drive it, and the little mousie girl to sit beside her on the cushioned seat. "where shall i drive to, lady cat?" asked the old gentleman rat chauffeur. "oh, anywhere--to the woods--the fields--anywhere so that i may have an adventure--i don't care!" mewed the rich cat. so the rat gentleman drove the auto through the village, and out into the forest. at first the roads were very good, but at last they became bumpy, and the cat lady and mousie girl were much shaken up and jiggled about, not to say joggled. "do you want to go on?" asked the rat. "oh, yes," answered the cat. "it shakes up my liver, and i seem to be feeling more hungry. go on, perhaps i shall find an adventure." the auto lurched and bumped on a little farther and, all of a sudden there was a crash. "oh!" screamed the little mousie girl. "what is the matter?" asked the cat lady, looking through her fancy glasses. "we have had an accident," answered the gentleman rat. "the auto is broken, and i shall have to go for help." "let us go, also," squeaked the mousie girl. "we don't want to stay here in the woods alone." "_you_ may not want to," said the cat with a smile. "but _i_ am going to. run along with mr. rat, miss mouse, and get help. i'll stay here!" so the rich cat lady was left alone, sitting in the auto, one wheel of which was broken, while the rat gentleman and mousie girl went to look for a garage where they could get help. "perhaps this is the start of an adventure," thought the cat. a moment later she heard a rustling in the bushes, and out popped a strange dog. now the rich cat lady knew some rich dogs who wore silver and gold collars, and were friends of hers. she was not afraid of them. but this was a dog without any collar, though he had on a suit of clothes. and, when the cat lady looked a second time, she saw that it was a boy dog and not a grown man dog. "bow! wow!" barked the boy dog. "you're a strange cat! what are you doing in these woods? hi, jackie!" howled the dog. "come help me chase this strange cat up a tree!" "all right, peetie! i'm with you!" answered a voice, and out of the bushes came another boy dog. the two dogs rushed at the cat lady. now she might not have been afraid of _one_ boy dog, but when _two_ of them leaped toward her, this was enough to frighten almost any pussy! don't you think so? "meaouw! mew! mee!" cried the cat, and before she knew it she was climbing a tree. up she scrabbled, her claws tearing off bits of bark, until she was perched on a limb, high above her auto and the barking dogs down below. "my goodness me, sakes alive, and a liver cream puff!" said the excited rich cat lady to herself, her heart beating like an alarm clock. "this is dreadful! to think of me, a wealthy cat, being chased up a tree by two poor dogs! what will my friends think?" then she looked down at the dogs and said: "run away if you please, little puppy boys!" "no! no!" they barked. "bow! wow!" "you run and tell him," said one puppy to the other. "tell him there's a strange cat in his woods. i'll stay here at the foot of the tree so she can't get down until you come back with him!" "i wonder whom they are going to bring back?" thought the rich cat up the tree. and she could not help laughing a little as she thought how strange she must look. "the mouse servant and rat chauffeur will be surprised when they come back and see me here," thought the cat. one little puppy dog boy ran away, while the other remained on guard at the foot of the tree. "may i come down?" asked the cat lady. "no, indeed!" growled the dog, though he did not speak impolitely. "you must stay up there!" "dear me!" thought the cat lady. "this is quite an unexpected adventure!" all of a sudden she saw the puppy at the foot of the tree jump up. at the same time there was a rustling in the bushes, and along came the other puppy, with an old gentleman rabbit, who wore a tall silk hat, who had a pair of glasses on his pink, twinkling nose and who walked with a red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch. "there she is, uncle wiggily!" barked a puppy dog. "we saw her in your woods, and chased her up a tree until you could look at her. maybe she is the woozie wolf or the fuzzy fox, dressed up like a cat." "indeed i am not," said the rich pussy lady up the tree. "i am the rich mrs. cat, and my auto has broken. when my mousie servant girl and the rat gentleman who drives my car return, they will tell you i never harm rabbits. but are you uncle wiggily longears?" she asked. "yes," answered the bunny, "i am. and i know you, mrs. cat. i heard about you from the poor dog. i am very sorry jackie and peetie bow wow chased you up a tree. they meant no harm." "i am sure they did not," mewed the cat politely. "but they are always on the lookout so nothing will happen to me," went on uncle wiggily. "i would get up and help you down, only i can't climb a tree." "oh, i can easily get down," said the cat lady, and she did, though her rich clothes were rather ruffled. but she had plenty of money to buy more. so don't worry about that. "make yourself at home in these woods--the animal folk call them mine," said uncle wiggily kindly. "i am sorry you had this trouble. now i must hop away. i hope your auto will soon be mended. come, jackie and peetie, if you want to help me." "where are you going?" asked the rich cat. "to help a poor cat family," said uncle wiggily. "the cat gentleman of the house has been out of work a long time, his wife is ill and he has a number of little kittens. i was on my way to see the family when jackie came to tell me you were up a tree." "well, i'm down the tree now," laughed the rich cat lady. "and will you please let me help this poor family? i have a lot of money--see!" and she showed a purse full of golden leaves which the animal folk use for money. "i can buy them food, and if mr. cat wants work, let him take my auto, after it is fixed, and use it for a jitney." "what!" cried uncle wiggily. "aren't you going to use that fine car any more? all it needs is a new wheel." "give it to the poor cat," was the answer. "i am never going to ride in it again. i feel so much better since i came to the woods--and climbed a tree--that i am going to live here for the rest of my life. i'll buy a hollow stump bungalow near you, uncle wiggily. i know, now, i am going to be very happy." "well, you will make the poor cat family happy, at any rate," said mr. longears. "and to make others happy is to be happy yourself," mewed the rich cat lady. she went with uncle wiggily, jackie and peetie to the home of the poor cat family, and when the worried cat gentleman heard that he was to have the auto for a jitney, with which he could make money, he was so glad he almost stood on his head. and his wife and the kitten children were glad also. when the rat gentleman chauffeur and the mousie servant girl came back, in another auto, to take the rich lady home, she said: "i am going to stay with uncle wiggily. from now on i am going to live in the woods and be happy and poor." "oh, my!" squeaked the mousie servant. "just fancy!" "i never heard of such a thing," said the rat gentleman. "you had much better come home and live as you did before." but the cat lady would not change her mind, and she built herself a bungalow near uncle wiggily's, and lived there happily forever after. so from this we may learn, if we will, that when a pail leaks it is best to have it mended. and if the hand-organ monkey doesn't take the squeak out of the rubber ball to make a tin horn for the rag doll, the next story will be about uncle wiggily and the horse. story xxiii uncle wiggily and the horse nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper for uncle wiggily longears, the bunny rabbit gentleman, once baked a cherry pie, of which mr. longears was very fond. in fact, miss fuzzy wuzzy baked _two_ pies. one she put upon the shelf for uncle wiggily's supper. the other pie nurse jane wrapped in a clean napkin, put it in a basket, and then she said: "come on, uncle wiggily. we will take this pie to grandfather goosey gander." "that will be fine!" exclaimed uncle wiggily. so he set off with nurse jane, over the fields and through the woods. "and perhaps we may have an adventure," said the bunny gentleman, hopeful-like. "well, if we do," spoke nurse jane, "i hope nothing happens to this cherry pie. i baked one for you, and the other especially for grandpa goosey. i shouldn't like the fuzzy fox, nor yet the woozie wolf, to get this pie." "nor i," said uncle wiggily. "and i don't believe grandpa goosey would, either." the rabbit gentleman and nurse jane hopped along together, until, after a while, uncle wiggily saw a horse in a field. "look at that poor horse!" said the bunny gentleman, coming to a stop, and peeping over the top of his pink, twinkling nose. "there he stands, all day long, with nothing to eat but grass." "what else would he eat?" asked nurse jane, suspiciously. "i don't s'pose he ever had a cherry pie," went on uncle wiggily reflective-like. "poor horse! never had any cherry pie!" "wiggy!" exclaimed nurse jane, as she took a firmer hold of the basket handle. "if you are thinking of giving grandpa goosey's pie to that horse----" "well, that's just what i'm thinking of," answered mr. longears. "here, nurse jane, please give me that pie. you may run back home and get the one you were saving for me to give to grandpa goosey. i'll call this pie mine, and i'm going to give it to the horse." "well, i never in all my born days," exclaimed miss fuzzy wuzzy, "heard the like of that!" still she knew uncle wiggily meant to be kind, so she gave the bunny rabbit gentleman the basket with the pie inside, and started back for the hollow stump bungalow to get the other. the bunny rabbit certainly was not selfish, whatever else he was. "hello, horsie!" exclaimed uncle wiggily, as he hopped through the field where the big animal was eating. "hello," answered the horse. "oh, it's uncle wiggily!" he went on, as he stopped cropping the grass and looked up. "did you ever eat a cherry pie?" asked the bunny rabbit, beginning to take the cloth off the one in the basket. "cherry pie? i don't believe i ever did," slowly answered the horse. "cherry pie! hum! no, i never tasted any." "wouldn't you like to?" asked the bunny. "i should think you would get tired of eating grass all day long." "well, grass is my food, and i like it," neighed the horse. "but i like some oats once in a while, and some bran. yes, and i think i'd like some cherry pie, also." "here! take this one! nurse jane can bake more!" said generous uncle wiggily, and he held out the pie. "oh, my! that's a fine one!" whinnied the horse. "that looks most delicious." "and it tastes as delicious as it looks," went on the bunny. "i know nurse jane's pies. take a bite!" the horse did. one bit was all that was needed to enable him to eat the whole pie, for it was only rabbit size, of course, not as large as the pies your mother bakes. "um!" said the horse, as the red cherry juice ran down his lips. "that was a good pie! i could eat more!" "i'm sorry, but that's the only one i have," spoke uncle wiggily. "nurse jane has gone to get mine, that she put in the cupboard, to give to grandpa goosey. but to-morrow i'll have her bake you a large pie." just then nurse jane came along, with the other pie in the basket, and uncle wiggily said: "the horse ate that cherry pie, miss fuzzy wuzzy, and liked it very much. i have told him you'd bake him a larger one." "well, i s'pose i can," said the muskrat lady, looking at uncle wiggily in a funny way. "i s'pose i can." "you are very kind," neighed the horse. "if i could only do you some favor----" but just then, all of a sudden, out from behind a bush jumped the bad old woozie wolf. "ah ha!" howled the wolf. "this is the time i have caught nurse jane as well as uncle wiggily. i shall have four ears to nibble to-day!" and he looked hungrily at the bunny and muskrat lady. "do you mean to say you are going to hurt good, kind uncle wiggily, who has just given me a cherry pie?" asked the horse quickly. "of course i am!" growled the wolf. "he gave me no pie! i'm going to nibble the bunny!" "well, i just won't let you!" said the horse. "how are you going to stop me?" asked the wolf. "well, i have big teeth," the horse said. "they are not as sharp as yours, for they do not need to be so that i may crop the grass. but i can bite you with them, just the same." "ho! ho!" sneered the wolf. "two can play at that game! i can bite worse than you." "that's so, he can," whispered uncle wiggily to the horse. "be careful!" "well, then i'll _kick_!" said the horse. "i'll rear up on my front legs and kick you with my hind ones, mr. wolf, if you hurt uncle wiggily." "but you have no sharp toe-nails, such as i have!" growled the wolf. "i'll scratch you with my toe-nails if you kick me." "that's right--he will!" whispered nurse jane. "i'm afraid you cannot save us," sadly said the bunny gentleman to the kind horse. "yes, i can!" suddenly neighed the horse. "this wolf can do some things better than i, but he cannot run as fast. quick! jump up on my back, uncle wiggily and nurse jane. i'll gallop and trot, i'll gallop and trot and i'll gallop and trot--until i take you far away from this bad animal!" "don't you dare take uncle wiggily away from me!" howled the wolf, for well he knew he could not run as fast as the horse. [illustration: the wolf was left far, far, behind.] "yes, i shall! i'll save uncle wiggily!" whinnied the horse. "up on my back! quick!" he called to the bunny and nurse jane. up they leaped, before the wolf could get them. then the horse galloped and trotted, galloped and trotted and galloped and trotted, until the wolf was left far, far behind. and, oh, how angry that wolf was! and how he howled! i wish you could have heard him. no, on second thought, it is just as well you didn't hear him. it was not very nice howling. "there! now you are safe, uncle wiggily and nurse jane," said the horse, as he stopped galloping and trotting, away over on the far side of the field, far, far from the wolf. "thank you for saving us," spoke the bunny, as he and nurse jane slid off the horsie's back. "i'll bake you the largest cherry pie that ever was," promised the muskrat lady, "just as soon as i take this one to grandpa goosey." and she made such a large pie that it took the horse forty 'leven bites to eat it. so everything came out all right, you see. and if the postman doesn't try to slip a letter through the slot in the baby's penny bank, and make the five cent piece jump over the dollar bill, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the cow. story xxiv uncle wiggily and the cow this is a story about uncle wiggily and the cow. not the cow with the crumpled horn, nor yet the one that jumped over the moon, when the dish ran away with the spoon. this was a sort of a red cow which ate green grass and gave white milk that was churned into yellow butter to be eaten on brown bread. there is no use asking me about all those colors for i don't know--nobody knows. they're just there, and that's all there is about it. now for the story. one day the bunny rabbit gentleman was hopping over the fields and through the woods on his way to the store for nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy. he was going to get his muskrat lady housekeeper a jug of molasses so nurse jane might make a cake. uncle wiggily hopped on and on, wondering if he would have an adventure that day, and he was thinking how good the molasses cake would taste when, all of a sudden, down in a field he saw a red cow. not exactly red like a rose, you understand, or red like a barn, but still somewhat between those colors--a brownish-red, i suppose it would be called. "moo! moo! moo!" called the cow, in such mournful tones that uncle wiggily right away said: "something must be the matter! i'm going down and see if i can help that poor cow!" down into the meadow hopped the bunny rabbit gentleman, and when he reached the cow he looked at her and she looked at him, and the bunny asked: "what is the matter, mrs. cow?" "oh," was the sad answer, "i've lost the cud that i always chew, and now i don't know what to do! i'm so upset i'm sure i'll give sour milk to-night, instead of sweet!" "that would be too bad," uncle wiggily remarked. "this cud of yours--may i ask what it is?" [illustration: "well! well!" exclaimed uncle wiggily.] "well, it isn't gum, as many boys and girls suppose, when they see me chewing," spoke the cow lady. "my cud is a bunch of grass, which i crop and pull up by winding my tongue about it, for i haven't two sets of teeth as have many animals. i only have teeth on my upper jaw. on my lower jaw i have no teeth, but the gums are very hard so i can chew grass, and that is what makes my cud. i only chew the grass a little bit, when i first pull it from the meadow. i swallow it down into my first stomach, and, when i have more time, i bring the cud of grass up into my mouth and chew it as long as i please, so it will be good for me to put into my last stomach." "well, well!" exclaimed uncle wiggily in surprise. "so you have two stomachs and only one set of teeth." "yes," went on the cow, "but what is worrying me now is to know whether i lost my cud of grass in the meadow, after i had chewed on it a while, or whether it slipped down into my last stomach before it was time." "what will happen if it did?" asked uncle wiggily. "i'm afraid i'll have indigestion," the cow lady answered. "and that will make my milk bad and sour. oh, dear! i wish i knew where my cud was!" "how did you come to lose it--or miss it?" asked the bunny. "why, i was watching bully and bawly no-tail, the two frog boys, hopping down by the brook," the cow lady said. "they were playing leap-toad, you know--or, perhaps, it was leap-frog; and bully made such a funny jump over bawly's back that i laughed right out loud. i was chewing my cud at the time, and when i stopped laughing i missed it. now whether i swallowed it, or whether it dropped in the brook, i don't know. isn't that dreadful?" "can't you tell by the way you feel--inside, you know," asked the bunny, "what became of your cud?" "not for some little time," answered the cow lady, "and then it will be too late. oh, if only i could find my cud somewhere in this meadow i'd know i hadn't swallowed it, and i'd be all right." "i know just how you feel," said uncle wiggily. "once, when susie littletail, the rabbit, was a tiny baby, her mother gave her a big cake spoon to play with. she went out of the room, leaving susie to play with the spoon, and when she came back it was gone." "what was gone?" asked the cow lady, "susie or the spoon?" "the spoon," answered the bunny gentleman. "and as susie was too little to talk, and tell where it was, her mother didn't know whether she had hidden, or dropped the spoon somewhere, or whether she had swallowed it." "just fancy!" mooed the cow. "how exciting! but what happened?" "why, finally," said uncle wiggily, "after i had hopped over to help, we found the spoon behind the piano where susie had thrown it. then we knew she hadn't swallowed it." "and if i could find my cud i'd know i hadn't swallowed _that_," sadly said the cow lady. "i'll help you look," offered uncle wiggily. "i'm a pretty good hopper, and i'll hop around the meadow and look for your cud of half-chewed grass." the bunny set down his molasses jug and began looking all over the meadow for the cud. and the cow helped, but she could not move very fast. besides, she was worried and nervous. "here it is! i've found it!" suddenly called uncle wiggily, and there on the grass, near the brook where the frog boys had been leaping, was the cow lady's cud. "oh, how glad i am to get it back!" she mooed as she began to chew it again. "now my milk will be nice and sweet. you have done me a great favor, uncle wiggily. i hope i may do you the same some day." "pray do not mention it," said the bunny politely, as he hopped on with his molasses jug. "it was just a little adventure for me." uncle wiggily hopped on to the store, had the jug filled with molasses and then went to his hollow stump bungalow. "well, you were gone a long time," said nurse jane. "i have been waiting to make the ginger cake." "i had to help a cow lady find her lost cud," said the bunny. "oh, wiggy! what next!" laughed miss fuzzy wuzzy. "helping cow ladies! oh! oh!" "that's all right," the bunny said. "perhaps some day a cow lady may help us." "i don't see how she can," spoke nurse jane, as she started to make the cake. but pretty soon she called to the bunny who had gone to sit outside on a bench and warm his rheumatism in the sun. "oh, wiggy!" exclaimed nurse jane. "i can't get the cork out of the molasses jug. it's in so tight! i can't pull it out, and if i break it, and push it inside, then the molasses won't run out. oh, what a lot of trouble!" "let me try!" offered the bunny. but he could not get the cork out of the molasses jug either, not even with his red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch. "i guess i'll have to break the jug!" said the bunny at last. "oh, don't do that!" spoke a voice behind him, and, turning, uncle wiggily saw the cow lady. "i am on my way home to be milked," she mooed, "and i saw you in trouble, so i came over. what's wrong?" "we can't get the cork out of the molasses jug," answered uncle wiggily. "perhaps i can," said mrs. cow. "please let me try." "we have a corkscrew somewhere," remarked nurse jane, "but i can't find it." "i shall not need it," went on the cow. then with one of her long, sharp horns she easily pried the cork out of the molasses jug, breaking nothing and making it very easy for nurse jane to pour out the sweet stuff for the ginger cake. "thank you, mrs. cow," said uncle wiggily, as the milk lady animal went on her way. "pray don't mention it!" mooed the cow. "now we are even, as far as favors go!" uncle wiggily looked at nurse jane, and the muskrat lady smiled at the bunny gentleman. "you were right, wiggly," spoke miss fuzzy wuzzy. "i never thought a cow could help anyone, but this shows how little i know." "that's all right!" laughed the bunny. "mistakes will happen!" so once again everything came out all right for the bunny gentleman, you see, and if the pussy cat doesn't make a popcorn ball out of snow, for the puppy dog to play bean bag with, you shall next hear about uncle wiggily and the camping boys. story xxv uncle wiggily and the camping boys "oh, uncle wiggily! what you think?" cried baby bunty one day, as she hopped up to the rabbit gentleman, who was pulling the weeds out of his carrot garden. "what i think, baby bunty?" repeated mr. longears, smiling down one side of his pink, twinkling nose. "well, i think lots of things, my little rabbit girl. but if you think i'm going to play _tag_ with you this morning you are wrong. i haven't time!" "oh, i don't want you to play tag!" exclaimed baby bunty, though she was such a lively little tyke that she nearly always wanted uncle wiggily to play a game of some sort. "but there's something over in the woods," she went on. "what you think it is?" and she was quite excited. "something over in the woods, baby bunty?" asked uncle wiggily, as he looked at one of his carrots to see if the point needed sharpening; but it didn't, i'm glad to say. "well, what's in the woods, baby bunty; the fox, the skeezicks or the pipsisewah?" "neither one, uncle wiggily," answered the little rabbit girl. "but there's a lot of those funny animals you call 'boys,' and they're making a snow house, and maybe they'll try to catch you, or me or nurse jane," and baby bunty looked quite worried. "a _snow_ house this time of year! tut! tut! nonsense!" laughed uncle wiggily. "this is summer and there isn't any snow with which to make houses." "well, these boys, in the woods, are making a _white_ house, anyhow, uncle wiggily," spoke the little rabbit girl, who once had lived in a hollow stump, before she came to visit the bunny gentleman. "it's a white house, and there's a lot of boys, and they're cutting down wood, and making a fire and boiling a kettle of water and oh, they're doing lots of things! i thought i'd better come and tell you." "hum!" said uncle wiggily, straightening up to rest his back, which ached from pulling the weeds out of his garden. "yes, perhaps it is a good thing you told me, baby bunty. i'll go have a look at the white house the boys are putting up." uncle wiggily and baby bunty hopped through the woods, and soon they were near that side of the forest nearest the village where real boys and girls lived. through the green trees gleamed something white, on which the sun shone as brightly as it does at the seashore. "there's the house," said baby bunty, pointing with her paw off among the trees. "ho! that isn't exactly a _house_!" uncle wiggily told the little rabbit girl. "that's a white tent, and those boys must be camping there. boys like to come to the woods to camp in the summer. we'll hop a little closer and listen. then we can tell what they are doing." "we mustn't let 'em see us!" whispered baby bunty. "oh, no!" "well, no, maybe not first along," uncle wiggily agreed. "but nearly all boys, especially the kind that go camping, are fond of animals, and will not hurt them. we will see what sort of boys these are, baby bunty." so the bunny gentleman and the little rabbit girl hid behind the bushes and watched the camping boys, for that is what they were. they had come to spend a few weeks in the woods, living in a white tent which, at first, baby bunty thought was a snow house. the boys had just come to camp, and the tent had been up only a little while. but already the lads had started a campfire; and they had hung a gypsy kettle over the blaze, and were cooking soup. "get some more water, somebody!" called one boy. "and i'm not going to cut any more wood!" exclaimed another. "i've been cutting wood ever since we got here!" "we'll take turns!" spoke a third boy. "look out! that soup's boiling over!" shouted a fourth. "they're regular boys all right!" chuckled uncle wiggily, as he crouched under a bush with baby bunty. "they're so excited at coming to camp they hardly know what they're doing." uncle wiggily and baby bunty could hear and understand what the boys said, though they themselves could not speak to the camping chaps. for a time the two rabbits watched the little lads, who were trying to get a meal. they made many mistakes, of course, such as getting the salt mixed up with the sugar, and they left the bread out of its tin box so it dried, for they had never been camping before. "but they'll soon learn," said uncle wiggily. "i hope they won't chase us, and throw stones at us," baby bunty remarked, as she and mr. longears hopped away. "i think they are good boys," spoke the bunny gentleman. and the camping boys were. when they had finished eating they scattered crumbs so the birds could pick them up. larger pieces of left-over food were placed on a flat stump where the squirrels and chipmunks could get them. johnnie and billie bushytail, the two boy squirrels, saw some of this food as they were coming through the woods. the camping boys were away just then, so the squirrel chaps had no fear of going close to the white tent-house. johnnie found a piece of bread and butter, and billie picked up half a ginger snap. [illustration: johnnie found a piece of bread and butter.] "that shows the camping boys are kind to animals," said uncle wiggily, when johnnie and billie told him what they had found. "i hope i may get a chance to do these lads a favor." and uncle wiggily had this chance sooner than he expected. for about a week the weather was most lovely for camping. the sun shone every day, the wind blew just enough to send the sailboat spinning about the lake and there wasn't a drop of rain. it is rain which soaks most of the fun out of camping, just as rain takes away your fun at home. and these boys, never having camped in a tent before, gave no thought to storms. one afternoon it began to rain. uncle wiggily, in his hollow stump bungalow, where he was reading the cabbage-leaf paper, heard the pitter-patter of the drops on the window, and looked up. "where is baby bunty, nurse jane?" asked the bunny gentleman. "why, she hasn't come back from the store yet," answered the muskrat lady housekeeper. "did she take an umbrella?" asked uncle wiggily. "no," replied nurse jane, "she did not." "then she'll get soaking wet!" exclaimed mr. longears. "i'll go after her with a toadstool." you know in woodland, near the orange ice mountain, where uncle wiggily lived, toadstools were often used for umbrellas. of course, some of the animal folk had regular umbrellas, but when they were in a hurry they could break off a big toadstool, or mushroom, and use that. so uncle wiggily hopped out of his hollow stump bungalow, and, growing near his front gate, he found a big toadstool. picking this, he held it over his head and hurried along through the rain to meet baby bunty, who had gone to the three and five cent store for nurse jane. uncle wiggily had to hop almost to the place where the tent of the camping boys stood before he met the little rabbit girl, half drenched. "oh, uncle wiggily! you ought to see!" cried baby bunty. "there is so much water around the tent that those nice boys will be washed away, i guess!" "water around their tent?" repeated the bunny gentleman. "you don't say so!" "yes," said baby bunty. "the rain is coming down so hard that it is running like a little brook around the tent. the boys are inside, and i heard them saying that the water would soon come up over the cots and they wouldn't have any dry place to sleep to-night!" "silly boys!" exclaimed uncle wiggily, holding the toadstool umbrella over baby bunty. "they didn't know enough to dig a ditch around the outside of their tent to let the rain water run off. all campers do that, but as this is the first time these boys came to the woods i suppose they didn't know about it. always dig a ditch, or trench, in the earth around your tent when you go camping, baby bunty." "i will," promised the little rabbit girl, real serious like. "but that isn't going to help the boys now," went on uncle wiggily. "i think i shall have to take a paw in this. they are good boys, and are kind to animals. i must do them a favor." "but how can you?" asked baby bunty. "why, i, being a rabbit, am one of the best diggers in the world," went on mr. longears. "still, i will need help to dig a ditch around the tent, as it is rather large. hop home, baby bunty, and tell sammie littletail, toodle and noodle flat-tail, the beaver boys, and grandpa whackum, the old beaver gentleman, to please come here. with their help i can dig the ditch." so baby bunty, taking the toadstool umbrella, hopped away, and uncle wiggily, to await her return, hid under a thick-branched pine tree which kept off most of the rain. the drops pelted down, and around the tent of the camping boys was almost a flood. night was coming on, too, and before morning the water would rise up so high that it would wet the feet of the boys in their beds. pretty soon, just about dusk, when it was still raining hard, along came sammie littletail, the rabbit boy, toodle and noodle the beavers, with their broad, flat tails, and grandpa whackum, the oldest beaver of them all. beavers just love to work in the water and they can dig dirt canals better than most boys. "lively now, my friends!" called uncle wiggily, coming out from under the pine tree. "we'll dig a ditch around the tent for the kind boys. they won't see us, as they are inside, and probably will not come out in the train." so uncle wiggily, sammie and the beavers began work. quickly and silently they dug and dug and dug in the soft earth, piling the dirt to one side, and making a trench so that the rain water could run off into the brook. and soon the little pond that had formed around the tent of the camping boys had drained away. "now they will have no more trouble," said uncle wiggily as he and his friends, all wet and muddy, finished the trench. "we can go home." home they went, through the rain, to get something to eat and dry out. and in the morning, though it still rained, no water rose inside the boys' tent. and none came through the roof, for that was like an umbrella, the canvas cloth being stretched over the ridge-pole. "oh, look!" cried one boy, coming to the flap of the tent, as the front of the canvas house is called. "someone has dug a ditch around our camp, and now we'll keep dry!" "why, it's a regular little canal!" exclaimed a second boy. "it wasn't there yesterday!" "who did it?" asked the other lads. but none of them knew, and i hope you will not tell them, for i want to keep it a secret. and when the rain stopped, the ground around the tent dried out very quickly because the proper ditch had been dug around it. and the camping boys put out on the flat stump many good things for the animal folk to eat. and the next time those boys went camping they knew enough to make a trench around their tent. now let me see; what shall we have next? well, i think i shall tell you the story of uncle wiggily and the birthday cake--that is, i will if the snow-shovel doesn't make the coal-scuttle sneeze when they are playing tag down under the cellar steps. story xxvi uncle wiggily and the birthday cake "to-morrow is my birthday! to-morrow is my birthday! and i'm going to have a cake with ten candles on!" a little girl sang this over and over as she danced around the house one morning. "ten candles! and they'll be lighted, and i can blow them out and cut the cake and pass it around; can't i, mother?" asked the little girl. "yes, my dear," mother answered. "but if you are going to have a birthday cake you must go to the store and get me some flour, sugar and eggs. i did not know i needed them, but i do, if you are to have a cake." "oh, of course i want a cake!" said the little girl. "it wouldn't be at all like a birthday without a cake! and ten candles on top, all lighted! last year i only had nine candles. but now i can have ten! ten candles! ten candles on my birthday cake!" sang the happy little girl again and again. "ten candles! ten candles!" "you had better go to the store, instead of singing so much!" laughed her mother. "sing on your way, if you like. but don't forget the flour, sugar and eggs." "i'll get them," said the little girl, and off she started, taking a short cut through the woods to reach the store more quickly. these woods were the same ones in which uncle wiggily had built his hollow stump bungalow, and about the same time the little girl started off to get the things for her birthday cake the bunny rabbit gentleman stood on his front porch. "where are you going?" asked nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, his muskrat lady housekeeper. "oh, just to hop through the forest, to look for an adventure," answered mr. longears. "i haven't had one since i helped dig the rain-trench about the tent of the camping boys." "i should think that would be enough to last a long time," spoke miss fuzzy wuzzy. "oh, no. i need a new adventure every day!" laughed the bunny, and over the fields and through the woods he hopped. now uncle wiggily had not gone very far before, all of a sudden, he stepped into a trap. it was a spring trap, set in the woods by some hunter who had covered it with dried leaves so it could not easily be seen. that's the way hunters fool the wild animals. and, not seeing the trap, uncle wiggily hopped right into it. "snap!" went the jaws of the trap together, catching the poor bunny gentleman fast by one hind leg. "oh, my!" cried mr. longears. "i'm caught! but it is fortunate that it is a smooth-jawed trap, and not the kind with sharp teeth. if i could only get my leg loose i'd be all right; except that my paw might be lame and stiff for a few days. i must try to get out!" uncle wiggily tried to pull his paw from the trap, but it was of no use. the spring held the jaws too tightly together. the bunny gentleman twinkled his pink nose as hard as he could, and he even tried to pry apart the trap jaws with his red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch. but he couldn't. "oh, dear!" though uncle wiggily. "i must call for help. perhaps neddie stubtail, the strong boy bear, will hear me. he could easily spring open this trap and set me free." so the bunny gentleman called as loudly as he could: "help! help!" of course he talked animal talk, and for this reason the little girl, who was going to have a birthday cake, with ten candles on it, did not know what uncle wiggily was saying. she heard him making a noise, though, for she passed the place where the bunny was caught in the trap, soon after the accident happened. "i wonder what that funny noise is?" said the little girl, as uncle wiggily again called for help. "it sounds like some animal. i wish i understood animal talk!" uncle wiggily wished, with all his heart, that the little girl could hear what he was saying, for he was calling for help. the bunny understood girl-talk, and he knew what this girl was saying, for she spoke her thoughts out loud. "but she doesn't know what i want!" said poor uncle wiggily to himself. "she is sure to be good and kind, as all girls are, and if i could only get her to come over this way she might take me out of the trap." the little girl, on her way home from the store, had come to a stop not far from uncle wiggily, but she could not see him because he was behind a bush. "i must make some kind of a noise that she will hear," thought the bunny. then he thrashed around in the bushes with his crutch, rattling the dried leaves and the green bushes, and the little girl heard this noise. "oh, maybe a bird is caught in a big cobweb!" said the little girl. "i'll get it loose--i love the birds!" putting down her bundle of flour, sugar and eggs on a flat stump, she made her way through the bushes until she saw where uncle wiggily was caught in the trap. [illustration: "i wish you would come to my birthday party!"] "oh, what a funny rabbit!" cried the little girl as she looked at the bunny gentleman all dressed, as he always was when he went to look for an adventure. "he looks just like a picture on an easter card!" laughed the little girl. "i wish i had him at my party!" "well, i wish she'd take this trap off my paw!" thought uncle wiggily, though of course he could say nothing, however much he could hear. then the little girl looked down among the leaves and saw where the trap pinched uncle wiggily. "oh, you poor bunny rabbit!" she cried. "i'll set you loose." very gently she pressed her foot on the spring of the trap, to open it. and when the jaws were opened uncle wiggily could lift out his paw, which he did. he hopped a little way over the dried leaves, limping a bit, for the pinching trap had pained him. then, coming to a stop on a smooth, grassy place, the bunny leaned on his red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch and, taking off his tall silk hat, he made a low and polite bow to the little girl. "thank you for having done me a great favor!" said uncle wiggily in animal talk. "i wish i could do one for you!" but of course the little girl could not understand this bunny language, so she only laughed and said: "oh, what a dear, funny bunny! with a tall hat and everything! i wish you would come to my birthday party! i'm going to have a cake with ten lighted candles on!" "thank you, i'd like to come, but it is out of the question," answered uncle wiggily in his own talk. then, with another low and polite bow, he hopped away. the little girl picked up the things she had bought at the store and went home. "you'll never guess what i saw in the woods," she told her mother. "a bunny rabbit, all dressed in a black coat and red trousers, was caught in a trap, and i set him free!" "nonsense!" laughed mother. "whoever heard of a rabbit like that? you are so excited about your birthday cake that you were dreaming, i think!" "oh, no, mother! i didn't dream!" said the little girl. "really i didn't!" "well, never mind. now we'll make your birthday cake," answered mother. the birthday cake was mixed and baked in the oven, and on top was spread pink frosting. "we'll put the candles on to-morrow, when you have your party," mother told the little girl. to-morrow came, after a night in which cora janet, which was the little girl's name, had dreamed about riding in an airship, with a bunny gentleman dressed up like a soldier. in the afternoon many boys and girls came to cora janet's birthday party. "oh, how lovely everything is!" exclaimed a little boy, when he was given his second dish of ice cream. "wait until you see my birthday cake with ten candles on!" whispered cora janet. when it was almost time to bring on the lighted cake, mother called cora janet out into the kitchen. "did you get the candles, cora?" mother asked. "why, no!" the little girl answered. "i--i thought we had candles!" "and i thought i told you to get them," mother went on. "there isn't one in the house! i've looked everywhere. never mind, perhaps i can borrow some next door. go back to your friends." "oh, i do hope you can get candles!" sighed cora janet. "a birthday cake without candles will hardly be right!" mother asked the lady who lived next door, on one side, if she had any candles. "not a one, i'm sorry to say," was the answer. then mother asked the lady on the other side. "oh, i never use candles," this lady replied, coming out on her back stoop to talk over the fence to cora janet's mother. "i'm so sorry!" "well, i guess they'll have to eat the cake without any birthday candles on," said mother. "cora janet will be so disappointed, too, as she is such an imaginative child! just fancy, mrs. blake, she came home yesterday, and told about helping out of a trap an old rabbit gentleman, with a tall silk hat!" "the idea! she must have dreamed it!" said mrs. blake. "no, she didn't dream it! that really happened!" said uncle wiggily to himself, who was just then hopping through the fields back of the house where cora janet lived. "so this is her home, is it?" went on the bunny gentleman to himself. "and she hasn't any candles for her birthday cake! too bad!" uncle wiggily had hopped along just in time to hear cora janet's mother asking for candles of the neighbors. "it's so late that all the stores are closed," went on mrs. blake, "or i'd go get some candles for cora." "never mind," spoke mother. "she will have to bear her disappointment as best she can." "no! that must not be!" said uncle wiggily to himself. "i cannot give her real candles, but i can leave on her steps some slivers of the pine tree. they have in them pitch, tar and resin and will burn almost like candles. when i was a rabbit boy i often lighted these pine-tree candles." not far away were the woods, and, hopping across the field in the dusk of the evening, uncle wiggily, with his sharp teeth, soon gnawed off some pine-knot splinters from one of the trees. in olden times, when there were no electric or kerosene lamps, children used to study their lessons in front of the fireplaces, by these pine knots. "these will do for birthday-cake candles," whispered uncle wiggily, as he hopped back to cora janet's house with a paw full of the pine knots. he put them on the stoop, and then, with his hind paws, he kicked some gravel from the front walk up against the dining-room windows. "what's that?" asked cora janet, as she heard the noise. "some bad boys playing tick-tack," said one of the girls at the party. "they're playing tricks because they weren't asked." "i'll see who it is," spoke mother. she went out on the porch. there she saw the pile of pine-knot slivers. having lived in the country when she was a girl, mother knew that these bits of wood could be used for candles. "oh, now i can make the birthday cake blaze most brightly!" exclaimed mother. into the house she hurried. she stuck ten pine-knot slivers on the cake, for uncle wiggily had left a full dozen, not knowing exactly how old cora janet was. then, when the pine knots were lighted, mother carried the cake into the room where the boys and girls were wishing cora janet many happy returns for her birthday. "oh, where did you get the candles?" asked cora. "i guess the rabbit you dreamed you saw must have left them," answered mother, in fun, of course, for she never thought that really could happen. "dream-candles or not, they are lovely!" murmured the little girl. and everyone at the party said the same thing. they watched cora janet as, one by one, she blew out the pine candles on her birthday cake. and when the last one flickered away, the cake was cut amid the joyous laughter of the boys and girls. "well, i'm glad i could do her a favor," said the bunny rabbit to himself, as hidden under the lilac bush, he heard and saw all that went on. "i shall always love cora janet!" and he did. so if the needle doesn't wink its eye when it sits on the sewing-machine to read the paper of pins, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the new year's horn. story xxvii uncle wiggily and the new year's horn christmas had come and gone, and the next holiday for the boys and girls who lived in the village outside of uncle wiggily's forest was to be new year's day. i call it uncle wiggily's forest for on one edge of it the bunny rabbit gentleman had built himself a hollow stump bungalow. there he lived with nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, his muskrat lady housekeeper. on the farther side of the wood was the village where many real boys and girls had their homes. to them, as i say, christmas had come and gone, bringing to most of them presents which they liked very much. "i'm going to have a lot of fun on new year's," said one boy to another as they were coasting on the hill the last day of the old year. "what are you going to do?" asked the other boy. "i'm going to blow the old year out and the new year in," was the answer. "gracious me sakes alive!" thought uncle wiggily longears, the bunny rabbit gentleman, who happened to be resting under a bush near where the boys were coasting down hill. "i hope he doesn't blow the old year so far away that the new year will be afraid to come in," said mr. longears to himself. then he listened again, for the boys were talking further. "how you going to blow?" one lad wanted to know. "with my christmas horn," was the answer. "i got a dandy horn for christmas. to-night is new year's eve. my father said i could stay up late. at twelve o'clock the old year goes away and the new year comes, and we're going to have a party at our house, and i'm going to blow my horn like anything!" "so'm i," said several other boys. "where does the old year go when you blow it away?" asked a lad who had red hair and freckles. "oh, i don't know," answered the boy who had first talked of his christmas horn. "it just goes--that's all! it disappears same as the hole in a doughnut when you eat it." "you don't eat the _hole_!" declared another boy. "well, you eat all around it," was the answer, "and then there isn't any hole any more. it's the same with the old year. after twelve o'clock on december there isn't any old year any more. it's january the first, and it's the new year. i'm going to blow my horn loud! all the fellows are!" "we will, too!" cried the rest of the boys. but one lad, who had a clumsy, home-made sled on the hill, did not say he was going to blow the new year in. he turned away as the other lads talked of their coming fun. someone asked him: "are you going to watch the old year out, jimmy?" "no, i guess not," was the answer. "i'm going to sleep." "the noise will wake you up," someone suggested. "well, then i'll go to sleep again," was the answer. "i guess the reason jimmy won't blow the old year out and the new year in is because he hasn't any horn," said a boy with a fine new blue sled. "he didn't get hardly anything for christmas." "that's too bad!" softly spoke the lad who had first mentioned about blowing in the new year. "maybe i can find an old horn at my house, and i'll take it to him. if i could find two i'd take another to his sister. but i don't believe i can." "oh, won't we have fun, blowing the new year in?" cried the boys, as they walked to the top of the hill so they might coast down. but jimmy did not join in the joyous shout. he was a poor boy, and, as the others had said, he had not found much in his stocking at christmas. certainly there was no bright tooting horn! "this is too bad!" thought uncle wiggily, as he hopped back to his hollow stump bungalow, after the coasting boys were out of the way so they would not see him. "i wonder how i could get a new year's horn for that poor boy?" the bunny gentleman was wondering about this, but he could not seem to think of any plan, when, as he was about to hop up his bungalow steps, he saw billie wagtail, the goat boy. "oh, uncle wiggily!" bleated billie. "see my new horns!" "your new horns!" exclaimed mr. longears, turning toward the goat chap. "are you going to blow the new year in, also?" "yes, but not with these horns," went on billie. "i mean, see the new horns on my head. i was ill, you know, and my old horns dropped off, and now i have these new ones," and he shook his head, on which were two long, curving sharp horns. "i'm going to blow the new year in," bleated the boy goat, "but not on my head horns; on my christmas tin horn." "that's more than one boy whom i know about is going to do," said uncle wiggily a little sadly. then the bunny gentleman had a sudden thought. "do you s'pose, billie," he asked the goat boy, "that your old horns could be made into blowing ones for new year's?" "why, yes, i guess so," billie answered. "but you'd have to saw off one end to make a place to blow in. my horns are partly hollow and if you blew in the little end, after making a hole there, the noise would come out the other end." [illustration: "oh, uncle wiggily!" bleated billie. "see my new horns!"] "then i know what i can do!" exclaimed uncle wiggily. "get me your old horns, billie boy, and i'll fix them up for new year's blowing. i know how to do it!" the wagtail goat chap gave the bunny gentleman the old horns. uncle wiggily took them into his bungalow, and he and nurse jane washed them clean and polished them. then, with her sharp teeth, the muskrat lady gnawed a little off the small end of each horn, so they could be blown through. uncle wiggily made two wooden whistles and fastened one in the small end of each horn. "now i'll try it, janie," he said to miss fuzzy wuzzy. uncle wiggily blew into the small end of one horn. out of the other end came a sweet tooting sound. "hurray!" cried the bunny gentleman. "these will be just right for new year's! i'll take one to the poor boy and one to his sister. then they can celebrate with their friends who have regular tin horns." "it is very kind of you to be so thoughtful," said nurse jane. "and it was kind of you to help me make the new year's horns from billie's old ones," spoke uncle wiggily, as he skipped along, for it was getting dark and soon the old year would go away--like the hole in the doughnut--and the new year would come, to bring with it fourth of july, birthdays and christmas. up the steps of the house of the poor boy and girl who had no new year's horns to blow hopped uncle wiggily. no one saw him in the dusk. he placed the horns on the doormat, tapped three times with his red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch on the porch, and then hopped away. "what was that?" asked the girl of the boy. "i'll go see," he answered. the boy opened the door and saw, in the light of the moon, which just then came from behind a cloud, the two goat horns made into new year's "tooters." "oh, hurray!" shouted the boy, as he blew on one of the horns. "now we can send the old year on its way and tell the new year how glad we are to see him. hurray!" "and i can blow, too!" laughed the girl. "hurray!" her brother gave her the other horn, and when twelve o'clock midnight came, the children blew on the tooters as loudly as they could. so did all the other boys and girls in the village; and the animal boys and girls in their nest-houses and burrows also blew on horns and wooden whistles to welcome the new year. all over the land the bells rang and horns were blown. uncle wiggily heard them in his hollow stump bungalow, and so did nurse jane. "happy new year!" wished the muskrat lady. "happy new year!" echoed the bunny gentleman. the boy and girl, blowing billie wagtail's old horns, danced around their father and mother, wishing them a happy new year also. "where did you get the horns?" asked mother. "oh, i guess santa claus dropped them, on his way back to the north pole," answered the boy. but we know better than that; don't we? so, after all, everything came out right, and the boy and girl were very happy with their queer new year's horns. but if the jumping jack doesn't tickle the lollypop with the sharp end of the ice-cream cone, and make it fall off the stick, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily's thanksgiving. story xxviii uncle wiggily's thanksgiving there came, one afternoon, a knock at the door of the hollow stump bungalow where uncle wiggily longears lived. "do you s'pose that can be the fuzzy fox or the woozie wolf?" anxiously asked nurse jane, the muskrat lady housekeeper. "no," answered the bunny gentleman. "they would not dare come boldly up to my bungalow, in broad daylight, though if it were night they might come sneaking along, trying to nibble my ears. i suppose this may be sammie or susie littletail, or johnnie or billie bushytail. i'll let them in." but when uncle wiggily opened the door, in came rushing a great big turkey gobbler gentleman. in his bill he carried a basket in which set a dish filled with something red. "i have it, uncle wiggily! i have it!" exclaimed the turkey. "i picked it up and ran away with it! now they can't have any thanksgiving and i'll be safe! shut the door!" he gobbled, and setting the basket on the floor he scuttled behind a chair, while nurse jane and uncle wiggily were so surprised they hardly knew what to do. "_what_ in the world have you brought with you, mr. gobble obble?" asked the bunny gentleman. gobble obble was the turkey's name. "the _cranberry sauce_," was the answer. "at our house, where i have been living, they are making a great fuss over thanksgiving, which will happen in a few days. they have been feeding me up to fatten me, and every day the man would come out and look at me; though i didn't know what for until i heard the children talking about it." "talking about what?" nurse jane wanted to know. "_thanksgiving_," gobbled the turkey. "this morning i heard the cook say: 'that gobbler is fat enough to roast, now. i think i'll make the cranberry sauce. it will be thanksgiving soon!'" "then," went on the turkey, "i knew why they had been feeding me things to make me fat! you can't imagine how i felt! well, the cook made the cranberry sauce. she put it in a dish and set it out on the back steps to cool. i watched my chance, picked it up and ran over here. there's the cranberry sauce!" and mr. gobble obble pointed to it with one wing. "but why in the world did you bring away the cranberry sauce? what good is that going to do you?" asked uncle wiggily, very much puzzled by the turkey's queer talk and actions. "listen," gobbled the turkey. "i heard one of the children say that thanksgiving wouldn't be thanksgiving without _turkey and cranberry sauce_! then, thinks i to myself, if i run away, and take the cranberry sauce with me, there will be no thanksgiving, and many poor turkeys will be glad of it." "ha! ha! ha!" laughed uncle wiggily, chuckling so hard that his pink nose twinkled like a lightning bug on fourth of july. "what's the matter?" asked mr. gobble obble. "won't you be good enough to hide me and the cranberry sauce until after thanksgiving? then i'll be safe." "of course you may stay here," said the bunny gentleman. "but the idea of thinking you can stop thanksgiving by hiding yourself, or the cranberry sauce!" "can't i?" asked mr. gobble obble, doubtful-like. "of course you can't!" exclaimed mr. longears. "why, thanksgiving doesn't mean just feasting on turkey, ice cream and cranberries!" "it does at the house i ran away from," said mr. gobble obble. "yes, and i suppose it does at many other houses," went on the bunny gentleman. "but thanksgiving is really a time in which to be thankful for the things one has had to eat all the year--for that, and other blessings. the pilgrim fathers, who came over to live among the indians, were thankful for even a little parched corn." "what are indians?" asked the turkey, who had never studied history. "wild men, who wore feathers such as yours," said nurse jane. "they are indians." "i'll tell you about the indians some day," promised uncle wiggily. "now we must talk more about thanksgiving." "i don't like to talk about it," sighed mr. gobble obble. "it isn't a happy thing for me even to think about, much less talk about!" "but you shouldn't have run away with the cranberry sauce," went on the bunny gentleman. "i'm afraid i shall have to ask you to take it back." "all right--i will," promised mr. gobble obble. "but i'll go after dark, so the cook won't see me. then i'll come here again and stay with you and nurse jane." "yes, do," invited the bunny. "spend thanksgiving with us." so when it grew dark mr. gobble obble picked up the basket of cranberry sauce in his bill, and went over the fields and through the woods to the village, where lived the real boys and girls and their fathers and mothers. softly and silently, like the shadow of a feathered indian, the turkey made his way to the back stoop. there he set down the cranberry sauce and scuttled over to uncle wiggily's hollow stump bungalow again. days and nights came and went, and then it was thanksgiving. "very lucky am i to live to see this day," gobbled the turkey as he ate breakfast with uncle wiggily and nurse jane. "if i hadn't run away with the cranberry sauce i'd be roasting in the oven now!" "well, i'm glad you aren't," spoke the bunny. "though of course it wasn't right for you to take the cranberry sauce." "they'll have that for thanksgiving, anyhow," remarked nurse jane. "but now, wiggy," she went on, "if i get the baskets ready, will you start out with them?" "yes, miss fuzzy wuzzy," answered the bunny gentleman, twinkling his pink nose. "what baskets are you speaking of?" asked mr. gobble obble, as he saw the muskrat lady putting carrot cakes, turnip flopovers and lettuce sandwiches up in little bundles. "these are for the poor folk of animal land," answered uncle wiggily. "each year, at thanksgiving, nurse jane puts up a good dinner for them, and i take the baskets around in my automobile." "how nice!" gobbled the turkey. "may i help? i'm so thankful for not being in the oven, that i'd like to make some one else thankful too, if i could." "that's the idea!" cried the bunny. "yes, come along, mr. gobble obble!" soon the bunny gentleman had filled his automobile with baskets of good things packed by nurse jane. over the fields and through the woods rode uncle wiggily and the turkey gentleman, and many a poor animal family was the happier for uncle wiggily's visit. and at last, when the final basket had been left, and uncle wiggily and the turkey were on their way back to the bungalow, out from behind a bush jumped the bad old fuzzy fox. "i want to nibble uncle wiggily's ears for my thanksgiving dinner!" howled the fox. "i want ears to nibble!" "well, you can't--not to-day!" laughed uncle wiggily, and he made the auto go so fast that the fox was left far, far behind. "oh, ho!" gobbled the turkey as they came within sight of the stump bungalow. "this ride will give us a good appetite for the thanksgiving dinner." "indeed it will!" laughed the bunny. but when they went inside, and met nurse jane, the muskrat lady looked at them in such a queer way that uncle wiggily asked: "what is the matter, miss fuzz wuzz?" (he sometimes called her that in fun.) "has anything happened?" "yes, uncle wiggily, there has," sadly answered the muskrat lady housekeeper. "i will not keep it from you!" "have--have they come after me?" asked the turkey in a faint and far-off voice. "have they?" "oh, no," said nurse jane. "but by mistake i packed up everything in the house to eat in those thanksgiving baskets, uncle wiggily! i didn't save out a thing for ourselves, and what to do about your thanksgiving dinner i don't know! i'm so sorry----" "tut! tut! never mind," broke in uncle wiggily kindly. "i dare say we shall find something to nibble on. a couple of carrots will do me." "well, i have _those_," nurse jane said, "and a little corn." "i love corn!" gobbled the turkey. "i can eat it myself," the muskrat lady declared. "so if you can put up with that for thanksgiving, we'll eat!" then they sat down to the corn and carrots, and uncle wiggily said: "i'm thankful i could make the auto go so fast that we ran away from the fox." "so am i," agreed the gobbler. "and i'm thankful i'm here sitting up to the dining table, instead of being nicely roasted on _top_ of it! and i'm thankful i could help you feed the poor animal families." "i'm thankful," spoke nurse jane, "because you two gentlemen didn't scold and make a fuss when you found what a mistake i'd made about the dinner." "ha! ha!" laughed uncle wiggily. "then we are _all_ thankful, and there could not possibly be a better thanksgiving than this!" so they ate the corn and carrots and were very happy. and if the jumping jack doesn't waggle his tail like a skyrocket and knock over the milk bottles so they think they're roller skates and slide down the back stoop, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the circus. story xxix uncle wiggily at the circus jackie bow wow, the little puppy dog boy, came running up to uncle wiggily one morning, so excited that he barked three times and fell down twice, stubbing his toe over a lollypop stick on the path. "oh, uncle wiggily!" barked jackie. "what you think? there's pictures of elephants, and tigers and lions and camels! there's a man putting up a big tent! there are red wagons and golden chariots, and blue wagons and one that plays funny tunes!" "and there's a man with his face all painted red, white and blue, just like your rheumatism crutch!" barked peetie bow wow, the other little puppy dog chap, as he ran up wagging his tail. "and there's popcorn, peanuts and pink lemonade! wuff! wuff!" "what's it all about?" asked the bunny rabbit gentleman, as he sat down on the steps of his hollow stump bungalow, while the puppy dog boys caught their breaths, which had nearly run away from them. "it's a circus!" cried jackie and peetie just like twins, which they almost were. "a real circus!" "a circus!" exclaimed uncle wiggily. "that's nice! do you mean it is the kind you animal boys sometimes get up; where you charge two pins to get in and three pins for a seat?" "oh, no! it's a regular man-circus, that real boys and girls go to see!" barked jackie. "it's like the kind we once ran away and joined, where we learned to do jumping, to turn somersaults and other tricks," explained peetie. "well, if it's that kind of a circus," spoke uncle wiggily, "we needn't bother our heads about it. we animal folk can't go to any real circus, you know!" "oh, but that's what we came to see you for!" whined jackie. "we want you to take us to the circus!" "take you to the circus!" cried uncle wiggily. "why, the very idea! how would an old rabbit gentleman and two funny puppy dog boys look walking into a real circus? the men would think we belonged to it, and had somehow gotten out of our cages. they'd shut us up behind the iron bars, as the lions and tigers are kept. take you two to the circus! oh, no! it couldn't be thought of!" "oh, dear!" sighed jackie. "we told the others that you'd take us," softly barked peetie. "what others?" uncle wiggily wanted to know, curious like. "oh, sammie and susie littletail, johnnie and billie bushytail, lulu, alice and jimmie wibblewobble, and a lot of the animal boys and girls," went on peetie. "we were over on the edge of the woods, looking at the circus men put up the tent and the colored posters, and we all thought you'd take us." "baby bunty will be so disappointed!" said jackie. uncle wiggily twinkled his pink nose serious like and thoughtful. "hum! circus!" murmured the old rabbit gentleman. "so baby bunty wants to go, does she? well, she never saw a circus, not even a make-believe one, such as you boys get up. now i don't care for a circus _myself_--i've seen too many of 'em. but i'll go--just to take baby bunty!" "and may we come?" asked jackie, eagerly. "oh, well, yes, i s'pose so!" slowly answered mr. longears. "nurse jane will say i'm queer; but what matter? a circus comes but once a year! now run along, doggie boys. i'll have to think up some way of getting all of you into the circus tent, for we can't buy tickets and go in the regular way. the circus men wouldn't understand." jackie and peetie were so delighted that they turned somersaults all the way across the field as they ran to tell the other animal boys and girls. meanwhile uncle wiggily hopped along on his red, white and blue twinkling nose----oh, listen to me, would you! i mean his rheumatism crutch. i guess i'm getting excited about the circus. anyhow uncle wiggily hopped across the field to the edge of the forest where jackie and peetie had said the big show was going to be given that afternoon. surely enough there was the large white tent, much larger than the one the camping boys had used the time uncle wiggily helped dig a rain-water canal for the lads, so they would have dry beds to sleep in. there was the circus tent! and there were red, green, yellow, blue and purple posters showing pictures of lions, tigers, camels, elephants and all such wild animals. "it's a regular circus surely enough," said uncle wiggily to himself. "but how am i going to get in with the animal boys and girls? i can't go up to the wagon and buy tickets, much as i'd like to. i can't speak man-talk, though i can understand it. how can i get in?" just then uncle wiggily saw two real boys slowly walking around outside the big tent. they seemed to be looking for something. [illustration: "it's a circus, surely enough," said uncle wiggily.] "i hope they haven't lost their ticket money," thought the bunny. one boy said to the other: "here's a good place to get in!" "all right! crawl under!" exclaimed the other. then those two boys suddenly crawled under the circus tent, because they had no money to buy tickets. uncle wiggily watched them. "why! the idea!" exclaimed mr. longears. "what a way to get in! why--i have it! that's how i can get in with the animal children! i can crawl under the tent! of course i wouldn't do it that way if i could buy them tickets, and get in the regular way. but i can't--the ticket man wouldn't understand if i hopped up with green or yellow leaf money. crawling under the tent is the only way." uncle wiggily hopped back to the woods where he had built his hollow stump bungalow. the animal children were gathered about waiting for him. "come on. it's time to start!" said susie littletail, who had on her best hat made of green ferns. "where are you going, wiggy?" asked nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, as she saw the bunny gentleman starting off at the head of the procession of animal boys and girls. "oh, i'm just going to take baby bunty to the circus," said mr. longears, holding the littlest rabbit girl by her paw. "are you sure you aren't going for _yourself_?" asked nurse jane with a laugh. "of course not!" exclaimed the bunny. "the idea!" on he hopped with the animal children, and when they came near to the edge of the woods, where the circus tent gleamed white amid the green trees, uncle wiggily said: "wait here, children, until i hop ahead and see if everything is all right." the bunny, hiding behind a bush, looked across a little field at the tent. he saw two more boys walk softly up and try to crawl under the white canvas, but all at once a man with a big club rushed up, drove away the boys, and cried: "no, you don't! you can't get in this circus that way!" "oh, dear!" thought uncle wiggily. "if men are on guard to keep boys from crawling under the tent, they won't let me in with the animal children! what can i do? baby bunty will be so disappointed! ha! i know! i'll start here in this field, and dig a burrow, or tunnel under ground. i'll slant it down until i'm beneath the tent, and then i'll slant it up, so when we come out we'll be inside the tent. in that way the men with clubs will not see us!" uncle wiggily hopped back to the waiting animal children. "i'll have to dig a tunnel-burrow to get you into the circus," said the bunny. "stay here and keep quiet!" starting in the field, behind the bushes and a little way from the circus tent, uncle wiggily began to dig. he was a fast worker, and soon he had dug the burrow all the way through. he came out inside the circus tent, beneath the rows of seats on which were perched many boys, girls and grown folk watching the funny clowns, listening to the band, seeing the men on the high trapeze bars and looking at the horses. "ha! the circus is just beginning!" said uncle wiggily to himself, as the big bass drum boomed out: "zoom! zoom!" he crawled back through the burrow and got the animal children in line. "forward march!" cried uncle wiggily, and through the underground burrow crawled the rabbits, squirrels, puppy dogs, pussy cats, chickens, ducks, guinea pigs and all the smaller animal friends of the rabbit gentleman. they were not seen by the men with clubs, because they crawled beneath the tent far below the ground. then they came up inside the circus, under the high tier of seats. "oh, isn't it wonderful!" cried baby bunty, keeping hold of uncle wiggily's paw. "hush!" whispered the rabbit gentleman. "don't let the people up above know we're down here or they might chase us out!" so there sat mr. longears and his little friends, having a fine view of the circus almost from start to finish. and the people sitting on the seats above dropped peanuts and kernels of popcorn which the animal children picked up and ate. the only thing they didn't have was pink lemonade, but perhaps that was not good for them. and at last, when the band began to play like anything, and the horses and elephants raced around the big ring, uncle wiggily said: "come, now. the circus is ended. we had better get out before the crowd starts or we may be stepped on. did you like it, baby bunty?" "oh, it was the most wonderful thing i ever saw!" sighed the little rabbit girl. "thank you, ever so much!" "yes, and we thank you also, uncle wiggily," called the other animal children. then they crawled down through the burrow again, outside the tent and came into the woods, through which they scampered to their different homes. but they had been to the circus! and if the window curtain doesn't roll up so fast that it flies to the top of the ceiling, taking the gold fish with it, you shall next hear about uncle wiggily and the lion. story xxx uncle wiggily and the lion once upon a time, as uncle wiggily was hopping through the woods, he heard a roaring sound, coming, it seemed, from a distant clump of trees. "oh, ho!" exclaimed the bunny rabbit gentleman. "that's thunder! i suppose we are going to have a storm. i didn't bring my umbrella, but i can find a large toadstool, or mushroom. that will do as well." the animal folk often use toadstools for umbrellas, you know, and uncle wiggily had done this more than once. the bunny hopped on a little farther, and the roaring, rumbling sound boomed out again. "the thunder is coming nearer," thought mr. longears. "i had better hurry if i am going to pick a toadstool umbrella!" he limped on his red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch over toward a large mushroom (which, of course, isn't the same as a toadstool, though they look alike), and uncle wiggily was just breaking off the stem, so he would not get wet in the thunder shower, when, all of a sudden, a loud voice asked: "can you please tell me where the circus went to?" uncle wiggily turned so quickly that he nearly lost the twinkle from the end of his pink nose. for the voice that spoke was almost as loud as thunder. "was that you making the noise like a storm?" asked the bunny as he saw a large yellow creature, with a great head, surrounded by a fluffy mane, and a tail on the end of which was a bunch of hair. "it was," answered the big animal. "i'll try to speak more gently if it hurts your ears. but, naturally, i have a loud voice, being a lion, you know." "yes, i knew you were a lion. i remember seeing you in the circus," spoke the bunny gentleman, who was not at all afraid. "but tell me, why aren't you with the show now?" "because i ran away," the lion answered. "i got tired of being shut up in my cage all the while, and, when the man left the iron door open i slipped out. i've been hiding in the woods ever since; but it is not as much fun as i thought it would be. now i wish i could go back to the circus. can you please tell me where it is?" "i am sorry to say i cannot," uncle wiggily answered. "but if you will come with me to my hollow stump bungalow--not that you can get inside, for you are too large--why, perhaps nurse jane may know where your circus is. she knows nearly everything." "who is nurse jane?" asked the lion. "she is miss fuzzy wuzzy, my muskrat lady housekeeper," replied the bunny gentleman. "a rat, is she?" went on the lion. "i don't know much about rats, but once a mouse gnawed the ropes, when i was caught in a net, and set me free--that was before i joined the circus." "well, a muskrat is something like a big mouse," said uncle wiggily, "so i think you will like nurse jane." "i'm sure i shall," the lion rumbled, trying to make his voice soft and gentle. "well, then," went on uncle wiggily, "please come along with me, and i'll try to find the circus for you. nurse jane may know where it moved to, or some of the animal boys and girls may tell us." so uncle wiggily hopped through the woods, the lion stalking along beside him, and soon they reached the hollow stump bungalow of the bunny gentleman. "nurse jane! nurse jane!" called mr. longears. "i have brought home a friend with me!" "not to dinner, i hope, wiggy," remarked miss fuzzy wuzzy, from inside the bungalow. "i have a dreadful headache! i haven't been able to wash the breakfast dishes yet, and as for making the beds, and dusting the furniture--it is out of the question! so if you want dinner----" "please tell her not to bother," whispered the lion. "i am not hungry and----" "is that thunder?" asked the muskrat lady, thrusting her head, tied up in a wet towel, from her bedroom window. and when the muskrat lady saw the big lion she screamed. "pray do not be frightened, my dear miss fuzzy wuzzy," the lion said. "i just came with uncle wiggily to inquire where i might find the circus, from which i foolishly ran away. but i'll toddle on, and not bother you, since you are ill." "oh, it isn't really any bother," spoke the muskrat lady. "i could get you a cup of tea. it was only your loud voice that startled me." "i'm sorry," rumbled the lion, as gently as he could. "i'm afraid my voice is rather louder than the purr of a pussy cat. but i can't help it." "oh, of course not!" agreed nurse jane. "i wish i could ask you in, but our bungalow was not made for lions." "i'll come in and get him something he can eat outside," offered uncle wiggily. "by that time some of the animal boys or girls, who know where the circus went, may come along, since you don't know, nurse jane." [illustration: he ate nearly all the bungalow] "no, i am sorry to say i don't know," spoke the muskrat lady, as she went back to bed with her headache. uncle wiggily took some carrot soup and some lettuce tea out to the lion, but though the tawny creature said he was not hungry, he ate nearly all there was in the bungalow, for his appetite was much larger than that of the muskrat lady or mr. longears. "and now i would like to do you and nurse jane a favor," went on the circus chap, licking the soup off his whiskers with his red tongue. "couldn't i help wash the dishes or make the beds?" "i'm afraid not!" laughed uncle wiggily, thinking how funny it would look to see a lion making a rabbit's bed. "yes, i suppose i am too large to get in the bungalow," went on the roaring chap, in as gentle a voice as he could make come from his throat. "but i know one way in which i can help!" "how?" asked uncle wiggily. "with my tail," said the lion. "that isn't too large to put through one of your windows. and on the end of my tail is a tuft of fluffy hair, just like a dusting brush. please let me stick my tail in through the different windows. then i can switch it around, and dust the furniture for nurse jane." "do you think you can?" asked the bunny, doubtful-like. "of course!" said the lion. "true, i never before have dusted furniture in a bunny's hollow stump bungalow, but that is no reason for not trying. please give me a chance!" so uncle wiggily opened all the windows. the lion backed up, and thrust his tail first in one and then in another. when his tail was in the parlor he switched it around--i mean he switched his tail around--and the fluffy tuft of hair on the end knocked all the dust off the chairs, table and piano. soon the parlor was as nicely dusted as nurse jane could have done it herself. in this way, with his tail, the lion dusted all the rooms in the bungalow, even the one where nurse jane was lying down with a headache. and when the muskrat lady saw the lion's fluffy tail switching around on her chairs in such a funny way, she laughed, and then, in a little while, her headache was all better. "you certainly are a good houseworker," said the muskrat lady as she got up and drank a cup of tea. "and you have done me a great favor." "pray do not mention it," spoke the lion politely as he flapped his tail in the air to rid it of dust. "it was a pleasure!" then along came jacko kinkytail, the monkey boy, and he said the circus had moved on to a town about ten miles away. "thank you! i'll travel there and get back in my cage," rumbled the lion. then, with a polite bow to nurse jane and mr. longears, the tawny, yellow chap with the big voice walked away through the forest. and every time the muskrat lady thought of the lion thrusting his tail in through the window to dust the furniture she had to laugh. now would you like to hear a story about uncle wiggily and the tiger? well, you may if the scrubbing brush doesn't take the cake of soap out to the washrag's party and forget to bring it back for the bathtub to play ball with. story xxxi uncle wiggily and the tiger "uncle wiggily! oh, uncle wiggily!" called a voice after the rabbit gentleman, as he was hopping away from his hollow stump bungalow one morning. "what's the matter now?" inquired the bunny, turning around so quickly that his tall silk hat nearly slipped down over his pink, twinkling nose. "does the woozie wolf or the fuzzy fox wish to nibble my ears?" "i hope not!" exclaimed nurse jane, the muskrat lady housekeeper, for she it was who had called. "but will you please take my scissors with you, uncle wiggily?" "take your scissors? what for?" asked mr. longears. "to have them sharpened," answered miss fuzzy wuzzy. "they are so dull i can hardly cut anything, and i want to cut some linen up into new sheets and pillow cases. take my scissors along with you, wiggy dear, and have them made good and sharp." "i will," promised the bunny rabbit gentleman. then, wrapping the dull scissors in a grape-vine leaf, uncle wiggily put them in the top of his tall silk hat, and set the hat on his head. "why do you put them there?" asked nurse jane. "so i'll remember them," the rabbit gentleman answered. "if i put them in my pocket i'd forget them. but now, if i meet mrs. twistytail, the pig lady, or mrs. wibblewobble, the duck lady, and bow to them, i'll take off my hat. out will slide the scissors, and then i'll remember that i am to get them sharpened." "that's a good idea," said nurse jane. "now don't forget to bring them back to me good and sharp. if you don't i can't cut up into sheets and pillow cases the new linen i have bought." "i'll not forget," promised the bunny gentleman. he hopped on and on through the woods, and he had not gone very far before, all of a sudden, he heard a growling, rumbling-umbling noise, a little like far-off thunder. "i wonder if that can be the lion again?" thought uncle wiggily. "perhaps he couldn't find the circus and he has come back to dust more furniture for nurse jane with the end of his tail stuck through a window in the bungalow." uncle wiggily looked through the forest, but he saw no tawny lion. instead he saw, limping toward him, a beast almost as big as the lion, but with a beautiful black and yellow striped coat. "oh, ho! mr. tiger--the one i saw when i went to the circus with baby bunty!" exclaimed uncle wiggily. "this is a tiger!" "yes, i am the striped tiger," answered the other animal. "and, oh, what trouble i am in!" "what is the matter?" kindly asked the rabbit gentleman, for he could see that the tiger was limping and in pain. "i ran a thorn in my foot," went on the black and yellow fellow, "and my eyes are so poor i can't see to pull it out." "perhaps i can," uncle wiggily said. "i have strong glasses." so the bunny gentleman looked through his spectacles, and soon saw the thorn that was in the tiger's foot. it did not take uncle wiggily long to pull it out. "oh, thank you, so much!" growled the tiger, though not in a cross voice. "it serves me right, i suppose, for having run away from the circus." "did you run away, too, as the lion did?" asked uncle wiggily. "yes," answered the striped beast, "we ran away together--the lion, some other animals and myself. but now i'd be glad to run back again." "the lion was," said uncle wiggily. "he was very glad to go back." "don't tell me you have met _him_!" exclaimed the tiger. "where is he?" "he started back yesterday, after stopping at my bungalow and helping nurse jane dust the furniture with his tail through the windows," the bunny answered. "then i'm going back, too!" declared the tiger. "it isn't as much fun roaming by yourself through the woods as i thought it would be. i'm going back!" "before you start," kindly suggested uncle wiggily, "please come to my bungalow with me." "does more furniture need dusting?" asked the tiger, laughing. "i have no fluffy tuft on the end of my tail, as has the lion." "it isn't that," the bunny answered. "but i would like to have nurse jane put some salve on the place where the thorn ran in your paw, and also wrap it up in a rag." "that would be very nice," spoke the tiger. "right gladly will i come with you." so he limped through the forest with the bunny gentleman, and soon they came to the hollow stump bungalow. "more company for you, nurse jane!" called the jolly rabbit uncle. "that's nice," answered miss fuzzy wuzzy. "oh, you're a tiger, aren't you?" she went on, as she saw the striped beast. "and he has a sore paw," spoke uncle wiggily. "will you put salve on it for him, nurse jane?" "of course," answered the muskrat lady. and when the tiger's sore paw was nicely wrapped in a clean rag, he started off through the woods to find the circus. "good-bye, and come again," invited uncle wiggily, making a low and polite bow with his tall silk hat. "i will," promised the tiger. and then the bunny suddenly exclaimed: "oh, your scissors, nurse jane! i forgot all about getting them sharpened," and he picked them up from where they had fallen when he took off his hat. "oh, dear! that's too bad!" said the muskrat lady. "and i wanted to cut the linen in strips to make sheets and pillow cases. now it is so late i'm afraid the sharpening place will be closed." "perhaps i can help," said the tiger, turning back. "can you sharpen scissors?" asked uncle wiggily. "no," was the answer, "but my claws are sharper than any scissors you ever saw. if you and nurse jane will hold the cloth, i will cut it into strips for you with my sharp claws. i don't need to use my sore paw. i'll take my other one." "oh, that will be very kind of you," said nurse jane. "i forgot that tigers have sharp claws." so the muskrat lady and the rabbit gentleman held the linen cloth in front of the tiger, and with his claws he cut and slashed it into just the shapes miss fuzzy wuzzy needed for making sheets and pillow cases. "i am very glad i could do you this favor," the tiger said, when all the linen was cut. "so am i," spoke uncle wiggily, "for if you hadn't been here to use your claws, nurse jane would not have forgiven me for not remembering to get the scissors sharpened. good-bye!" "good-bye!" echoed the tiger, as he walked on to find the circus. and that night he slept in his cage again. so if the doorknob doesn't try to crawl through the keyhole to play bean bag with the rice pudding in the gas stove oven, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the elephant. story xxxii uncle wiggily and the elephant "matches, uncle wiggily! matches!" cried nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy one morning, as the bunny rabbit gentleman was hopping down the forest path, away from his hollow stump bungalow. "what's that? patches?" exclaimed mr. longears. "did i put on my garden trousers that have patches?" and he tried to twist his neck like a corkscrew, so he could look behind him. "no, i didn't say '_patches_'!" laughed nurse jane. "i said _matches_. don't forget to bring me some matches to light the fire, when you come back from looking for an adventure." "oh! matches!" repeated the bunny. "i'll get some for you, nurse jane." over the fields and through the woods hopped the bunny rabbit gentleman. he looked here, there and everywhere for an adventure, but could not seem to find one. the woozie wolf nor the fuzzy fox did not chase him to nibble his ears. not that uncle wiggily wanted them to, but, if they had, that would have been an adventure. "well, perhaps i shall find one when i come back," said the bunny gentleman as he hopped along to the seven and eight cent store, where he bought a box of matches. carrying these fire-sticks in his paw, uncle wiggily was hopping through the forest, on his way back to the hollow stump bungalow when, all at once, the bunny gentleman felt the ground trembling, and he heard a sound like a big horn being blown, and then a loud voice said: "oh, dear! i can't get it out!" "well, what can this be?" thought uncle wiggily. "that horn sounds like the big brass one i heard in the circus. from the way the earth shakes i'd say a big automobile truck was coming along. and as for someone who can't get something out--well, that sounds like trouble! i'd like to help, but first i must see who it is." uncle wiggily looked through the bushes, and at first he thought he saw the side of some big house moving behind the trees. then he noticed something like a great leaf flapping in the wind, and a moment later something long, like a fire hose, was thrust forward. "why, it's an elephant!" exclaimed the bunny, as he caught sight of the big chap. "an elephant is just who i am," was the answer in a rumbling voice, coming through the rubber hose of a trunk. "i'm from the circus, and i wish i might be back there this minute, eating my hay!" "oh, so you have run away from the circus also, like the lion and tiger?" questioned the bunny. "yes," answered the elephant, "i did. but what do you know of my friends, the lion and tiger?" "oh, i have met them," answered mr. longears. "but is that your only sorrow--wishing you were back in the circus?" "indeed it is not," the elephant answered. "i have stepped on a loose stone, and it is fast between the toes of my left hind foot. i can't get it loose by stamping on the ground, and i can't reach so far back with my trunk. i'm in great pain and trouble!" "that is too bad," spoke uncle wiggily. "i guess your stamping on the ground is what i thought was an auto truck coming along." "perhaps," admitted the big circus elephant. "i wish i could get that stone out from between my toes," he went on, stamping so hard that he shook the very trees, making them rustle as though a wind had blown them. "maybe i can help you," said uncle wiggily most kindly. "i have with me my red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch. with that i may be able to poke out the stone that hurts you." "i wish you'd try," begged the elephant. it did not take the bunny gentleman long to loosen the stone from between the elephant's toes, for the foot of an elephant is not like that of a horse or cow--he really has toes and toe-nails, just as you have, only a little larger, of course. well, i should say so! "ah, i feel much better, uncle wiggily! thank you!" spoke the elephant through his hollow rubber hose-like trunk, and it sounded like a trumpet or brass horn when he talked. "now that the stone is out of my foot i shall go back to the circus." "the path to the place where the circus is now showing leads past my bungalow," said the rabbit gentleman. "i'll hop along and point out for you the way. i'd like you to meet nurse jane." "that will give me pleasure, also," remarked the elephant, who was very polite. so he and uncle wiggily went along together, but several times the bunny had to say: "please don't go so fast, mr. elephant. i can't keep up with you." "i beg your pardon," spoke the immense chap. "suppose i lift you upon my back and carry you that way?" "i should much like that," the rabbit uncle said. so in his trunk the elephant gently lifted up uncle wiggily, and set him down on the broad back. [illustration: "ah, this is even better than my auto," said uncle wiggily] "ah, this is even better than my auto," laughed uncle wiggily, as the elephant crashed his way through the forest. soon they came to the hollow stump bungalow. "more company for you, nurse jane!" called uncle wiggily, with a laugh. "eh? what's that? where are you? i don't see anybody but a big elephant?" cried the muskrat lady, looking up. "i'm on his back!" answered the bunny. and as the elephant lifted mr. longears down in the trunk, nurse jane was so surprised that she hardly knew what to say. "will you--er--have a cup--i mean a _washtub_ of tea?" the muskrat lady asked, well knowing that so big a creature must drink a lot of everything. "some water is all i need, thank you," answered the elephant. "i had something to eat in the forest before i met uncle wiggily." then the big chap put his trunk down in the brook and sucked up a great quantity of water. uncle wiggily put the box of matches down on the bench at the side of the bungalow, where the sun shone bright and hot, and watched the elephant drink. "well, now i'll travel along and go back to the circus," said the big chap with the large trunk and little tail. "i'll tell the lion and tiger i met you." "please do." begged the bunny, and then, all of a sudden nurse jane cried: "fire! fire! fire! oh, the sun has set off the box of matches, and the bungalow is burning! fire! fire! fire!" surely enough, this had happened. the box of matches, fizzing and spluttering, was burning uncle wiggily's bungalow. "turn in an alarm; get the firemen! call out the water bugs!" cried the bunny gentleman. "just a moment! don't get excited!" spoke the elephant calmly. "i will put out that fire in a second!" he sucked up more water from the brook in his trunk and squirted it on the blaze. the fire hissed and spluttered and died out in a puff of smoke. "oh, you have saved my bungalow!" cried uncle wiggily. "thank you ever so much! only for you i'd be burned out of house and home!" "pooh! that wasn't any more than you did for me--taking the stone out of my foot," said the elephant. "with my rubber hose-nose of a trunk, i very often put out little fires." "oh, i'm so glad uncle wiggily met you!" sighed nurse jane. "if he hadn't, our bungalow would have burned down, perhaps, mr. elephant!" "well, one good turn deserves another," laughed the elephant as he tramped away through the forest to find the circus, and the bunny gentleman and nurse jane waved "good-bye" to the big chap. so if the wheelbarrow doesn't catch cold when it runs after the train of cars to get a ride around the block, the next adventure will be about uncle wiggily and the camel. story xxxiii uncle wiggily and the camel "what sort of an adventure do you think you will have to-day, uncle wiggily?" asked the muskrat lady housekeeper of the bunny rabbit as he hopped away from the hollow stump bungalow one morning. "well, nurse jane, i hardly know," was the answer. "i may meet with some of those queer circus animals again." "i hope you do," miss fuzzy wuzzy said, as she tied her whiskers in a bow knot, for she was going to dust the furniture that day. "the circus animals are very kind to you. and it is strange, for some of them are such savage jungle beasts." "yes," spoke the bunny gentleman, "i am glad to say the circus animals were kind and gentle. more so than the pipsisewah or skeezicks. but then, you see, the circus animals have been taught to be kind and good--that is, most of them." "i hope you never meet the other sort--the kind that will want to nibble your ears!" exclaimed nurse jane as uncle wiggily put his tall silk hat on front-side before and started off with his red, white and blue striped rheumatism crutch under his paw. "i hope nothing happens to him," sighed nurse jane as she went in to put the dishes to bed in the china closet. but something was going to happen to uncle wiggily. you shall hear all about it. on and on through the woods hopped the bunny rabbit gentleman, looking first on one side of the path and then on the other for an adventure. he was beginning to think he would never find one when, all of a sudden, he heard a rustling in the bushes, and a voice said: "oh, dear! i can't go a hop farther! i'm so tired, and my bundle is so heavy. i guess i'm getting old!" "ha! that sounds like trouble of the old-fashioned sort!" murmured uncle wiggily to himself. "i may be able to give some help, as long as it isn't the fox or wolf, and it doesn't sound like them." the bunny gentleman peered through the trees and, sitting on a flat stump, he saw an old gentleman cat, looking quite sad and forlorn. "hello, mr. cat!" called uncle wiggily, cheerfully, as he hopped over toward the stump. "what's the trouble?" "oh, lots of trouble!" mewed the cat. "you see i'm a peddler. i go about from place to place selling pins and needles and things the lady animals need when they sew. here is my pack," and he pointed to a large bundle on the ground near the stump. "but what is the matter?" asked the bunny gentleman. "don't the animal ladies buy your needles, pins and spools of thread? just step around and see nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, my muskrat lady housekeeper. she is always sewing and mending. she'll buy things from your pack." "oh, it isn't _selling_ them that's the trouble," said mr. cat. "but i am getting so old and stiff that i can hardly carry the pack on my back any longer. i have to sit down and rest because my back aches so much. oh, how tired i am! what a weary world this is!" "oh, don't say that!" laughed uncle wiggily, who felt quite cheerful that morning. "see how the sun shines!" "it only makes it so much hotter for me to carry the pack on my back," sighed the cat. "ha! that is where i can help you!" exclaimed mr. longears. "i am quite well and strong, except for a little rheumatism now and then. that, however, doesn't bother me now, so i'll carry your peddler's pack for you." "will you? that's very kind!" said the cat. "perhaps i may be able to do you a favor some day." "oh, that will be all right!" laughed the bunny, as he twinkled his pink nose. "come along, we'll travel together and perhaps find an adventure." uncle wiggily slung the cat-peddler's pack up on his back, the pussy carried the bunny's crutch, and so off they started together through the woods. they had not gone very far, and the bunny was wondering whether he could not sell nurse jane a lot of pins to help the poor cat when, all of a sudden, a loud, snarling sort of voice cried out: "oh, where can i find some water? oh, how much i need a drink! i can go without one for seven days, but this is the eighth and if i don't see some water soon i don't know what will happen!" "i wonder who that is?" asked the peddler cat. "i don't know, but we'll soon find out," spoke mr. longears. they looked through the bushes and there they saw a very strange animal, and not what you would call pretty, either. this animal had a long neck, bent like the letter u, and his face looked as though he had rolled over on it in his sleep. but the queerest part of all was his back, on which were two humps, like little mountains, running up to peaks. "oh, what a queer chap!" mewed the peddler cat. "hush, don't let him hear you!" whispered uncle wiggily. "i think this is an animal from the circus." "you are right--i am!" exclaimed the two-humped chap, looking toward the bushes behind which uncle wiggily and the cat were standing. "i heard what you said, too, mr. cat," the odd chap went on. "but i don't mind. i'm a camel, and i'm used to hearing folks say how queer i look. but i am in trouble now. oh, dear!" "what's the matter?" asked uncle wiggily, kindly. "i'm so thirsty," the camel said. "you see, i took a long drink before i ran away from the circus, which i did, very foolishly, as i wanted some adventures. well, i'm having them, all right! i've been lost in the woods, and, though i had enough to eat i couldn't find a thing to drink. on the desert, where i came from, i could find water once in a while. but here i'm lost." "and, though i am a camel," went on the humped creature, "and can hold enough water in my stomach to last for several days, now my time is up. i haven't had a drink for over seven days, and unless i get one soon i don't know what will happen." "oh, i can take you to the duck pond and you can get a drink there, mr. camel," uncle wiggily said, as he hopped out from behind the bush. "oh, ho! what a funny chap you are!" snarled the camel, not that he was cross, only a snarl was his regular way of speaking. "are you a little camel?" "why, no, i'm not a camel," answered the bunny. "what made you think so?" "because of that hump on your back," said the camel. "some of us camels have two humps, and some only one. but surely you cannot be a one-humped camel! i never saw one with ears so long!" "indeed, i'm not a camel!" laughed uncle wiggily. "i'm a rabbit, and this pack that you see belongs to this poor peddler cat, who is too tired to carry it. so i am carrying it for him." "that is very kind of you," spoke the thirsty circus animal. "in fact, it seems to me you are very fond of being kind, mr. longears. you carry the cat's pack, and now you offer to show me where to get a drink. and, if you can, i wish you would soon lead me to water. i am very thirsty!" "follow me!" called uncle wiggily. then he hopped off through the woods, carrying the cat's peddler pack, and followed by the two-humped camel, whose long neck swayed to and fro like a clock pendulum, while his humps shook like two bowls full of jelly. soon they came to the duck pond and there the camel put his queer face down into the water and drank as much as he pleased. he took a long time to drink, as camels always do, for they must take enough into their stomachs to last for a week in case they can not find more water before the end of seven days. the cat and uncle wiggily stood watching the camel, thinking how queer and homely he was, but honest for all that, when, all of a sudden, out from behind a bush jumped the bad old pipsisewah! "wow! wow! i've got you now!" howled the pipsisewah. "i'll nibble your ears now, uncle wiggily!" the bunny rabbit gentleman started to run, but, because he had strapped to his back the pack of the cat peddler, the bunny could not hop fast at all. "i'll get you! i'll get you!" cried the pipsisewah. "oh dear! oh dear!" sighed uncle wiggily, wondering who was going to save him, for he knew the tired old cat peddler couldn't. and then, all of a sudden, the circus camel finished his long drink, and, with a jolly snarl, he cried: "here! you let uncle wiggily alone!" then with his broad foot, made big and wide so it would not sink into the soft sand of the desert, the camel stepped on the tail of the pipsisewah, holding him back so he couldn't chase uncle wiggily. "wow! wow!" howled the pip. "ha! ha!" laughed the peddler cat. "oh, mew!" "just wait until i get loose, and i'll chase you, too!" cried the pipsisewah to the cat. "just wait!" "don't be afraid!" said the camel, with a smile which made him look more homely than before, though this didn't matter. "here, uncle wiggily, hop up on my back, between my two humps! you, too, mr. cat, jump up on my back. you and the bunny gentleman can sit there as the people of the desert used to ride me before i joined the circus. hop up, my kind friends, and i'll soon carry you safe out of these woods. i can go fast, now that i have had a big drink of water. hop up!" uncle wiggily, with the cat's pack, hopped up on the back of the camel. the cat, too, sprang up. all the while the camel kept his broad foot on the tail of the pipsisewah, so the bad animal couldn't get loose. and when the bunny and cat were safe in place, snuggled down in between the camel's humps, the queer creature started off, letting go the tail of the pip. "ha! now you can't get us!" mewed the cat, looking down from the camel's back. "just you wait! i'll get uncle wiggily yet, and you too!" the pip howled. "and i'll fix you, mr. camel, for stepping on my tail!" "pooh! nonsense!" snarled the camel, "uncle wiggily helped me by showing me where to find water, and now i am helping him." and away he went, quite fast, indeed, for such a queer chap. and the old pip skipped away to put some soft moss on his sore tail. "isn't this jolly!" laughed uncle wiggily, twinkling his pink nose. "i never expected to have a ride on the back of a camel! it's just like a circus parade! i wish nurse jane could see me!" and the muskrat lady did, for the kind camel gave uncle wiggily a ride all the way home to the bunny's hollow stump bungalow, and when the muskrat lady housekeeper saw mr. longears up between the two humps she cried: "my land sakes flopsy dub and a basket of soap bubbles! what will happen next?" "i don't know," laughed uncle wiggily. "as for me, i am going back to the circus," the camel said. and he did. the peddler cat, after selling nurse jane some sewing silk, stayed for some time with mr. longears, getting rested so he would be strong enough to carry his own pack of needles, pins and thread. and as for the bunny--well, he had more adventures, of course. and the next one will be about uncle wiggily and the wild rabbit--that is if the teaspoon doesn't take the cork out of the bottle of bitter medicine and give it to the rag doll to make mud pies with. story xxxiv uncle wiggily and the wild rabbit "there he is again!" cried nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy, as she ran to the window of the hollow stump bungalow and looked out. "he's digging up all the nice carrots in your garden, uncle wiggily!" "who is?" asked the bunny gentleman, laying aside the cabbage-leaf newspaper he was reading, with his glasses perched on his pink, twinkling nose. "who is taking my carrots, nurse jane?" "that wild rabbit," answered the muskrat lady housekeeper. "he lives in the thick bushes in the middle of the woods. i think he hasn't been here very long, and he doesn't seem to know any of your other animal friends. he's wild and runs the minute i go out. but he has been spoiling your garden lately." "that isn't nice of him," said uncle wiggily. "i'll go out myself and see what he has to say." but as soon as uncle wiggily started down the steps of his hollow stump bungalow, toward where the other bunny was digging up the carrots, the wild rabbit hopped away. "what's the matter with you?" asked uncle wiggily, twinkling his pink nose in a friendly way. "why are you spoiling my garden?" "because i like to!" answered the wild rabbit. "you live in a fine hollow stump bungalow, and all i have is a hole in the ground, or burrow. you're rich and i'm poor, and i'm going to spoil everything you have!" "oh, that isn't a good way to feel!" said uncle wiggily kindly. "that's the way the bolshevics talk! i used to be poor, like you, but i went off to seek my fortune and i found it. i built me this hollow stump bungalow, and, if you like, i'll show you how to make one. nurse jane and i will help you!" "nope!" cried the wild rabbit. "i'd rather be bad! i'm going to dig in your garden every chance i get, and you can't catch me, either, so there!" and it sounded as if that wild rabbit might be making a funny "face" at uncle wiggily. mind you, i'm not saying for sure, but maybe! "dear me!" thought mr. longears, as he went back in his house. "that wild rabbit is certainly a queer chap. i don't want to hurt him, but i wish he would get tame. i'll have to speak to policeman dog percival about him, and set percival on guard in my carrot patch." "did you make that wild rabbit stop his digging?" asked nurse jane, as she met uncle wiggily coming in. "no, he says he's going to be bad," sighed the bunny gentleman, as he took his tall, silk hat down off the rubber plant. "where are you going?" asked nurse jane. "out in the woods to look for an adventure," answered uncle wiggily. "and perhaps i may find a way to make that wild rabbit tame and good." "i hope so," sighed nurse jane. "it isn't nice to have our garden spoiled." as uncle wiggily was hopping through the woods, over on that side of the forest nearest the village, where the real children lived, the bunny gentleman, all of a sudden, heard the voice of a little girl. "oh, donald!" said the little girl, in sad tones. "you've broken it. you've spoiled my nice little jumping bunny!" "well, i didn't mean to," answered a boy's voice. "he jumped all right a minute ago!" "yes, but you went and squeezed the rubber ball too hard, that's what you did!" sobbed the little girl. "and now my nice easter bunny won't hop any more! boo hoo!" "dear, dear!" exclaimed uncle wiggily to himself. "this is too bad! there's trouble here! i wonder if i can help?" you see uncle wiggily knew what the boy and girl were saying, though the bunny himself could not speak their talk. uncle wiggily hopped softly nearer the children. he looked through the bushes, and there he saw a little boy trying to mend a toy bunny for the little girl. the toy bunny was made to look like a real one, with ears and fur and everything. fastened to the toy was a little rubber hose and a rubber ball was on the end of the hose. when the toy rabbit was placed on the ground, and the rubber ball was pressed, some air was squeezed inside the bunny's legs, and he would hop across the floor; and his ears would flop up, too, because he had springs and other things inside him. "there's no use squeezing the ball," sadly said the little girl. "my toy bunny is broken, and won't ever hop again! oh, dear! boo hoo!" "my! this is too bad!" said uncle wiggily. "i wonder what i can do to make that little girl feel happier? i might get sammie or susie littletail, the rabbit children, to come and stay with the real children for a while. they seem to be kind--this boy and girl. they wouldn't hurt sammie or susie. that's what i'll do! i'll go get the littletail brother and sister, and have them hop over here so this boy and girl can easily catch them and play with them a while." uncle wiggily started off through the woods. the boy and girl sat in a moss-covered dingly dell, trying to mend the broken toy. and mr. longears had not gone very far before, all of a sudden, he came to a little hollow place, filled with leaves. there he heard a voice saying: "oh dear! oh what a pain! oh what trouble i am in!" "ha! this seems to be my busy day for trouble!" exclaimed uncle wiggily, as he looked at the leaf-filled hollow. "who are you, and what is the matter?" asked the bunny gentleman. "oh, i'm the wild rabbit," was the answer. "the wild rabbit who was eating the carrots in your garden. but alas! i can eat no more!" "why not?" uncle wiggily asked. "because i have fallen and broken my leg," was the answer. "i can hop no more, and i suppose i shall have to stay here and starve. i'm sorry i was bad, and tried to spoil your garden, uncle wiggily." "oh, perhaps you didn't really mean it," the bunny gentleman said. "but wait here a minute. i think i can help you." "oh, if you only would!" sighed the wild rabbit with a broken leg. "i think i see a chance here," said uncle wiggily softly to himself, "to help that boy and girl, and also the wild rabbit." off hopped uncle wiggily through the woods. it did not take him long to reach the place where the boy and girl had been playing with the hippity-hop rabbit toy that was now broken. the children were still there. the little girl had sat down on a log to cry, and the boy was trying to make her a willow whistle so she wouldn't feel so unhappy. the broken toy rabbit lay on a pile of leaves some distance away from the boy and girl. i suppose they had tossed it there, thinking it was of no more use. [illustration: "he's hopping off by himself!"] "this is just what i want," said uncle wiggily. he found a long piece of wild grape vine, like a small rope, and, when the boy and girl weren't looking, uncle wiggily slipped up and fastened one end of the grape-vine cord to the broken toy. then, hopping off behind the bushes, uncle wiggily began pulling the piece of vine. of course he also pulled the toy rabbit along the ground. "oh, look!" suddenly cried the little girl. "look, donald! my toy rabbit is all right again! he's hopping off by himself!" and, surely enough, the toy did seem to be hopping away. but this, as you know, was because uncle wiggily was pulling it by the grape-vine string. "come on! help me catch him!" begged the little girl. "i will!" her brother said. together they raced on after the toy, which uncle wiggily jerked along the forest path. the bunny gentleman kept out of sight behind the bushes, and as the wild grape vine was just the color of the earth and leaves the children did not see it. to them it looked as if the toy was hopping away all by itself. "i say, mab!" called donald. "he hops better than he ever did before! i wonder who is squeezing the rubber ball? i can't see anyone." "maybe it's fairies," suggested mab, in a low voice. "pooh! there aren't any fairies!" laughed donald. on and on ran the boy and girl after the skipping toy rabbit, and uncle wiggily pulled it so fast as he hopped along, out of sight, that donald and mab could not get their hands on the toy. it kept ahead of them all the way. uncle wiggily knew what he was doing and, in a little while, he led the boy and girl up to the place where the wild rabbit with a broken leg lay in the bed of leaves. uncle wiggily jerked the toy rabbit close to the wild one, and then pulled the toy out of sight behind a clump of ferns. "oh, don! look!" cried the girl. "our toy rabbit has changed into a real one!" and she pointed to the wild rabbit, which could not move away, though he wanted to very much, as his heart beat very fast. "a toy rabbit couldn't change into a real one!" said the boy. "well, mine did; else how could this live rabbit be here, and my toy one gone?" asked mab. for that is what seemed to have happened, all on account of uncle wiggily. "and see, don," went on the little girl, as she knelt down beside the poor, wild bunny. "his leg is broken, just as my toy rabbit's leg was broken. oh, it is the same one! my toy has changed into a live rabbit! oh, you poor, sweet, lovely darling!" cried the little girl, as she cuddled the wild rabbit up in her arms. "say! this sure is queer!" exclaimed the boy. "very queer!" uncle wiggily, peering through the bushes where he was hiding with the broken toy rabbit, looked out and saw the little girl holding the wild rabbit with its broken leg. the wild rabbit would have hopped away if it could, but was not able. "oh, uncle wiggily! uncle wiggily! is this how you help me?" sadly cried the wild rabbit. of course, he spoke in rabbit talk, which neither the boy nor girl understood. but uncle wiggily, hiding in the bushes, heard and softly answered: "don't be afraid, wild rabbit. these children will be kind to you, i know. they will take you home, and mend your broken leg and you will be as stylish as i am." "oh, if i'm going to be _stylish_, that's different!" said the wild rabbit. then he nestled down in the girl's arms, and she and the boy took the bunny home and their father mended the broken leg with splints of wood and soft cloth bandages. "well, i guess that wild rabbit won't spoil my carrots any more," laughed uncle wiggily as he hopped along. "i'll take this broken toy home to sammie and susie." as for the wild rabbit, he was no longer frightened when he heard uncle wiggily say that the children would be kind. and no one could have been more kind than were donald and mab. when the wild rabbit had to stay quiet until his leg healed, they brought him, every day, fresh lettuce and carrots, with cool water to drink. and when the leg was all well, the wild rabbit was so tame that he never wanted to leave the boy and girl, and go back to spoil uncle wiggily's garden. he lived happily with donald and mab all the rest of his life. sammie and susie had fun playing with the broken toy, and they thought mr. longears was very clever to think of a way to not only help the wild bunny and the boy and girl, but also to save his carrots from being eaten. so if the strawberry shortcake doesn't try to stretch itself up tall and look like a big mince pie, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the tame squirrel. story xxxv uncle wiggily and the tame squirrel once upon a time, as uncle wiggily longears, the bunny rabbit gentleman, was hopping through the woods, he heard a rustling in the bushes, and he crouched down to hide himself. "for," thought the bunny, "this may be the pipsisewah or the skeezicks, or even the woozie wolf or the fuzzy fox. i had better be careful!" but when uncle wiggily looked over the top of the bush, whence the rustling sound had come, all he saw was the tame rabbit, who once had a broken leg. the rabbit, who was now tame, was hopping along the forest path. "hello!" called uncle wiggily in his most jolly voice, as he twinkled his pink nose upside down, just for a change. "where are you going, tame rabbit? i shall call you that as a new name. i hope you are not going to run away from donald and mab, the boy and girl who were so kind to you." "indeed i am not running away," answered the tame rabbit. "i am just going to the woods to look for some flowers. don and mab are going to have a little woodland party this afternoon, and i want to get them some flowers to put on the flat stump which they will use for a table." "that is very kind of you," uncle wiggily said. "i'll help!" "wouldn't you like to come to the party?" asked the tame rabbit, as he and the bunny gentleman hopped into the forest together. "there will be lots of good things to eat--even ice cream!" "thank you, i'd better not come, as some of the boys and girls might not be as thoughtful as mab and don," spoke uncle wiggily. "some of them might throw peanut shells at my tall, silk hat; just for fun, you know." "well, perhaps they might," admitted the tame rabbit. "i don't wear anything but an old cap--nobody tries to knock that off," he added with a laugh. "but can't you just look in at the party, uncle wiggily? just stop for a moment?" "yes, i'll do that," promised mr. longears. and when he had nibbled, with his teeth, some wild flowers for the tame bunny, uncle wiggily hopped to his hollow stump bungalow, promising to peek through the bushes at the children's party later in the day. that afternoon, as he was hopping through the woods, uncle wiggily heard the sounds of shouting and laughter. "that must be the party," thought the bunny gentleman. "i'll skip over and take a look." in a little moss-covered dingly dell among the trees, uncle wiggily saw don, mab and many of their little boy and girl friends dancing about a broad, flat stump, which was set like a table. and in the middle was the bunch of flowers, some of which uncle wiggily had helped gather. "those children are certainly having a good time!" thought uncle wiggily, twinkling his pink nose so that it almost turned a somersault. "and the tame rabbit, who used to be wild, is enjoying himself, too." the other bunny surely was having fun, hopping here and there almost as if playing tag with the children. all at once mab cried: "come on now! we'll eat!" "hurray!" cried all the boys. the girls didn't get so excited about it, but i think they were just as glad to eat as were the boys. the children gathered around the stump table, and i wish i could tell you all the good things they had for the woodland party. but i'm not allowed to do this for fear it would make you too hungry. all i can say is that there was just the most lovely party-things you ever heard of! the tame rabbit sat near don and mab, eating what they gave him. "now we'll crack the nuts and play more games!" called mab, after a while. but when she went to pass the nuts she found that they were not cracked, and some of them had very hard shells. "oh, don! didn't you bring the nut cracker?" asked mab. "no, i thought you did," answered her brother. "and i thought you did!" exclaimed mab. "oh, what shall we do?" "we can crack the nuts with stones on top of the stump," said one boy. but when they tried this, some of the nuts flew away over in the bushes, without getting cracked at all. others hit the girls on the ends of their noses. and some of the children pounded their fingers instead of cracking the nuts. "oh, dear!" sighed mab, as she saw what was going on. "my party will be spoiled, all because we haven't a nut cracker." the tame rabbit heard all this. so did uncle wiggily, who was looking on, hidden in the bushes. both bunnies knew what was said though they couldn't speak boy and girl talk. "can't you help the children, uncle wiggily?" asked the tame rabbit, as he hopped out to the bush where the bunny gentleman was hidden. none of the children saw the two animals talking together. "how do you mean help them?" asked mr. longears. "by getting them a nut cracker," went on the tame rabbit. "a nut cracker?" exclaimed uncle wiggily. "a squirrel is the best nut cracker i know of. ha! i have it! i'll send one of the bushytail brothers over here to crack nuts for the children. i think the boys and girls will be kind to him. i'll go get johnnie or billie." away hopped uncle wiggily through the woods, and soon he met johnnie bushytail. "johnnie, don't you want to come and be a nut cracker for some children?" asked uncle wiggily. "why, of course!" chattered johnnie, who was a very tame squirrel. "i love children," he said. "and i suppose i may eat a few of the nuts i crack." "oh, surely," answered uncle wiggily. the bunny gentleman led johnnie back through the woods to the children's party. the boys and girls were still trying to crack the hard nuts, but they could not do it well at all. johnnie suddenly scrambled out of the bushes and up on the flat stump, and, taking a nut in his paws, he cracked it, by gnawing through the hard shell with his sharp teeth. then he took out the meat and laid it on a birch-bark plate. "oh, look!" exclaimed don, pointing to the bushytail chap. "a tame squirrel is cracking the nuts for us! look!" [illustration: "maybe he's a fairy!" she whispered.] "oh, the dear little thing!" cried mab. "and see, he's all dressed up like a real boy. maybe he's a fairy!" she whispered as johnnie cracked more nuts. "pooh! there aren't any fairies!" said don. "but he sure is helping us!" johnnie sat up on the stump, his tail held straight up behind his back, and he cracked nut after nut. "this is fine!" whispered the tame rabbit to johnnie, the tame squirrel, while uncle wiggily, hiding behind a bush, saw and heard it all. "the children will love you for this." "i'm glad of that," answered johnnie, in animal talk, which the boys and girls could not hear. then the tame squirrel cracked many more nuts, eating some himself, for there were more than enough for all the children at the party. "oh, i wonder if we could take this squirrel home with us, as we took the wild tame rabbit?" said the boy, as johnnie cracked the last nut. "try it," suggested mab to her brother. but when donald put out his hand, and tried to catch johnnie, the squirrel boy just flipped his tail and scampered away. "thank you, i'd rather not be caught," chattered johnnie, though of course don and mab did not know what he was saying. then, when the woodland party was over, the children went home. so that's how it all happened, as true as i'm telling you. and if the jumping jack doesn't stick beans in the sugar cookies, in place of the raisins he takes out to put in the molasses candy, i'll tell you next about uncle wiggily and the wolf. story xxxvi uncle wiggily and the wolf uncle wiggily was hopping through the woods with nurse jane one day, wondering what sort of an adventure he might have, and he was helping the muskrat lady housekeeper carry some clothes pins that she had bought at the three and four cent store when, all of a sudden, miss fuzzy wuzzy called loudly: "look out!" "what's the matter?" asked uncle wiggily. "am i spilling the clothes pins?" "no," answered the muskrat housekeeper of the hollow stump bungalow. "but, see that big wolf! let's run!" "where's any wolf?" asked the bunny gentleman. "i don't see any," and he began searching in his pockets for his spectacles, which he had taken off, as they tickled his pink, twinkling nose. "there's a big, gold wolf, over behind that mulberry bush," whispered nurse jane. "what's that? a _gold_ wolf? i never heard of such a thing!" exclaimed uncle wiggily. "you must be mistaken, nurse jane. i'll take a look!" then bravely singing the song--"here we go 'round the mulberry bush," uncle wiggily hopped up to where nurse jane pointed. surely enough, something was gleaming gold-like among the trees, and as soon as uncle wiggily had put on his glasses, and had taken a good look, he cried: "well, well, nurse jane! this is a gold wolf, surely enough! but it cannot hurt us!" "why not?" asked the muskrat lady, who was getting ready to run. "because it is only a wolf carved out of _wood_, and painted like gold," answered the bunny gentleman. "i see what this is--it is one of the gilded wolves that were on the little red riding hood chariot from the circus. this golden, wooden wolf fell off the wagon and the circus people did not stop to pick it up." "well, i'm glad it's a wooden wolf," spoke the muskrat lady. "then it can't nibble your ears; can it?" "not in the least," laughed uncle wiggily. "but if i had a wheelbarrow, or something, i'd take this wolf home to my bungalow." "what for?" nurse jane wanted to know. "oh, i'd set it in the hall, near the umbrella rack," said uncle wiggily. "just think! a golden, wooden wolf would be quite an ornament." "yes," agreed nurse jane, "it might look nice. but how can you get it home? it is too heavy to drag, and it has no wheels on as the animals have in the noah's arks." "hum! let me see, now," said uncle wiggily, walking around the golden, wooden wolf. "if i only had some wheels!" and just then, along through the woods came billie and nannie wagtail, the goat boy and girl, each with roller skates dangling by a strap over their shoulders. "oh, billie! the very chap i wanted!" laughed uncle wiggily. "let me take your roller skates for the golden wolf! and you too, nan!" "with pleasure," bleated billie, shaking his horns. "i'll help you fasten them on." "will the wolf bite?" asked nannie, a bit timidly. "of course not!" laughed uncle wiggily. so the roller skates were fastened on the paws of the golden, wooden wolf, and then, with a bit of wild grape vine for a rope, the gilded animal from the red riding hood circus wagon was dragged through the woods to uncle wiggily's bungalow. there the savage creature, who couldn't bite even a lollypop stick, was placed in the hall near the front door. "our friends will think us quite stylish like and proper," said uncle wiggily, admiring the wolf ornament. "yes," agreed nurse jane. "as long as it doesn't scare any of the animal children it will be all right." but the animal children soon learned that the wolf was only made of gilded wood, and though his mouth was widely open, showing his sharp teeth, he could never, never bite them. one day, about a week after he had brought the gilded wolf to his bungalow, uncle wiggily was home all alone. nurse jane had gone to the movies, with mrs. wibblewobble, the duck lady, and the bunny gentleman was just thinking of going to look for an adventure, or a piece of pie in the pantry, when, all of a sudden, there came a knock at his door. "that must be nurse jane," said uncle wiggily. "she is back a bit early, and has, i suppose, forgotten her key. i'll let her in." the bunny gentleman opened his bungalow door, but, instead of his muskrat lady housekeeper he saw the bad old skeezicks. "ah ha!" cried the skeezicks. "i fooled you, didn't i? you thought i was nurse jane and you came to let me in! now i'm going to nibble your ears! ha! ha!" uncle wiggily tried to shut the door, but the bad skeezicks pushed his way in, and was just going to nibble the bunny's ears when, all of a sudden, the impolite skee saw the golden wolf. coming into the dark hall, as he did from the bright outdoors, the skeezicks could not see that the wolf was not real. it looked so natural that the skee stopped short and then he cried: "oh, excuse me! oh, i didn't know you were here, mr. wolf, or i never would have come in. you are going to nibble uncle wiggily's ears, i suppose. you have the first turn. well, i'll nibble them some other time, when you have finished. please excuse and don't bite me! i'll skip right long!" and with that, out of the door the skeezicks jumped, never hurting the bunny gentleman at all. "ha! ha!" laughed uncle wiggily, as he closed the door. "the golden, wooden wolf did me a good turn after all! he scared away the skeezicks. i'm glad the circus wolf lives in my bungalow!" and nurse jane said the same thing when she came home from the movies. so this teaches us that it is a good thing to have something of gold around the house, even if it is only a gold dollar. but now we have come to the end of this book. not that uncle wiggily's adventures were over, for he had many more. but these are all i have room for here. enough to say that the bunny rabbit lived happily for many, many years in his hollow stump bungalow in the woods, with nurse jane fuzzy wuzzy. and there you may, perhaps, see him some day. who knows? +adieu+ [illustration] transcriber's note obvious typographical and punctuation errors have been corrected. blank pages have been removed. character names vary from story to story and have been handled thus: peetie bow wow was mis-spelled twice. these have been corrected jackie is called jackie bow wow in two places. these have been retained. mr. longears was referred to as dr. longears once. this has been corrected billie was referred to as billy in a caption. this has been retained emphasised text is handled thus: _italic_ +small capital+ [illustration: the tell tale.] stories for helen by miss eliza leslie, author of stories for emma, stories for adelaide, etc. "our most important are our earliest years."--_cowper._ philadelphia: henry f. anners. chesnut street. entered according to the act of congress, in the year , by eliza leslie, in the clerk's office of the district court for the eastern district of pennsylvania. printed by king & baird. advertisement. the following stories have been selected by the author, from a small volume originally published with the title of atlantic tales. they have been carefully revised; and she indulges the hope that her juvenile readers may derive from them a little instruction blended with a little amusement. philadelphia, october , . contents. page. the tell-tale, the boarding school feast, the week of idleness, madeline malcolm, the tell-tale. "_how all occasions do inform against me!_" _shakspeare._ rosamond evering was one of those indiscreet mischievous girls who are in the daily practice of repeating every thing they see and hear; particularly all the unpleasant remarks, and unfavourable opinions that happen to be unguardedly expressed in their presence. she did not content herself with relating only as much as she actually saw and heard; but (as is always the case with tell-tales) she dealt greatly in exaggeration, and her stories never failed to exceed the reality in all their worst points. this unamiable and dangerous propensity of their daughter, gave great pain to mr. and mrs. evering, who tried in vain to correct it. they represented to her that as parents cannot be _constantly_ on their guard in presence of their own family, and that as grown persons do not _always_ remember or observe when children are in the room, many things are inadvertently said, which, though of little consequence as long as they remain unknown, may be of great and unfortunate importance if disclosed and exaggerated. and as children are incapable of forming an accurate judgment as to what may be told with safety, or what ought to be kept secret, their wisest and most proper course is to repeat no remarks and to relate no conversations whatever; but more particularly those which they may chance to hear from persons older than themselves. but neither reproof nor punishment seemed to make any lasting impression on rosamond evering; and scarce a day passed that she did not exhibit some vexatious specimen of her besetting sin. a few instances will suffice. mrs. evering had a very excellent cook, a black woman, that had lived with her more than six years, and whom she considered an invaluable servant. one morning, when venus (for that was her name) had just left the parlour, after receiving her orders for dinner, mr. evering remarked, in a low voice, to his lady, "certainly, the name of venus was never so unsuitably bestowed as on this poor woman. i have rarely seen a negro whose face had a greater resemblance to that of a baboon." in this remark mrs. evering acquiesced. rosamond was at this time sitting in a corner, looking over her lessons. just before she went to school, her mother thought of a change in the preparations for dinner, and not wishing to give the old cook the trouble of coming up from the kitchen a second time, she desired rosamond to go down and tell venus she would have the turkey boiled rather than roasted. rosamond went down and delivered the message; but fixing her eyes on the cook's face, she thought she had never seen venus look so ugly, and she said to her, "venus, my father thinks you are the ugliest negro he ever saw (_even for a negro_) and he says your face is just like a monkey's, only worse." having made this agreeable communication, rosamond went out of the kitchen and departed for school, leaving venus speechless with anger and astonishment; for though in other respects a very good woman, she was extremely vain, and had always considered herself among the handsomest of her race. as soon as venus found herself able to speak, she went into the parlour with her eyes flashing fire, and told mrs. evering that she must provide herself with another cook, as she was determined to leave her that very day. mrs. evering with much surprise inquired the reason, and venus replied, that "she would not live in any house where she was called an ugly neger, the ugliest even of all negers, and likened to a brute beast." mrs. evering, who had forgotten her husband's remark, asked the cook what she meant; and venus explained by repeating all that rosamond had told her. mrs. evering endeavoured to pacify her, but in vain. ignorant people when once offended are very difficult to appease, and venus had been hurt on the tenderest point. she would listen to nothing that mrs. evering could urge to induce her to stay; but exclaimed in a high passion, "i never was called a neger before. i am not a neger but a coloured woman. i was born and raised on a great plantation in virginny where there was hundreds of slaves, all among the randolphs and sich like quality, and nobody never called me a neger. and now when i'm free, and come here to philadelphy where nobody has no servants without they hires them, lo! and behold, i'm called a neger, and an ugly neger too, and a neger-monkey besides. no, no, i'll not stay; and nancy the chambermaid may do the cooking till you get somebody else. and a pretty way she'll do it in. i'm glad i shan't be here to eat nancy's cooking. i never know'd any _white trash_ that could cook; much less irish." finally, mrs. evering was obliged to give venus her wages and let here go at once, as she protested "she would never eat another meal's victuals in the house." when rosamond came from school, her mother reprimanded her severely; and when her father heard of the mischief she had caused, he would not permit her to accompany the family to a concert that evening, as she had been promised the day before. after the departure of venus, it was a long time before mrs. evering could suit herself with a cook. several were tried in succession but none were good; and to rosamond's great regret, they were never able to get a woman whose skill in making pies, and puddings, and cakes, bore any comparison to that of venus. still this lesson did not cure her fault; she still told tales, and still suffered in consequence. one day, mrs. renwick, a lady who lived next door, sent a message to mrs. evering, requesting that she would lend her a pot of red currant jelly, as she was quite out of that article, of which she shortly intended making a supply; and as mr. renwick had invited some company to dinner, some jelly would be wanted to eat with the canvass-back ducks. mrs. evering lent her a pot, and as soon as currants were in the market, mrs. renwick sent her in return some jelly of her own making. it was not nice, and mrs. evering observed to her sister, mrs. norwood, who happened to be present: "i do not think mrs. renwick has been very successful with her jelly. it is so thin it is almost liquid, and so dark that it looks as if made of black currants. i suspect she has boiled it too long, and has not put in sugar enough." next day as they were coming from school together, mrs. renwick's little daughter, marianne, said to rosamond, "my mother made some currant jelly on tuesday, and yesterday when it was cold, she gave me a whole saucer-full to eat with my slice of bread, at twelve o'clock." "she might well give you a whole saucer-full," replied rosamond, "for i do not think it was worth saving for any better purpose. she sent in a pot to my mother, in return for some she had borrowed of her. now _my_ mother's jelly is always so firm that you might cut it with a knife, and so bright and sparkling that it dazzles your eyes. i heard her tell my aunt norwood, that mrs. renwick's jelly was the worst she had ever seen, that it was as thin and sour as plain currant juice, and dark and dirty-looking beside." marianne renwick was much displeased at the disrespectful manner in which her mother's jelly had been spoken of. she let go rosamond's arm, and turning up another street, walked home by herself, swelling with resentment, and told her mother all that had passed. mrs. renwick was a lady very easily offended; and she always signified her anger as soon as she felt it. she immediately sent to a confectioner's for a pot of the very best red currant jelly, and had it carried into mrs. evering; accompanied by a note implying "that she regretted to hear that her jelly had not been so fortunate as to meet the approbation of so competent a judge of sweetmeats; but that, as she would be sorry if mrs. evering should lose any thing by it, she had sent her a pot made by one of the very first confectioners in the city; and she hoped it would be found an ample equivalent for that she had most unhappily borrowed." rosamond was in the parlour when the note and the pot of jelly arrived, and she coloured and looked so confused, that her mother immediately guessed she had been the cause of mrs. renwick's having taken offence. reproof had no effect on rosamond except for a moment; but that she might frequently be reminded of her fault, she was not allowed to taste currant jelly till the next summer. mrs. renwick, however, remained implacable; and could never be prevailed on to visit mrs. evering again. mr. evering had an aunt, the widow of a western merchant who had made a large fortune in business. after the death of her husband, mrs. marbury had removed to philadelphia, which was her native place; and, being very plain in her habits and ideas, she had bought a small neat house in a retired street, where she kept but two servants, and expended more money in presents to her relations, than in any superfluities for herself. she generally went to a place of worship in her own neighbourhood; but hearing that a very celebrated minister from boston was to preach one sunday in the church to which her nephew's family belonged, she sent a message to mr. evering requesting that he would call for her with his carriage and give her a seat in his pew, that she might have an opportunity of hearing this distinguished stranger. mr. and mrs. evering were both out when the message arrived, so that no answer could be sent till their return; which was not till evening. it was dusk, and the lamps not being yet lighted, they did not perceive that rosamond was lying on an ottoman in one of the recesses, or they would not have spoken as they did while she was present. "i am very sorry," said mrs. evering, "that mrs. marbury has fixed on to-morrow for going to church with us, for i intended asking miss leeson, who will be delighted to have an opportunity of hearing this celebrated preacher; and his discourse, however excellent, will be lost on aunt marbury, who always falls asleep soon after she has heard the text, that being all she ever remembers of a sermon. so that in reality, one preacher is the same to her as another; though she goes regularly to church twice a-day, and never could be convinced that she sleeps half the time. and then she is unfortunately so fat, and takes up so much room in the pew." "my dear," said mr. evering, "we must show mrs. marbury as much kindness and civility as we possibly can, for she is a most excellent woman, is very liberal to us now, and at her death will undoubtedly leave us the greatest part of her large property. even if we had no personal regard for the good old lady, it would be very impolitic in us to offend her." when the room was lighted, mr. and mrs. evering saw rosamond on the ottoman, and felt so much uneasiness at her having heard their conversation, that they thought it best to caution her against repeating it. "oh!" exclaimed rosamond, "do you think i would be so wicked as to tell aunt marbury what you have just been saying about her?" "you have often," said mrs. evering, "told things almost as improper to be repeated." "but never with any bad intention," replied rosamond, "i am sure my feelings are always good." "i know not," said her father, "how it is possible that people with good feelings and good intentions can take pleasure in repeating whatever they hear to a person's disadvantage, and above all to the very object of the unfavourable remarks. beside the cruelty of causing them poignant and unnecessary pain, and wounding their self-love, there is the wickedness of embroiling them with their friends; or at least destroying their confidence, and imbittering their hearts. and all these consequences have frequently ensued from the tattling of a tell-tale child." the next morning was saturday; and the servants being all very busy, mrs. evering desired rosamond to stop, as she returned from taking her music-lesson, and inform her aunt marbury that they would be happy to accommodate her with a seat in their pew on sunday morning; and that they would call for her in the carriage, as she had requested. "now, rosamond," said mrs. evering, "can i trust you? will you, for once, be discreet, and refrain from repeating to your aunt marbury, what you unluckily overheard last evening?" "o! indeed, dear mother," replied rosamond, "bad as you think me, i am not quite wicked enough for that." "but i fear the force of habit," said mrs. evering. "i believe i had better send peter with the message." "no," answered rosamond, "i am anxious to retrieve my character. rely on me this once; and you will see how prudent and honourable i can be." on her way home from her music-lesson, rosamond stopped at her aunt's, and delivered the message, exactly as it had been given to her. while rosamond was eating a piece of the nice plum-cake that her aunt always kept in the house for the gratification of her young visitors, mrs. marbury said to her, "this weather is quite too warm for the season; should it continue, it will be very oppressive in church to-morrow." "no doubt," answered rosamond, "and most probably _our_ church will be crowded in every part. i wonder, aunt, that you are anxious to go, as you certainly _must_ be, when you sent so long beforehand to engage a seat in our pew." "in truth," returned mrs. marbury, "i am willing to suffer some inconvenience from the heat, for the sake of hearing this great preacher." "but, aunt," said rosamond, "if you get sleepy, you will not hear him after all." "o!" replied mrs. marbury, "i am never sleepy in church. i am always so attentive that i never feel in the least drowsy." "o! indeed, aunt, i have often seen you asleep in church," exclaimed rosamond. "impossible, rosamond, impossible," cried mrs. marbury. "you are entirely mistaken. it must have been merely your own imagination." "why, dear aunt," said rosamond, "my father and mother, as well as myself, have all seen you asleep in church. if it was not true, the whole family could not imagine it. it was but last evening, i heard my mother say, that she wished you had not taken a notion to go to church with us on sunday, as it would prevent her from inviting miss leeson, whom she likes far better than you. she said, beside, that fat people take up so much room, that they are always encumbrances every where; and that there was no use at all in your going to church, as you slept soundly all the time you were there, and even breathed so hard as to disturb the congregation." "and what did your father say to all this?" asked mrs. marbury, turning very pale, and looking much shocked and mortified. "my father," answered rosamond, "said that, on account of your money, we must endure you, and all the inconveniences belonging to you; for if you were kept in good humour, he had no doubt of your leaving him all your property when you die." mrs. marbury looked aghast. she burst into tears, and rosamond, finding that she had gone quite too far, vainly attempted to pacify her. "you may go home, child," exclaimed mrs. marbury, sobbing with anger, "you may go home, and tell your father and mother that i shall not trouble them with my company at church or any where else; and when i die, i shall leave my money to the hospital or to some other institution. how have i been deceived! but i shall take care in future not to bestow my affection on those that have any expectations from me." rosamond, now very much frightened, declared that she could not take such a message to her parents; and begged her aunt to screen her from their displeasure, by not informing them of the communication she had so indiscreetly made. her alarm and agitation were so great, that mrs. marbury consented, out of pity, not to betray her to her father and mother; and to excuse herself from going to church with them (which she declared she could never do again) by alleging the heat of the weather, and the probable crowd. "and now, rosamond," said her aunt marbury, "do not think that i feel at all obliged to you for having opened my eyes as to the manner in which your parents really regard me. their behaviour to me, as far as i could judge for myself, has always been exactly what i wished it; and if their kindness was not sincere, i still thought it so, and was happy in being deceived. and now, after what you have told me, how can i again think of them as i have hitherto done? you have acted basely towards them in repeating their private conversation, and cruelly to your kind aunt, in giving her unnecessary pain and mortification. you have caused much mischief; and who has been the gainer? not yourself certainly. you have lost my good opinion, for i can never like a tell-tale. i had heard something of your being addicted to this vice; but till now i could not believe it. i shall not betray you to your parents, though you have so shamefully betrayed _them_ to _me_. but you may rely on it, that sooner or later the discovery will be made, to your utter shame and confusion. now you may go home, with the assurance that you can no longer be a welcome visitor at my house." rosamond departed, overwhelmed with compunction; and in the resolution (which she had so often made and so often broken) never again to be guilty of a similar fault. she gave her aunt's message to her parents, and miss leeson was invited to accompany them next day to church. two days after, mrs. evering went to visit mrs. marbury, and to her great surprise heard from the servants that she had left town with some western friends who were returning home; and that she purposed being absent from philadelphia five or six months; dividing her time among various places on the other side of the alleghanies, and probably extending her tour to louisiana, where she owned some land. her going away so suddenly without apprising them of her intention, was totally inexplicable to mr. and mrs. evering; and they justly concluded that she must have taken some offence. rosamond well knew the cause, and rightly supposed that her aunt finding herself unable to meet the family with her former feelings towards them, had thought it best to avoid seeing them for a very long time. the confusion visible in rosamond's face and manner when mrs. marbury was spoken of, aroused the suspicions of her father and mother: and on their questioning her closely, she confessed, with many tears, that she had really informed her aunt of what had passed on the subject of her accompanying them to church. but as tell-tales have very little candour where themselves are concerned, and as tale-telling always leads to lying, she steadily denied that she had been guilty of the slightest exaggeration in her report to mrs. marbury; protesting that she had told her nothing but the simple truth. from that time, rosamond was not allowed to visit or call at any house unaccompanied by her mother, who was almost afraid to trust her out of her sight. her parents avoided discussing any thing of the least consequence in _her_ presence; always remembering to send her out of the room. this mode of treatment very much mortified her; but she could not help acknowledging that she deserved it. her father received no intelligence from mrs. marbury. he and mrs. evering both wrote to her at different times, endeavouring to mollify her displeasure; but not knowing exactly where she was, the letters were not directed to the right places, and did not reach her. for a long time rosamond was so unusually discreet, that her parents began to hope that her odious fault was entirely cured. one day, her chamber having been washed in the afternoon, it was found too damp for her to sleep in with safety to her health; and her mother told her that she must, that night, occupy the room adjoining hers. this room, which was but seldom used, was separated from mrs. evering's apartment by a very thin partition; and communicated with it by a door which was almost always kept closed; the bed in each of these chambers being placed against it. rosamond, having been awakened in the night by the fighting of some cats in the yard, heard her father and mother in earnest conversation. they had totally forgotten her vicinity to them; and as tell-tales are never wanting in curiosity, she sat up in her bed and applying her ear to the key-hole of the door, she distinctly heard every word they said, though they were speaking in a low voice. she was soon able to comprehend the subject of their conversation. mr. evering was lamenting that the failure of a friend for whom he had endorsed to a large amount, had brought him into unexpected difficulties; but he hoped that he would be able to go on till the sums due to him by some western merchants should arrive. next evening, rosamond was permitted to go to a juvenile cotillon-party, held once a fortnight, at the ball-room of her dancing-master. to this place her mother always accompanied her; and while mrs. evering was sitting in conversation with some ladies, a boy named george granby, who was frequently the partner of rosamond at these balls, came up and asked her to dance. they were obliged to go to the farthest end of the room before they could get places in a cotillon; and while they were waiting for the music to begin, george, who thought rosamond a very pretty girl, asked her if she would also be his partner in the country-dance. she replied that henry harford had engaged her, at the last ball, for this country-dance. "oh!" replied george granby, "henry harford will not be here to-night; his father failed yesterday." "true," said rosamond, "i wonder i should have forgotten mr. harford's failure, when my father lost so much by him. but when the fathers fail, must the children stay away from balls?" "certainly," replied george, "it would be considered very improper for the family to be seen in any place of amusement when its head is in so much trouble, and when they have lost all they possessed." "o then," exclaimed rosamond, "i hope _my_ father will not fail till the cotillon-parties are over for the season. there are but two more, and i should be very sorry to give them up. i hope he will be able to go on, at least till after that time. how sorry i shall be when he _does_ fail." "i believe you," said george; "but what makes you talk about your father's failing? i thought he was considered safe enough." "ah! you know but little about it," answered rosamond. "i heard him tell my mother last night, that he was in hourly dread of failing, in consequence of the great losses by mr. harford, and of his own business having gone on badly for a long time. however, say nothing about it, for such things ought not to be told." "they ought not, indeed," said the boy. as soon as george granby went home, he repeated what he had heard from rosamond, to his father, who was one of mr. evering's creditors. the consequence was, that mr. granby and all the principal creditors took immediate measures to secure themselves; and mr. evering (who could have gone on till he got through his difficulties, had he been allowed time, and had the state of his affairs remained unsuspected,) became a bankrupt through the worse than indiscretion of his daughter. had mrs. marbury been in town, or where he could have had speedy communication with her, he doubted not that she would have lent him assistance to ward off the impending blow. but she had gone away in a fit of displeasure, occasioned, also, by the tattling of rosamond. mr. granby, who was the chief creditor and a man of contracted feelings and great severity, showed no liberality on the occasion; and proceeded to the utmost extremity that the law would warrant. every article of mr. evering's property was taken; and indeed, since it had come to this, his principles would not allow him to reserve any thing whatever from his creditors. the scene that ensued in the evering family, on the day following the ball, can better be imagined than described. mr. granby had at once informed mr. evering of the source from whence he had derived his information with respect to the posture of his affairs; and when rosamond found this new and terrible proof of the fatal effects of her predominant vice, she went into an hysteric fit, and was so ill all night, that her parents, in addition to their other troubles, had to fear for the life of their daughter. the sufferings of her mind brought on a fever; and it was more than a week before she was able to leave her bed. her father and mother kindly forgave her, and avoided all reference to her fault. but she could not forgive herself, and on the day that they left their handsome residence in one of the principal streets, and removed to a small mean-looking house in the suburbs, her agony was more than words can express. all their furniture was sold at auction, even rosamond's piano, and her mother's work-table. their most expensive articles of clothing were put away, as in their present circumstances it would be improper to wear them. the house they now inhabited, contained only one little parlour with a kitchen back of it, and three small rooms upstairs. their furniture was limited to what was barely useful, and of the cheapest kind. their table was as plain as possible; and their only servant a very young half-grown girl. this sad change in their way of living, added to the stings of self-reproach, almost broke rosamond's heart; and her pride was much shocked when she found that her father had applied for the situation of clerk in a counting-house, as a means of supporting his family till something better should offer. at length mrs. marbury returned; having hurried back to philadelphia as soon as the intelligence of her nephew's failure had reached her. how did she blame herself for having taken such serious offence at what now appeared to her almost too trifling to remember. all her former regard for the evering family returned. she sought them immediately in their humble retreat, and offered mr. evering her assistance to the utmost farthing she could command. to conclude, mr. evering's affairs were again put in train. he resumed his business; and a few years restored him to his former situation. this sad, but salutary lesson produced a lasting effect on rosamond; and from that time, she kept so strict a watch over her ruling passion, that she succeeded in entirely eradicating it. she grew up a discreet and amiable girl; and no one who knew her in after years, could have believed that till the age of fourteen she had been an incorrigible tell-tale. the boarding-school feast. "they hear a voice in every wind, and snatch a fearful joy." _gray._ it is a very common subject of complaint with boarding-school children (and there is often sufficient foundation for it) that they are too much restricted in their food, and that their diet is not only inferior in quality to what it ought to be, but frequently deficient in quantity also. there was certainly, however, no cause for any dissatisfaction of this sort at mrs. middleton's boarding-school, in philadelphia. the table was in every respect excellent; and a basket of bread or biscuit, and sometimes of gingerbread, was handed round to all the pupils, every morning at eleven o'clock. mrs. middleton's young ladies were strangers to the common boarding-school practice of coaxing or bribing the servants to procure them cakes and tarts from the confectioners; for the table was sufficiently supplied with those articles, made in such a manner as to be agreeable to the taste without endangering the health; and they were every day allowed some sort of fruit, of the best quality the market could furnish. at last, a young lady named henrietta harwood became a member of mrs. middleton's seminary. miss harwood had been for several years a pupil of one of those too numerous establishments, where the comfort of the children is sacrificed to the vanity of a governess, who rests her claims to encouragement principally on the merits of elegantly furnished parlours, an expensive style of dress, frequent evening parties, and occasional balls. in schools where outward show is the leading principle, the internal economy is generally conducted on the most parsimonious plan, and while the masters (who attend only at certain hours) are such as are considered the most fashionable, the female teachers that live in the house, are too often vulgar girls obtained at a low salary, and who frequently are in league with the elder pupils in ridiculing and plotting against the governess. most of the faults and follies that were likely to be acquired at a show-boarding-school, henrietta harwood brought with her to the excellent and well-conducted establishment of mrs. middleton: but she had some redeeming qualities that made her rather a favourite with her new companions, and disposed her governess to hope that all would come right at last. one evening, the elder young ladies were sitting very comfortably at their different occupations, round the table in the front school-room. the window-shutters were closed, a good fire was burning in the stove, and mrs. middleton had just sent them a basket of apples, according to her custom in the winter evenings. after finishing a very fine one, henrietta harwood exclaimed--"well--i wonder at myself for eating these apples!" _miss brownlow._ why, i am sure they are the very best newtown pippins. _henrietta._ that is true, brownie: but at madame disette's we had something better of evenings than mere apples. _miss brownlow._ what had you? _henrietta._ we had sometimes cheesecakes, and sometimes tarts; with very frequently pound-cake and jumbles; and sometimes we had even little mince-pies, and oyster-patties. _miss wilcox._ o, delicious! what an excellent governess! how could you ever consent to leave her? i thought mrs. middleton allowed us a great many good things; but she does not send us cheesecakes and tarts of an evening. _henrietta._ o, do not mistake! we might have gone without them all our lives, before madame disette would have sent us any thing of the sort. she did not even allow us apples of an evening, or a piece of bread between breakfast and dinner. why, one summer evening, she bought at the door some common ice-cream, of a black man that was carrying it through the streets in a tin pot; and when we thought that, _for once_, she had certainly treated us, she charged the ice-cream in our quarter-bills. no, no,--we got nothing from _her_, but stale bread; bad butter; sloppy tea; coffee without taste or colour; skinny meat, half-cooked one day, cold the next, and hashed or rather coddled the third. then, for a dessert, we were regaled with sour knotty apples in the winter, worm-eaten cherries in the summer, and dry squashy pears in the autumn; and once a week we had boiled rice, or baked bread and milk, by way of pudding. though after the scholars had eaten their allowance, and made their curtsies and gone up to the school-room, she always had something nice brought for herself, and her sister, and niece: and of which poor benson, the under teacher, was never invited to partake. _miss wilcox._ but how did you get such nice things in the evening? _henrietta._ we bought them, to be sure: bought them with our own money. that was the only way. when the little girls had all gone to bed, and madame disette, and madame trompeur, and mademoiselle mensonge were engaged in the parlour with their company, we all (that is, the first class) subscribed something; and we commissioned the chambermaid to bring us whatever we wanted from the confectioner's. o, what delightful feasts we had! _miss thomson._ did madame disette never find you out? _henrietta._ o, no!--we laid our plans too cunningly. and benson, the teacher, was a good creature, and always joined our party; so we knew she would not tell. _miss scott._ i am sure we never could prevail on our teacher, miss loxley, to be concerned in such things. _she_ would think it so very improper. _henrietta._ well, we must take an opportunity when miss loxley is not at home. mrs. middleton permits her to go out whenever she requests it. she does not keep her so closely confined as madame disette did poor benson. _miss scott._ mrs. middleton has so much reliance on her elder pupils, that she is not afraid to trust us sometimes without miss loxley. and we, certainly, have never yet abused her confidence. _henrietta._ o, you are undoubtedly a most exemplary set! but you never had one like _me_ among you. i shall soon put a little spirit into you all, and get you out of this strict-propriety sort of way. i do not despair even of my friend isabella caldwell, the good girl of the school. _isabella._ our way is a very satisfactory one. it is impossible for boarding-school girls to be happier than we are. our minds are not exhausted with long and difficult lessons, and with studies beyond our capacity. when school-hours are over, we have full time for recreation, and are amply provided with the means of amusing ourselves. we have a library of entertaining books; and we have liberty to divert ourselves with all sorts of juvenile plays and games. then how much attention is paid to our health and our comforts, and how kindly and judiciously are we treated in every respect! certainly, we ought to think ourselves happy. _henrietta._ ay! so you are made to say in the letters which you write home to your parents. all our french letters, at madame disette's were written first by her niece mademoiselle mensonge; and the english letters were manufactured by poor benson; and then we copied them in our very best hands, with a new pen at every paragraph. they were all nearly the same; and told of nothing but the superabundant kindness and liberality of madame disette, our high respect and esteem for madame trompeur, her sister, and our vast affection for her amiable niece, mademoiselle mensonge: together with our perfect health, and extreme felicity. in every letter we grew happier and happier. _miss snodgrass._ and were you not so in reality? _henrietta._ no, indeed,--all the happiness we had was of our own making, for we derived none from any thing our governess did for us; though we were obliged in our letters to call her our beloved madame disette, and to express the most fervent hopes that we might one day exactly resemble her; which, i am sure, was the last thing we could have desired; for she was one of the ugliest women that i ever saw in my life. _miss thomson._ but you might have wished to resemble her in mind and manners. _henrietta._ why, as to that, her mind was worse than her face, and her manners we all thought absolutely ridiculous. benson could mimic her exactly. _miss marley._ i do not wonder that your parents took you away from such a school. _henrietta._ the school was certainly bad enough. we had dirty, uncomfortable chambers; scanty fires; a mean table, and all such inconveniences. but then it was a very fashionable school; all the masters were foreigners, and above all things there was a great point made of our speaking french. we knew the common phrases perfectly well. we could all say, _comment vous portez vous_,--_je vous remerçie_,--_il fait beau-temps_,--_donnez-moi un epingle_,--_lequel aimez-vous mieux, le bleu ou le vert?_ and many other things equally sensible and interesting. this was what was called french conversation, and we were all able to join in it, after taking lessons in french a very few quarters. but after all, we had a great deal of fun, and that made up for every thing. madame disette and her sister and niece, always hurried over the school-business as fast as possible, that they might have time to pay and receive visits; and every evening they were either out, or engaged at home with company; so that we had nobody to watch us but poor benson, and none of us cared for _her_. and then we could make her do just as we pleased. she only got seventy-five dollars a year, for which she was obliged to perform all the drudgery of the school, even to washing and dressing the little girls; putting them to bed; darning their stockings and mending their clothes; besides doing all madame disette's plain sewing. poor benson could not afford to dress half so well as the chambermaid. so how could we have any respect for her? even the servants despised her, and never would do any thing she asked them. _miss snodgrass._ well, we all respect miss loxley. she gets a good salary, dresses genteelly, is treated with proper consideration by every one in the house, and we obey her just as we do mrs. middleton. _henrietta._ yes, and for those very reasons, we never can ask her to assist in any little private scheme of our own. benson was certainly a much more convenient person. but to resume our first subject--i do really long for a feast. _miss roberts._ well,--mrs. middleton occasionally gives us a feast as you call it; for instance, on the birth-day of the young lady who is head of her class. _henrietta._ o, but then at these regular feasts mrs. middleton is always present herself. i like to steal a little secret pleasure, unsuspected by any one that would check it. ah! you have never dealt in mysteries; you know not how delightful they are. one half the enjoyment is in planning and carrying on the plot. come now, girls, let us get up a little feast to-morrow evening. you know miss loxley will be out again, as her aunt is still sick; and the french teacher always goes home at dusk, as she does not sleep here. _miss watkins._ but if mrs. middleton should discover us. _henrietta._ no. her sister and brother-in-law are coming to spend the evening with her, and to bring a lady and gentleman from connecticut. to-morrow is the very best night we can possibly have. leave it all to me, and i will engage that there shall be no discovery; and we will get the little girls to bed very early, that we may have the longer time to enjoy ourselves. _several of the young ladies._ o, indeed we are afraid! _henrietta._ nonsense--i will answer for it that there shall be no cause for fear. why, we did these things fifty times at madame disette's, and were never once detected. come, i will lay down a dollar as the first contribution towards the feast. brownie, how much will you give? _miss brownlow._ i will give half a dollar. _miss watkins._ and i will give a dollar and a half. i have always plenty of money. _henrietta._ well done, watty. and you scotty, how much? _miss scott._ a quarter of a dollar is all i have left. _miss wilcox._ and i have only ten cents. _henrietta._ o, poor coxey! but never mind, you shall have as large a share of the good things as any of us, notwithstanding you can only muster ten cents. and now, snoddy? _miss snodgrass._ why, i will give a quarter of a dollar and eight cents. i have another quarter of a dollar, but i wish to keep it to buy a bottle of cologne water. _henrietta._ pho.--try to live another week without the cologne. _miss snodgrass._ no indeed,--i never in my life had a bottle of cologne water all to myself, to use just as i pleased; and i really have set my mind on it. _henrietta._ well, we must try to do without snoddy's other quarter-dollar. well, bob, what say you? _miss roberts._ i will give half a dollar. _henrietta._ o, bob, bob! you have more than that, i am sure. _miss roberts._ yes, i have another half dollar, but i wish to buy the book of fairy tales you told me of. _henrietta._ o, never mind buying the fairy tales! i will tell you all of them without charging for my trouble. come now, be good and give the whole dollar, and we will have an iced pound-cake. _miss roberts._ well, if you will _certainly_ tell me all the fairy tales. _henrietta._ every one of them; twice over if you choose. and now, marley. _miss marley._ i know all this is very improper. _henrietta._ just for once in your life try how it seems to be improper. _miss marley._ well then for this time only--here are three quarters of a dollar. _henrietta._ now, tommy! _miss thomson._ i have not resolution to resist. there are half a dollar and twelve cents. _henrietta._ and now, isabella caldwell,--though last not least. _isabella._ excuse me, henrietta: my contribution will be far less than that of any other young lady. in fact, nothing at all. _henrietta._ nothing at all! why miss caldwell, i did not expect this of you! i always supposed you to be very generous. _isabella._ i wish to be generous whenever it is in my power. _henrietta._ well, dear isabella, if you have no money, we will not press you. we shall be happy to have you at our little feast, even if you do not contribute a cent towards it. _all._ o, yes! we must not lose isabella caldwell. _isabella._ i am much obliged to you, my dear girls. but it is not the want of money that prevents me from joining you. i _have_ money. but i wish not, on any terms, to belong to your party; and i shall retire to my own room. in short, i do not think it right to be planning a feast without the knowledge of mrs. middleton, who is so good and so indulgent that it is a shame to deceive her. _henrietta._ then i suppose. miss caldwell, you intend to betray us; to disclose the whole plan to mrs. middleton? _isabella._ you insult me by such a suspicion. i appeal to all the young ladies if they ever knew me guilty of telling tales, or repeating any thing which might be a disadvantage to another. _all._ o, no, no! isabella is to be trusted. she will never betray us. _henrietta._ then in plain terms, miss caldwell, i really think, if you have money, you might spare a little for our feast. _isabella._ i want the whole of it for another purpose. and i shall get no more before next week. _henrietta._ well, this is very strange. i know you do not care for finery, and that you never lay out your pocket-money in little articles of dress. and as for books of amusement, it was but yesterday that your father sent you a whole box full. i _must_ say, that though you are called generous--i cannot help thinking you a little--a very little-- _isabella._ mean, i suppose you would say. _henrietta._ why, i must not exactly call you _mean_--but i cannot help thinking you rather--_meanish_. _isabella._ i will not be called mean. my refusal proceeds from other motives than you suppose. _henrietta._ young ladies, i will be judged by you all. is it natural for a girl of fifteen, who likes cakes, and pastry, and every sort of sweet thing, to be so very conscientious as to refuse to join in a little bit of pleasure that can injure no one, that will never be discovered, and that all her companions have assented to with few or no scruples. no, no, isabella, i believe that your only object in declining to be one of our party, is to save your money. _isabella._ o, what injustice you do me! _henrietta._ prove it to be injustice by joining us without further objection. _miss watkins._ henrietta, we do not care for isabella's money. let her keep it if she wishes. we can afford to entertain her as our guest. i am sorry so much should have been said about it. _isabella_ (_taking her purse out of her bag._) there then; here are two half-dollars. i will prove to you that i am neither mean nor selfish. _all._ we will not take your money. _isabella._ yes, take it.--any thing rather than suspect me of what i do not deserve. and now let me entreat, that in _my_ presence nothing more may be said of this feast. change the subject, and talk of something else. or, rather, i will retire to bed, and leave you to make your arrangements for to-morrow night. the real reason why isabella caldwell was so unwilling to be a contributor to the expense of the feast, was, that she had intended appropriating her pocket-money to a much better purpose. her allowance was a dollar a week; and she knew that a coloured woman, named diana, (who had formerly been a servant in her father's family before they removed to the country) was now struggling with severe poverty. diana was the widow of a negro sailor who had perished at sea, and she was the mother of three children, all too small to put out, and whom she supported by taking in washing. but during a long illness brought on by overworking herself, she lost several of her customers who had given their washing to others. isabella had solicited mrs. middleton to allow her to employ diana, rather than the woman who then washed for the school. mrs. middleton readily consented. the weather had become very cold, and isabella saw with regret that diana came to fetch and carry the clothes-bag without either coat or cloak; nothing in fact to cover her shoulders but an old yellow cotton shawl. isabella pitied her extremely, and resolved in her own mind not to lay out a cent of her money till she had saved enough to buy diana a cloak. her father, who was a man of large fortune, had placed, at the beginning of the year, a sum of money in mrs. middleton's hands to defray isabella's expenses, exclusive of her tuition; with directions to give her every week a dollar to dispose of as she pleased. isabella had now been saving her money for four weeks, and had that morning received her weekly allowance, which completed the sum necessary to buy a good plaid cloak, and she had determined to go the following morning and make the purchase, and to give it to diana when she came to take the clothes. isabella had now the exact money; and that was the reason she was so unwilling to devote any part of it to the expenses of the feast. beside which, she could not, in her heart, approve of any species of pleasure that was to be enjoyed in secret, and kept from the knowledge of her excellent governess. she felt the usual repugnance of modest and benevolent people with regard to speaking of her own acts of charity. this reluctance she, however, carried too far, when rather than acknowledge that she was keeping her money to buy a cloak for her poor washerwoman, she suffered herself to be prevailed on to give up part of the sum, as an addition to the fund that was raising for the banquet. she went to bed sadly out of spirits, and much displeased with herself. she had seen at a store, just such a cloak as she wished to get for diana; and she had anticipated the delight and gratitude of the poor woman on receiving it, and the comfort it would afford her during the inclement season, and for many succeeding winters. "and now," thought she, "poor diana must go without a cloak, and the money will be wasted in cakes and tarts; which, however nice they may be, will cause us no further pleasure after we have once swallowed them. however, perhaps the weather will be less severe to-morrow; and next week i shall have another dollar, and i then will again be able to buy diana the cloak. i am sorry that i promised it to her when she was here last. i cannot bear the idea of seeing her, and telling her that she must wait for the cloak a week longer. i hope the weather will be mild and fine to-morrow." but isabella's hope was not realized; and when she rose in the morning, she found it snowing very fast. the cold was intense. the ground had been for several days already covered with a deep snow which had frozen very hard. there was a piercing north-east wind; and, altogether, it was the most inclement morning of the whole winter. isabella hoped that diana would not come for the clothes that day, as the weather would be a sufficient excuse; though the poor woman had never before been otherwise than punctual. but in a short time, she saw diana coming round the corner, walking very fast, her arms wrapped in her shawl, and holding down her head to avoid, as much as possible, the snow that was driving in her face. "ah!" thought isabella, "she hopes to get the cloak this dreadful morning, and to wear it home. how sadly she will be disappointed! but i cannot see or speak to her." she then tied up her clothes-bag, and desired the chambermaid to take it down and give it to diana, and tell her that she could not see her that morning. isabella could not forbear going again to the window; and she saw diana come up the area steps into the street, carrying the clothes-bag, and looking disappointed. isabella, with a heavy heart, watched her till she turned the corner, shrinking from the storm, and shivering along in her old thin shawl. "oh!" thought isabella, "how very badly the confectionary will taste to me this evening, when i think that my contribution towards it, has obliged me to break my promise to this poor woman; and that it will cause her, for at least another week, to endure all the sufferings of exposure to cold without sufficient covering." * * * * * henrietta harwood, as leader of the conspiracy, was extremely busy every moment that she could snatch from the presence of mrs. middleton and the teachers, in making arrangements for the feast of the evening. there was a great deal of whispering and consulting, between her and the elder girls, as to what they should have; and a great deal of talking on the stairs to mary the chambermaid; who, for the bribe of a quarter of a dollar, had consented to procure for them whatever they wished, without the knowledge of mrs. middleton. it was unanimously agreed that none of the _little_ girls were to be let into the secret, as their discretion was not to be depended on; and there was much lamentation that the bed-hour for the children was so late as eight o'clock. the little girls all slept in one large room, and as soon as they had gone to be prepared for bed, under the superintendence of mary, henrietta proposed that herself and six other young ladies should volunteer to assist in undressing them. "you know," said she, "there are eight of the children, and if we each take a child and leave one to mary, they can be got to bed in an eighth part of the time that it will require for mary to attend to all of them herself. just, you know, as they have quilting frolics and husking frolics in the country, when a whole week's work is accomplished in a few hours, by assembling a great many persons to join in it." this proposal was immediately assented to; and a committee of half a dozen young ladies, with henrietta at their head, adjourned to the children's apartment. "come, little chits," said henrietta, "as it is a cold night, we are going to have an undressing frolic, and to help mary to put you all to bed: for the sooner you are tucked up in your nests the better it will be for you,--and for us too," she added in a low voice aside to miss thomson. "here, rosalie sunbridge," she continued, "come to me, i will do the honours for _you_, as you are a sort of pet of mine." the elder girls then began undressing the little ones with such violence that strings snapped, buttons were jerked off, and stockings torn in the process. the children wondered why the young ladies were seized with such a sudden and unusual fit of kindness, and why they went so energetically to work in getting them undressed and put to bed. an altercation, however, ensued between henrietta harwood and rosalie sunbridge, who declared that it was her mother's particular desire that her hair behind should be curled in papers every night; a ceremony that henrietta proposed omitting, telling her that there was already sufficient curl remaining in her hair to last all the next day, and reminding her that there was no such trouble with the hair of the other little girls. "that is because they have no hair to curl," replied rosalie; "you know that they are all closely cropped. but if you will not roll up mine in papers, miss harwood, i would rather have mary to put me to bed, though you _do_ call me your pet." "well, well, hush, and i _will_ do it," said henrietta; "but it shall be done in a new way which saves a great deal of trouble, and makes very handsome curls when the hair is opened out next morning." so saying, she snatched up a great piece of coarse brown paper, and seizing the little girl's hind hair in her hand, she rolled it all up in one large curl; rosalie crying out at the violence with which she pulled, and the other children laughing, when it was done, at the huge knob, and telling rosalie she had a knocker at her back. in a short time the night-gowns and night-caps were scrambled on, and the children all deposited in their respective beds, and all hastily kissed by their undressers; who hurried out of the room, anxious to enter upon their anticipated delights. "now, good mary, dear mary," said henrietta, "do tell me if you have got every thing?" "every thing, miss," replied mary, "except the calves-foot jelly; and the money fell short of that. but i have got the iced pound-cake, and the mince pies, and the oyster patties, and the little cocoa-nut puddings, and the bottle of lemon-syrup, and all the other things. they are snug and safe in the market-basket in the back-kitchen-closet; and nobody can never guess nothing about it." just at this moment the man-servant came to tell the young ladies that mrs. middleton wished them all to go down into the front parlour to look at some prints. these prints were the coloured engravings of wall's beautiful views on the hudson, and which had just been purchased by mrs. middleton's brother-in-law, who was going to leave the city the following morning. at any other time the young ladies (at least those who had a taste for drawing) would have been grateful for mrs. middleton's kindness in allowing them an opportunity of looking at these fine landscapes; but _now_ every moment that detained them from the feast, seemed like an hour. henrietta murmured almost aloud; and they all went down with reluctance, except isabella caldwell, who had made up her mind not to partake of the banquet. in the mean time, little rosalie sunbridge, who was a very cunning child, and had a great deal of curiosity, suspected that something more than usual was going on, from the alertness of the young ladies in hurrying the children to bed. _her_ bed being nearest to the door, she had overheard the elder girls in earnest consultation with the chambermaid in the passage, and although she could not distinguish exactly what was said, she understood that something very delightful was to go on that evening in the front school-room. having a great desire to know precisely what was in agitation, she waited a short time till all her companions were asleep; and then getting up softly, she opened one of the shutters to let in a little light, as the storm had subsided and there was a faint moon. she then got her merino coat, and put it on over her night-gown, and covering her feet with her carpet moccasins that she might make no noise in walking, she stole softly into the front school-room, determined to watch all that went on. two lamps were burning on the table; but no person was in the room; the young ladies having all gone down into the parlour to look at the prints. rosalie, by climbing on a chair, managed, with much difficulty, to get on the upper shelf of a large closet; having hastily cleared a space for herself to lie down in, among the books and rolls of maps. then pushing away the chair, she drew the closet-door nearly close; leaving only a small crack, through which she could observe all that was done. presently, she saw mary come cautiously into the room with a basket, and taking out of it the materials for the feast, the girl arranged them all to great advantage on the table. when this was accomplished, she went down stairs; and immediately after, the young ladies, having looked hastily at the prints, all came up, and expressed much satisfaction at the inviting appearance of the banquet. isabella lighted a small lamp, and said she was going to bed. "why, caldwell," exclaimed henrietta, "are you absolutely in earnest? what, after contributing to the expense of the feast, will you really leave us before it begins, and go dismally to bed? see how nice every thing looks." "every thing, indeed, looks nice," replied isabella, "but still i have no desire to partake of them. i am out of spirits, and i have other reasons for not wishing to join your party." "just take something before you go," said henrietta. "no," answered isabella, "i feel as if i could not taste a single article on the table." she then withdrew to her room, and her companions took their seats and began to regale themselves; henrietta presiding at the head of the table. they would have enjoyed their feast very much, only that, notwithstanding their expected security, they were in continual dread of being discovered. they started, and listened at every little noise; fearing that miss loxley might possibly have returned, or that mrs. middleton might possibly be coming up stairs. "really," said henrietta, "it is a great pity that poor isabella caldwell, after she gave her dollar with so much reluctance, should refuse to take any share of our feast. perhaps to-morrow she will think better of it. suppose we save something for her. i dare say she will have no objection to eat some of these good things in the morning." "put by one of the little cocoa-nut puddings for her," said miss scott. "and one of the mince pies," said another young lady. "and a large slice of pound-cake," said a third. "and a bunch of white grapes," said a fourth. henrietta then selected some of the nicest articles of their banquet, to offer to isabella in the morning; and after some consultation, it was concluded to deposit them, for the present, in the farthest corner of the upper shelf of the closet; which upper shelf was only used as a repository for old maps and old copy books, and waste paper, and with these the things could be very conveniently covered. "do not take a light to the closet," said miss marley, "you may set something on fire. if you stand on tiptoe and raise your arm as high as you can, you may easily reach the upper shelf." henrietta accordingly walked to the closet; and was in the act of shoving a mince-pie into a dark corner of the upper shelf, when suddenly she gave a start and a shriek, and let fall the cocoa-nut pudding which she held in her hand. "what is the matter?" exclaimed all the girls at once. "oh!" cried henrietta, "when i reached up the mince-pie to the top shelf, it was taken from me by a cold hand that met mine--i felt the fingers." "impossible," said some of the girls. "what could it actually be?" cried others. just then, rosalie made a rustling among the loose papers on the top shelf. "there it is again," screamed henrietta. "oh!" cried miss watkins, "we have done very wrong to plot this feast in secret, and something dreadful is going to happen to us as a punishment." another rustling set all the young ladies to screaming; and, with one accord, they rushed towards the door, with such force as to overset the table and all its contents. the lamps were broken and extinguished in the fall; several of the girls were thrown down by the others; and the shrieks were so violent that mrs. middleton heard them into the parlour, where, her friends having left her, she was sitting with miss loxley, who had just come in; and taking a light with them, the two ladies ran up to the front school-room. the scene which then presented itself transfixed them with astonishment. the floor was strewed with the remains of the feast. the oil from the shattered lamps was running among the cakes and pies, which were also drenched with water from a broken pitcher; near which the bottle of lemon-syrup was lying in fragments. the table was thrown down on its side. some of the young ladies were still prostrate on the floor, and all were screaming. rosalie (frightened at the uproar she had caused) was on her hands and knees, looking out from the upper shelf of the closet, and crying "o, take me down, take me down! somebody bring a chair and take me down." isabella caldwell, hearing the noise, had thrown on her flannel gown, and ran also to see what was the matter. as soon as the surprise of mrs. middleton would allow her to speak, she inquired the cause of all this disturbance; but she could get no other answer than that there was some horrible thing in the closet. "there is indeed something in the closet," said mrs. middleton, perceiving rosalie. "miss sunbridge, how came you up there, and in that dress? and what is the meaning of all this?" the young ladies, having recovered from their terror when they found it to be groundless, and miss loxley having taken down rosalie, henrietta made a candid confession of the whole business. acknowledging herself to be the proposer and leader of the plot, she expressed her readiness to submit to any punishment mrs. middleton might think proper to inflict on her, but hoped that her governess would have the goodness to pardon all the other young ladies; none of whom would have thought of a secret feast, if she had not suggested it to them. "above all," continued henrietta, "i must exculpate isabella caldwell, who declined going to table with us or partaking of any thing, but retired to her bed; as may be known by her being now in her night-clothes." mrs. middleton was touched with the generosity of henrietta harwood, in taking all the blame on herself to exonerate her companions; and as her kind heart would not allow her to send any of her pupils to bed in the anticipation of being punished the next day, she said, "miss harwood, i will for this time permit your misdemeanour to go unpunished, but i require a promise from you that it shall never be repeated. make that promise sincerely, and i feel assured that you will keep it." "o, yes, indeed, dear madam!" sobbed henrietta, "you are too kind; and i cannot forgive myself for having persuaded my companions to join in a plot which i knew you would disapprove." "go now to your beds," said mrs. middleton, "and i will send a servant to clear away the disorder of this room. rosalie, i see, has already slipped off to hers." next morning, before school commenced, mrs. middleton addressed the young ladies mildly but impressively, on the proceedings of the day before. she dwelt on the general impropriety of all secret contrivances; on the injury done to the integrity of the ignorant servant-girl, by bribing her to deceive her employer; on the danger of making themselves sick by eating such a variety of sweet things; and on the folly of expending in those dainties, money which might be much better employed. "that," said henrietta, "was one of isabella caldwell's objections to joining our feasting party. i am now convinced that she had in view some more sensible manner of disposing of her money. i regret that she was prevailed on to contribute her dollar, as she must have had an excellent reason for her unwillingness; and she seemed really unhappy, and went to bed without touching any of our good things." "i can guess how it was," said miss loxley. "one very cold morning last week, i met diana, miss caldwell's washerwoman, going up stairs with the clean clothes, and having nothing on her shoulders but an old cotton shawl. i asked her if she had no cloak, and she replied that she had not; but added, that miss isabella had been so kind as to promise her one, which was to be ready for her when she came again. i suspect that miss caldwell has been saving her money for the laudable purpose of furnishing this poor woman with a cloak." "oh! no doubt she has," exclaimed henrietta. "why, dear isabella, did you not say so? and bad as i am, i would not have persisted in persuading you out of your dollar." "the woman, however, did not get her cloak," resumed miss loxley, "for i again saw her without one, yesterday, though the weather had increased in severity." "it is true," said isabella. "the cloak was to have cost four dollars, and after subscribing one dollar to the feast, i could not buy it; as i had not then sufficient money." _mrs. middleton._ miss harwood, had you often these feasts at madame disette's. _henrietta._ oh! very often, and as the teacher, miss benson, was always one of the party, we managed so well, that madame disette never discovered us. or if she had any suspicion, she said nothing about it; for after all, she cared very little what we did out of school-hours provided that our proceedings _cost her nothing_. _mrs. middleton._ you must not speak so disrespectfully of your former governess. but i will explain to you that _i_ care very much what you do, even in your hours of recreation. it is when the business of the school is over, and they are no longer in the presence of their instructors, that girls are in the greatest danger of forming bad habits, and imitating bad examples. all deceit, all tricks, are highly unjustifiable. a little feast may seem in itself of small moment; but if you persist in plotting little feasts, you will eventually be led on to plot things of more importance, and which may lead to the worst consequences. then, as i always allow you as large a portion of sweet things as comports with your health, it is the more reprehensible in you to seek to procure them for yourselves, without my knowledge. tell me now, do any of you feel the better for last night's frolic? _miss thomson._ o, no, no! miss watkins and miss roberts were sick all night; and, indeed, none of us feel very well this morning. _mrs. middleton._ i observed that you all had very little appetite for your breakfast. _miss brownlow._ and then _i_ had my new frock spoiled when i fell down in the lamp-oil. _miss wilcox._ and i got some lamp-oil into my mouth. i tasted it all night. even my nose was rubbed in it, as i lay struggling on the floor. _miss snodgrass._ and _i_ fell with my knees on half a dozen pieces of orange, and stained my black silk frock, so that it is no longer fit to wear. _miss marley._ and _i_ was thrown down with the back of my head on a bunch of grapes, mashing them to a jelly. _miss scott._ but _my_ hair was so very sticky, with falling into the lemon syrup, that i was obliged, this morning, to wash it all over with warm soap-suds. _miss roberts._ and _i_ put my foot into the bottom of the broken pitcher, and cut my heel so that it bled through the stocking. _miss watkins._ still, nothing of this would have happened if rosalie sunbridge had stayed in her bed. it was her hiding in the closet and frightening us, that caused all the mischief. _rosalie._ i am sure i was punished enough for my curiosity; for when i got on the closet-shelf i was obliged to lie so cramped that i was almost stiff; and i was half dead with cold, notwithstanding i had put on my merino coat. and then i was longing all the time for some of the good things i saw you eating; so that when miss harwood came to hide the mince-pie, i could not forbear taking it out of her hand. when i found that you were all so terrified, i thought i would make a noise among the loose papers to frighten you still more, supposing that you would all quit the room; and that then i could come down from the shelf, and regale myself awhile, before i stole back to-bed. i did not foresee that you would overset the table in your flight, and make such a violent noise. but i will never again attempt to pry into other people's secrets. _mrs middleton._ i hope you never will. this feast, you see, has caused nothing but discomfort, which is the case with all things that are in themselves improper. yet i think the greatest sufferer is isabella caldwell's washerwoman, who has, in consequence, been disappointed of her cloak. _isabella._ next week, madam, when i receive my allowance, i hope to be able to buy it for her. _mrs. middleton._ you need not wait till next week. the poor woman shall suffer no longer for a cloak. here is a dollar in advance; and after school, you can go out and purchase it, so that it may be ready for her to-morrow when she brings home your clothes. _isabella._ dear mrs. middleton, how much i thank you. * * * * * the young ladies having promised that they would attempt no more private feasts, mrs. middleton kissed, and forgave them. after school, isabella, accompanied by miss loxley, went out and bought the plaid cloak, which was sent home directly. next day, she longed for diana to arrive with the clothes, that she might enjoy her pleasure on receiving so useful a gift, but, to her great disappointment they were brought home by another mulatto woman, who informed isabella that she was diana's next door neighbour, and that poor diana having taken a violent cold from being out in the snow-storm, was now confined to her bed with the rheumatism. "ah!" thought isabella, "perhaps if she had had this good warm cloak to go home in, the day before yesterday, she might have escaped the rheumatism. i see now that whenever we allow ourselves to be persuaded to do a thing which we know to be wrong, evil is sure to come from it." she desired the woman to wait a few minutes; and hastening to mrs. middleton, begged that she would allow her to go and see poor diana, who, she feared was in great distress. mrs. middleton readily consented, and had a basket filled with various things, which she gave to the woman to carry with the plaid cloak to diana. she sent by isabella a bottle of camphor, and some cotton wadding, for diana's rheumatism, and a medicine for her to take internally. miss loxley accompanied isabella; and they found diana in bed and very ill, and every thing about her evincing extreme poverty. isabella engaged the woman to stay with diana till she got well, and to take care of her and her children, promising to pay her for her trouble. when they returned and made their report to mrs. middleton, she wrote a note to her physician, requesting him to visit diana and attend her as long as was necessary. next week, henrietta harwood, and the other young ladies, subscribed all their allowance of pocket-money for the relief of diana; who very soon was well enough to resume her work. it is unnecessary to add that their contribution to the support of the poor woman and her family, gave them far more pleasure than they had derived from the unfortunate feast. they never, of course, attempted another. and henrietta harwood, at mrs. middleton's school, lost all the faults she had acquired at madame disette's. the week of idleness. "their only labour was to kill the time, and labour dire it was, and weary wo." _thomson._ adelaide and rosalind, the daughters of mr. edington, looked forward with much pleasure to the arrival of their cousin, josephine sherborough, from maryland. she was to spend the summer with them, at their father's country residence on the beautiful bay of new york, a few miles below the city; and, though they had never seen her, they were disposed to regard josephine as a very agreeable addition to their family society. having had the misfortune to lose their mother, adelaide and rosalind had been for several years under the entire care of their governess, mrs. mortlake; a highly accomplished and most amiable woman, whom they loved and respected as if she had been their parent, and by whose instructions they had greatly profited. it was on a beautiful evening in june, that josephine sherborough was _certainly_ expected, after several disappointments within the last two or three weeks. the miss edingtons and their governess were seated on one of the settees in the portico that extended along the front of mr. edington's house. mrs. mortlake was sewing, rosalind reading aloud, and adelaide, with her drawing materials before her, was earnestly engaged in colouring a sketch of a fishing-boat at anchor, beautifully reflected in the calm water, and tinted with the glowing rays of the declining sun. as she put in the last touches, she hoped, before the summer was over, that she should improve so much in her drawing as to be enabled to attempt a view of the bay with its green shores; its island fortresses; and its numerous ships, some going out on a voyage to distant regions, others coming home with the merchandise and the news of europe. "now," exclaimed adelaide, "i see the smoke of the steamboat, just behind castle williams. my father and josephine will soon be here. i am glad my drawing is so nearly completed. in a few minutes it will be finished." "and in a few minutes," said rosalind, "i shall conclude the story that i am reading." "do you not now think," asked mrs. mortlake, "i was right in proposing that we should protract our usual afternoon occupations an hour beyond the usual time, as we are expecting the arrival of your father and your cousin? this last hour would have seemed twice its real length, if we had done nothing, all the while, but strain our eyes in gazing up the bay for the steamboat, saying every few minutes, 'oh, i wish they were come!'" in a short time, adelaide exclaimed, "here is the steamboat. i see they are depositing several trunks in the little boat at the side. and now it is let down to the water. and now a gentleman and a young lady descend the steps, and take their seats in it. how fast it cuts its way through the foam that is raised by the tow-line. in a moment it will touch the wharf. here they come. there is my father; and it _must_ be josephine that is with him!" the sisters then ran down the steps of the portico, and in a moment were at the landing-place, where mr. edington, as soon as he had assisted her to step on shore, introduced them to josephine sherborough, a fat, fair, pale young lady, about fourteen, with a remarkably placid countenance which immediately won the regard of rosalind: who determined in her own mind that josephine was a very sweet girl, and that they should, ever hereafter, be intimate and most particular friends. adelaide, who was two years older than rosalind, and who had more penetration, was not so violently prepossessed in favour of her cousin, whose face she thought deficient in animation, and whose movements were more slow and heavy than those of any young girl she had ever seen. when tea was over, the sisters proposed to josephine a walk round the garden, which was large and very beautiful; but she complained of being excessively tired, and said that she would much rather go to bed. this somewhat surprised her cousins, as they knew that josephine had been three days in the city with the friends under whose care she had come from maryland; and they thought that she must have had ample time to recover from the fatigue of her journey: to which her last little trip in the steamboat could not have added much. rosalind, who was a year younger than josephine, accompanied her to the chamber prepared for her accommodation, where josephine, looking round disconsolately, inquired if there was no servant to undress her. rosalind volunteered to perform this office; and josephine said she would ring the bell for one of the maids, when she wished to get up in the morning. she kept the family waiting breakfast for her till nine o'clock, and then came down in a white slip or loose gown; her hair still pinned up; her eyes half shut; and her face evidently not washed. mr. edington, whose business in the city made it necessary for him to be there at an early hour, had long since breakfasted, and gone up to town in the boat; and after a few days, the rest of the family ceased to wait for her; and the housekeeper was directed to have a fresh breakfast prepared for miss sherborough whenever she came down. the first days of josephine's visit ought, in rosalind's opinion, to have been devoted entirely to the amusement of their guest, and she was urgent with mrs. mortlake, to allow adelaide and herself a week of holiday. their governess told them that she would have been willing to grant this indulgence if josephine was to remain with them a week only: but as she was to stay all summer, it would, of course, be impossible for them, every day, to give up their usual occupations; and therefore it was better to begin as they were to go on. she reminded rosalind that if they were attentive and industrious, they would get through their lessons the sooner, and have the more time for recreation with their visitor. after josephine had breakfasted, mrs. mortlake offered to show her the children's library, that she might amuse herself with any of the books she chose, while her cousins were engaged in their morning employments. josephine thanked her; but said she could entertain herself very well without books, and that she believed she would take a walk in the garden. she accordingly put on her bonnet, and strolled up and down the walks, gazing listlessly at the flowers. she attempted to gather some strawberries, but found it too fatiguing to stoop down to the beds; and satisfied herself with plucking currants and gooseberries from the bushes. she then sat in the arbour for awhile, and looked all the time straight down the middle walk. when she was tired of the arbour, she established herself on a circular bench which ran round a large walnut tree; and then she counted all the windows at the back part of the house. when this was accomplished, she counted them all over again. and then, finding the sun had become very powerful, she went into the front-parlour, the shutters of which were bowed to exclude the heat, and throwing herself at full length on the sofa, she in a few minutes fell into a profound sleep, from which she did not awaken till her cousins entered the room in search of her, after their lessons were over. they took her up stairs into the apartment they called their play-room, and showed her a variety of things which would have been very amusing to a girl that knew how to be amused. there was a lacquered chinese cabinet, containing a great number of curiosities brought by their uncle from canton: and a large box with shelves, on which were various specimens of indian ingenuity, presented to the children by a gentleman who had travelled all over the country beyond the mississippi. their library consisted of a beautiful and entertaining selection of juvenile books; and they had a port-folio filled with fine prints of such subjects as are particularly interesting to young people. they showed her a representation of the grand procession at the coronation of the sovereign of england, printed on a long narrow roll of paper pasted on silk; which paper was unwound like a ribbon-yard from a tunbridge-ware box, and it could be screwed up again after being sufficiently seen. it was many yards in length, and the figures (which were almost innumerable) were elegantly designed, and beautifully coloured. they had also a little theatre, with a great number of scenes; and a variety of very small dolls, dressed in appropriate habits to personate the actors. beside all these things, they had a closet full of amusing toys; and in short the play-room was amply stored with a profusion of whatever was necessary to the enjoyment of their leisure hours. but all was lost on josephine. while adelaide and rosalind were assiduous in showing and explaining to her every thing, she heard them with listlessness and apathy, and made not the slightest remark. at last, she said "we will reserve some of these sights for to-morrow. i must go and dress myself for dinner. oh! how i hate to dress. it is an odious task. i must have mary to assist me again; for i never _can_ get through the fatigue of dressing myself, and fixing my hair." in the afternoon, adelaide and rosalind took their sewing, and seated themselves with mrs. mortlake in the porch. as josephine appeared to have no work, mrs. mortlake gave her a volume of miss edgeworth's moral tales, and requested her to read one of them aloud. josephine took the book and began to read "the prussian vase," but with so monotonous and inarticulate a tone, or rather drawl, that it was painful to hear her: and her cousins were not sorry when, at the end of three or four pages, she stopped, and complained that she was too much fatigued to read any more. mrs. mortlake then desired adelaide, who read extremely well, to take the book and continue the story, but in a short time josephine was discovered to be asleep. when adelaide ceased reading, josephine awoke, and saying that she could not live without her afternoon nap, went up stairs to lie down on her bed. she slept till near tea-time, and when tea was over, her cousins and mrs. mortlake prepared for a walk, and invited josephine to join them. this she did; but in less than ten minutes she complained so much of fatigue, that rosalind turned back and accompanied her home, and she reclined on the settee in the porch till the lamps were lighted in the front-parlour. the girls then showed josephine a portable diorama, containing twelve beautiful coloured views of castles, abbeys, temples, and mountain scenery. each of these exquisite little landscapes was fixed, in turn, as the back scene of a sort of miniature stage. the skies and lights of these views were all transparent, and there were other skies which turned on rollers, and represented sunrise, moonlight, sunshine, and thunder-clouds. these second skies being placed behind those of the picture, were slowly unrolled by turning a small handle, and produced the most varied and beautiful effects on the scenery, which could thus at pleasure be illuminated gradually with sunshine or moonbeams, or darkened with the clouds of a gathering storm. but josephine saw this charming exhibition without a single comment; being evidently much inclined to yawn as she looked at it. and getting again very sleepy, she soon retired to her bed. next morning, mrs. mortlake invited her to bring her sewing into the school-room, and sit there while her cousins were at their lessons. but josephine replied that she hated sewing, and never did any. however, she took her seat in the school-room, and a kitten soon after came purring round her; so she put it on her lap, and stroked and patted it till the lessons were over, and the girls went up stairs to amuse themselves till dinner-time. adelaide tried to induce josephine to look at some of the beautiful prints in the port-folio; but she found it necessary to explain them all, as if she was showing them to a child of three years old. rosalind proposed that they should all go on the roof of the house (it being flat on the top and guarded with a railing) to look at the beauty and wide extent of the prospect; and taking their parasols to screen their heads from the sun, they went up through a very convenient trap-door at the head of an easy little staircase. the view from the roof of mr. edington's house was certainly very fine, comprising the bay with its islands and fortresses; its boats and vessels of every description; the distant lighthouse at sandy hook, and the blue ocean rolling beyond it: and at the other end of the scene, behind a forest of masts, rose the city of new york with its numerous spires glittering in the sunlight. fine as the prospect was, josephine showed no symptom of admiration; but as they came down through the garret-passage, she spied an old rocking-chair standing in a corner among some lumber. (parlour rocking-chairs were not yet in general use.) she turned her head, and looked at it with longing eyes. "ah!" said she, "that is the very thing i have been suffering for ever since i left home. do let me beg to have it in my room." the chair, accordingly, was carried into the apartment of josephine, who immediately seated herself, and began to rock with great satisfaction; at which most interesting amusement she continued till near dinner-time. the rocking-chair was next day taken into the school-room, and with that and the kitten, josephine appeared to get through the morning rather contentedly. the afternoon was again devoted to a long nap: and in the evening josephine reclined on the front-parlour sofa, and entertained herself by running her finger a hundred times over the brass nails. several days passed on in a similar manner. one morning when they were all in the play-room, josephine said to her cousins, "what a very hard life you are obliged to endure. neither of you have a moment of rest, from the time you leave your beds in the morning, till you return to them at night. first, there is your rising with the sun, and going to work in your little gardens. i am sure you might make your father's gardener do all that business." _adelaide_. but we take great pleasure in it; and when we see our flowers growing and blooming, the interest they excite in us is much increased by knowing that we have raised them from the seed, or planted the roots ourselves; and that we have assisted their growth by watering, weeding, tying them, and clearing them from insects. and is it not pleasant to find that the fruit-stones, we planted a few years since in our little orchard, have produced trees that are now loaded with fruit? the red cherries, we had last evening after tea, were from one of my trees; and the large black cherries were from rosalind's. and in august, we shall have our own plums and peaches. _josephine_. i am sure it is much less trouble to buy these things, than to cultivate them; and as to the amusement, i can see none. then there are those awful lessons that are always to come on after breakfast. the writing, and cyphering, and grammar, and geography, and history, one day: and the french, and music, and drawing, the next: and-the reading and sewing every afternoon; and the walk every evening. even your play-time (as you call it) is a time of perpetual fatigue: your plays all seem to require so much skill and ingenuity. and then on saturday morning, to think that you are obliged to go into the housekeeper's room and learn to make cakes, and pastry, and sweetmeats, and all such things. i am sure if i was never to eat cakes till i assisted in making them, i should go without all my life. it seems to me that your whole existence is a course of uninterrupted toil. _rosalind_. there is much truth in what you say, my dear josephine. but i own it never struck me before. _adelaide_. we have always been perfectly happy in our occupations and amusements: and the longest day in summer seems too short for us. _josephine_. too short, perhaps, to get through such a quantity of work; for i consider all this as _real hard work_. i am glad that i have not been brought up in such a laborious manner. my parents love me too much to make me uncomfortable, even for a moment; or to cause me in any way the slightest fatigue. i have spent my whole life in ease and peace; doing nothing but what i pleased, and never learning but when i chose. i have not been troubled with either a school or a governess; my mother (who was herself educated at a boarding-school) having determined, as i was her only child, to instruct me at home. adelaide saw that it was in vain to argue the point any farther. but the foolish reasoning of josephine made a great impression on rosalind; so true it is, that "evil communication corrupts good manners," and she was seized with an earnest desire to participate in the happiness of doing nothing. next morning, rosalind went to her lessons with great reluctance, and consequently did not perform them well. on the following day she was equally deficient; and in the afternoon when josephine went up stairs to take her nap, rosalind, looking after her, exclaimed, "happy girl! how i envy her!" "envy her!" said adelaide, "of all the people i am acquainted with, i think josephine sherborough is the least to be envied." _rosalind._ she is not troubled with lessons, and sewing, as we are. she can do whatever she pleases the whole day long. no wonder she is fat, when she is so perfectly comfortable. for my part, i expect, in the course of another year, to be worn to a skeleton with such incessant application. _adelaide._ but without application how is it possible to learn? _rosalind._ i would rather put off my learning till i am older, and have strength to bear such dreadful fatigue. _adelaide._ i do not find it fatiguing. i am sure our lessons are not very long, and mrs. mortlake is so kind and gentle, that it is a pleasure to be instructed by her; and she explains every thing so sensibly and intelligibly. _rosalind._ but where is the use of learning every thing before we grow up? _adelaide._ because, as mrs. mortlake says, children (if they are not _too young_) learn faster than grown persons; their memories are better, as they have not yet been overloaded, and they have nothing of importance to divert their attention from their lessons. _rosalind._ i would rather grow up as ignorant as our tenant's wife, dutch katy, than be made such a slave as i am now. i am sure katy's life is an easy one compared to mine. _adelaide, smiling._ consider it not so deeply. _rosalind._ yes, i will, for i am out of patience. i wish it was the fashion to be ignorant. _adelaide._ fortunately it is _not_. to say nothing of the disgrace of being ignorant when it is known we have had opportunities of acquiring knowledge, persons whose minds are vacant, have but few enjoyments. for instance, as josephine knows nothing of music, it gives her no pleasure to hear the finest singing and playing, even such as mrs. mortlake's. as she has no idea of drawing, she takes not the least delight in looking at beautiful pictures. having never been in the habit of reading, she wonders how it is possible to be amused with a book; and as she has no knowledge of history or geography, she often, when she _does_ read, is puzzled with allusions to those subjects; and a french word is as unintelligible to her, as if it were greek. plants and animals do not interest her, because she has scarcely an idea of the properties or attributes of any of the productions of nature. and what is worse than all, she takes no pleasure in listening to the conversation of sensible people, because she is incapable of understanding it: her comprehension being only equal to the most frivolous topics. _rosalind._ notwithstanding all this, her life passes calmly and pleasantly; and i am sure she is much happier than we are. _adelaide._ speak for yourself, dear rosalind. for my part, i do not wish to be more happy than i am. _rosalind._ well, i thought so too, till i knew josephine. and she is by no means so dull as you suppose. _adelaide._ perhaps she is not naturally stupid; but indulgence and indolence have so benumbed her understanding, that it seems now incapable of the smallest effort. at this moment mrs. mortlake came down with a book in her hand, for the afternoon reading. "rosalind," said she, "as my room is over the porch, and the windows are open, i could not avoid hearing all you have just been saying, particularly as you spoke very loudly. as i do not wish to see either of my pupils _unhappy_, i will gratify your desire, and both you and adelaide (if it is also her wish) may pass a week entirely without occupation; in short, a week of idleness." _adelaide._ o no, dear mrs. mortlake: i have no desire to avail myself of your offer. i would much rather continue my usual employments. _rosalind._ a week of entire leisure! o, how delightful! _mrs. mortlake._ but, during that time, neither you nor josephine must come into the school-room. _rosalind._ o, indeed! we shall not desire it. _mrs. mortlake._ neither must you read. _rosalind._ well!--i am sure i have read enough to last my lifetime. where is the use of reading story-books that are all invention, describing people that never lived; or of poring over voyages and travels to countries i shall never visit; or of studying the histories of dead kings. _mrs. mortlake._ you must not sew. _rosalind._ i never _did_ find it very entertaining to stick a needle and thread into a piece of muslin, and pull it through again. _mrs. mortlake._ you must not draw. _rosalind._ i do not see the pleasure of rubbing red, and blue, and green paint on little plates; and dabbling in tumblers of water with camel's-hair pencils, and daubing colours on white paper. _mrs. mortlake._ you must not play on the piano, nor on the harp. _rosalind._ well! what sense is there in pressing down your fingers first on bits of ivory, and then on bits of ebony; and staring at crotchets and quavers all the time? or where is the use of twanging and jerking the strings of a harp? _mrs. mortlake._ you must not work in your garden. _rosalind._ so much the better. then i shall neither dirty my hands with pulling up the weeds, nor splash my feet with the water-pot. _mrs. mortlake._ you may sleep as much as you please; but you must not rise before nine o'clock. _rosalind._ o, how delightful, not to be obliged to jump out of bed at daylight! dearest mrs. mortlake, if i could have a _month_ of ease and comfort, instead of only a week--- _mrs. mortlake._ well,--if at the end of the week you still desire it, perhaps i may protract the indulgence to a longer period. _rosalind._ dear mrs. mortlake, how kind you are. when shall my happiness begin? as to-morrow is saturday, when we _always_ have a half holiday, and next day sunday, when we go to the city to attend church, i think, notwithstanding my impatience, i would rather commence my week of felicity regularly on monday morning. _mrs. mortlake._ very well, then. on monday morning let it be. _adelaide._ i am sorry to hear you call your anticipated week of idleness a week of felicity. _rosalind._ oh! i am sure i shall find it so; and you will regret not having also accepted mrs. mortlake's kind offer. _adelaide._ i fear no regret on that subject. _mrs. mortlake._ say no more, adelaide. wait till we see the event of rosalind's experiment. _rosalind._ i hope josephine's afternoon nap will not be as long as usual: i am so impatient to tell her. o, how we shall enjoy ourselves together! * * * * * when josephine awoke and heard of the new arrangement, she was as much delighted as _she_ could be at any thing; and she begged that rosalind might be allowed to share her chamber during this happy week. monday morning came; and rosalind (such is the power of habit) awoke, as usual, with the dawn; but soon recollected that she was not to get up till nine o'clock. she saw the light gleaming through the venetian shutters, and she heard the morning song of the scarlet oriole, whose nest was in a locust tree close to the window; and the twittering of the martins as they flew about their box, which was affixed to the wall just below the roof of the house. she heard adelaide, who was in the next room, get up to dress herself, and exclaim as she threw open the shutters, "o, what a beautiful sunrise!" rosalind felt some desire to enjoy the loveliness of the early morning; but determined to remain in bed, and indulge herself with another nap. she turned and shook her pillow, and tumbled about for a long time before she could get to sleep; and at last she awoke again just as the clock was striking seven. she had still two hours to remain in bed, and she found the time extremely tedious. "are you asleep, josephine?" said she. "no," replied josephine, "i am never asleep after this hour." _rosalind._ why, then, do you remain in bed? _josephine._ o, because i hate to get up. _rosalind._ well then let us talk. _josephine._ o, no! i never talk in bed. for, even when i do not sleep, i am not quite awake. at length it was nine; and at the first stroke of the clock, rosalind started from her bed, and began to wash and dress herself. when the girls went down stairs, they found the family breakfast had long been over, and they had theirs on a little table in a corner of the room. rosalind thought her breakfast did not taste very well; probably, because remaining so long in bed, had taken away her appetite. after breakfast, they went out and walked a little while in the most shady part of the garden. then they sat down; first in the arbour of honeysuckles, then on the green bank behind the ice-house; then on a garden chair; and then on the bench at the foot of the great walnut tree. they picked a few currants and ate them; and they gathered some roses and smelled them. for some time they held their parasols over their heads; and then they shut them, and made marks on the gravel with the ends of the ivory sticks. they looked awhile at a nursery of young peach-trees at one side of the garden; and then they turned and looked towards a clover-field on the other side. josephine pulled the strings of her reticule backwards and forwards; and rosalind counted the palisades in the fence of the kitchen-garden. at last a bright idea struck her; and she gathered some dandelions that were going to seed, and blew off the down; recommending the same amusement to josephine, who, after two or three trials, gave it up. "suppose we go to the play-room," said rosalind. josephine assented, and they slowly walked back to the house, and ascended the stairs. "now," said rosalind, "we can play domino _in the morning_. generally, we never amuse ourselves with any of those little games in the day-time; though we have domino, draughts, and loto, sometimes in the evening." they played domino awhile in a very spiritless manner, and then they tried draughts and loto, which they also soon gave up; josephine saying that all these games required too much attention. she then had recourse to the rocking-chair, and rosalind took some white paper and cut fly-traps; in which amusements they tried to get rid of the time till near the dinner-hour, when they combed their hair, and changed their dresses. adelaide did not join them in the play-room, being much engaged with a very amusing book. after dinner, rosalind, accompanied josephine to her room to take a nap likewise. but she found it so warm, and turned and tossed about so much, and had such difficulty in fixing herself in a comfortable position, that she thought, if it was not for the name of taking a nap, she had better have stayed up as usual. josephine had less difficulty, being accustomed to afternoon-sleeping; and at length rosalind shut her eyes, and fell into a sort of uneasy doze. when they awoke, rosalind proposed that they should put on their frocks, and go down into the porch, where mrs. mortlake and adelaide were reading and sewing. but josephine thought it would be much less trouble to sit in their loose gowns until near tea-time. to this rosalind agreed, and they sat and gazed at the river. but it happened _this_ afternoon that no ships came in, and only one went out; and all the steamboats kept far over towards the opposite shore. they were glad when the bell rung for tea; for when people do nothing, their meals are a sort of amusement, and are therefore expected with anxious interest. in the evening, they declined joining mrs. mortlake and adelaide in their usual long walk, and took a short stroll under the willows on the bank of the river; after which they returned to the parlour, where mr. edington sat reading the newspaper, and josephine threw herself on the sofa; while rosalind sat beside her on a chair, and played with the kitten. next morning, their amusements in the garden were a little diversified by playing jack-stones and platting ribbon-grass; and when they went up to the play-room, rosalind, looking among her old toys, found a doll long since laid aside, and a basket with its clothes. she offered the doll to josephine proposing that she should dress it: but josephine said "i would rather look at you, while _you_ do it." rosalind accordingly dressed the doll in two different suits, one after another; but soon grew tired, and had recourse to an ivory cup and ball, which she failed to catch with as much dexterity as usual. she gave josephine a wooden lemon, which on being opened in the middle, contained a number of other lemons one within another, and diminishing in size till the last and smallest was no bigger than a pea. when josephine had got through the lemon, rosalind took it, and resigned the cup and ball to her cousin, who soon gave it up, as she could never make the cup catch the ball; and she again finished the morning with her never-failing resource the rocking-chair. monday, tuesday, and wednesday having been passed in this manner, on thursday rosalind began to acknowledge to herself, what she had indeed suspected on the first day, that a life of entire idleness was not quite so agreeable as she had supposed. having no useful or interesting occupation to diversify her time, she found that play had lost its relish; and now that she could play all day, she found all plays tiresome. these three days had appeared to her of never-ending length; and she began to think that when her week of idleness had expired she would not solicit mrs. mortlake to prolong the term. on thursday afternoon rosalind gave up her nap, and went and seated herself at the open window, that she might hear mrs. mortlake and adelaide read aloud in the porch. and next morning, she actually stopped and listened at the school-room door while adelaide was repeating her french lesson; and she returned again, and stood behind the door, to hear mrs. mortlake instructing her sister in a new song accompanied on the harp. all that day and the next, she felt as if she was actually sick of doing nothing; and she absolutely languished to be allowed once more to take a book and read, or to draw, or play on the piano. even sewing, she thought, would now seem delightful to her. on saturday morning rosalind met adelaide in her brown linen apron with long sleeves, going into the housekeeper's room to assist in making cakes and pastry. she longed to go in with her, and to do her part as formerly; and her longing increased when she heard the sound of beating eggs, and grinding spice. she had hitherto looked forward with great pleasure to her holiday on saturday afternoon. now, after doing nothing all the week, saturday afternoon had no charms for her; and she was glad to find it was to be devoted to a ride in the carriage, through a pleasant part of the adjacent country. "well, rosalind," said josephine, as they were taking off their bonnets, after their return from the ride, "you have now spent a week in _my_ way. do you not wish you could pass your whole life in the same manner?" _rosalind._ no, indeed--nor even another week. this week of idleness has seemed to me like a month; and i have no desire to renew the experiment. i have never in my life gone to bed so tired as after those days of doing nothing. i find that want of occupation is to me absolute misery; though it may be very delightful to _you_, as you have been brought up in a different manner, and have never been accustomed to any sort of employment. yet, still i think you would be much happier, if you had something to do. in the evening mr. edington said to his youngest daughter, "well, rosalind, how do you like your week of idleness? are you going to request mrs. mortlake to lengthen the term of your enjoyment?" _rosalind._ o no, dear father; it has been no enjoyment to _me_. on the contrary, i am glad to think that it is now over. i have found it absolutely a punishment. _mr. edington._ so i suspected. _rosalind._ and i deserved it, for allowing myself to become dissatisfied with the manner in which mrs. mortlake chose that i should occupy myself. i am tired of lying in bed, tired of idleness, and tired of play. so, dear mrs. mortlake, be so kind as to let me rise at daylight on monday morning, to work in my garden, and resume my lessons as usual. you may depend on it i shall never again wish for a single day of idleness. _mrs. mortlake._ i am very glad to hear you say so, my dear rosalind. and i do not despair of at length convincing josephine that she would be more happy if she had some regular employment. that night rosalind returned to her own chamber, and next morning she was up at daylight. it being sunday, they went as usual to church in the city, and rosalind was now delighted to pass the remainder of the day in reading a volume of mrs. sherwood's excellent work, the lady of the manor. a book now seemed like a novelty to her. next day rosalind went through her lessons with a pleasure she had never felt before; and when they were over, she highly enjoyed her two hours' recreation after dinner. she took no more afternoon naps; and after a short time even josephine was persuaded to give them up, and found it possible, with some practice, to keep awake while her cousins or mrs. mortlake were reading aloud in the porch. finally, josephine became ashamed of being the only idle person in mr. edington's house, and was prevailed on by her uncle and mrs. mortlake to join her cousins in their lessons. by degrees, and by giving her only a very little to learn at a time, and by having constantly before her such good examples as adelaide and rosalind, she entirely conquered her love of idleness. she was really not deficient in natural capacity, and she soon began to take pleasure in trying to improve herself; so that when she returned to maryland, she carried with her a newly acquired taste for rational pursuits, which she never afterwards lost. madeline malcolm. now here--now there--in noise and mischief ever. _rogers._ "well, juliet, how is your friend, cecilia selden?" said edward lansdowne to his sister, as they were sitting by the parlour fire, in the interval between daylight and darkness. it was the evening after his arrival from princeton college to spend a fortnight at christmas with his family in philadelphia. _juliet._ i believe cecilia is very well. at least she was so when last i saw her, about five weeks since. _edward._ is it five weeks since you have seen cecilia selden? you were formerly almost inseparable. i hope there has been no quarrel between you. _juliet._ none at all. but--somehow--i am tired of cecilia selden. she is certainly a very dull companion. _edward._ dull! you once thought her very amusing. for my part, _i_ always found her so. she has read a great deal, is highly accomplished, and as she travels every summer with her parents, she has had opportunities of seeing a variety of interesting places and people. and above all, she has an excellent natural understanding. _juliet._ but she is always so sensible and so correct, and every thing that she says and does is so very proper. _edward._ so much the better. you will improve by being intimate with her. _juliet._ i never shall be intimate again with cecilia selden. she is too particular, too fastidious. she does not like madeline malcolm. _edward._ and who is madeline malcolm? i never heard of her before. _juliet._ her father is our next door neighbour. you know we did not live in this house when you were last in philadelphia. the very day we moved, madeline malcolm came in to see us, in the midst of all our bustle and confusion, and stayed the whole afternoon. she said she had long been desirous of becoming acquainted with me, was delighted that we were now near neighbours, and therefore could not forbear running in to commence the intimacy immediately. _edward._ but "in the midst of all your bustle and confusion," it must have been very in convenient to receive a visitor, and to entertain her the whole afternoon. _juliet._ why,--we were a little disconcerted at first, but she begged of us not to consider her a stranger. she was just as sociable as if she had known us for seven years; and she was so queer, and there was so much fun in every thing she said and did, that she kept me laughing all the time. _edward._ i should like to see this prodigy of fun. _juliet._ no doubt you will soon have that pleasure; for she runs in and out, the back way, ten times a-day. juliet had scarcely spoken when they heard a voice in the entry, singing "i'd be a butterfly," and madeline malcolm, a tall, black-eyed, red-cheeked girl, with long ringlets of dark hair, came flying into the parlour, exclaiming, "what, still by fire-light--i shall have to pull your peter's ears myself, if he does not mind his business and light the astral lamp sooner. o! here he comes. now, peter, proceed; and take yourself off as soon as you have accomplished the feat. well,--now that there is no longer any danger of falling over this young gentleman, i must beg leave to be introduced to him in form. i surmise that he is the most learned mr. edward lansdowne of nassau-hall, princeton. ah! i have torn my frock on the fender. just like me, you know." juliet immediately introduced her brother. "well, ned," exclaimed miss malcolm, "you have come to make us happy at last. your sister has talked so much about you that i have actually been longing for your arrival. come, tell us the best news at college. i have a cousin there, but he has not been in town since the rebellion before the last. i suppose he goes to new york to take his frolics. come, tell us all the particulars of your last 'barring out;' i suppose it was conducted according to the newest fashion. juliet, did you ever see any thing like ned's face? a sort of mixed expression; trying to smile and be agreeable, but looking all the time as if he could bar _me_ out himself." in this manner she ran on for near half an hour, juliet laughing heartily, and edward not at all. at last she rose to go away, and when juliet invited her to stay all the evening, she said she _must_ go home, for they were to have waffles at tea, and she would not miss them on any consideration. however, the tea-table in mrs. lansdowne's parlour being now set, she took a spoonful of honey which she dripped all over the cloth, and then giving juliet a hearty kiss, she seized edward's arm saying, "come, ned, escort me home. i am going in at the front-door this time, and there is always ice on our steps, so be sure to take care that i do not fall." when edward took his leave at madeline's door, she shook hands with him, saying, "am i not a wild creature? you see how my spirits run away with me." edward came back with a countenance of almost disgust. "if this is your new friend," said he to his sister, "i must say that i consider her scarcely endurable. why, she never saw me before this evening, and yet she is as familiar as if she had known me all her life. to think of her calling me ned." "ah!" said juliet with a smile, "i suspect _that_ to be the grand offence, after all. but depend upon it, you will like her better when you know her better." "i very much doubt my ever liking her at all," replied edward. * * * * * nothing could exceed the sociability of madeline malcolm. she breakfasted, dined, and drank tea at mrs. lansdowne's table nearly as often as at her father's; and she frequently ran in early in the morning, and scampered into juliet's chamber before she had risen. mr. and mrs. lansdowne (both whose dispositions were remarkably amiable and indulgent) did not approve of their daughter's intimacy with madeline. they had spoken to her on the subject; but madeline's frank and caressing manner, and her perpetual good-humour, had so won the heart of juliet, that it was painful to her to hear a word against her friend, as she called her. so her parents concluded to let it pass for the present; trusting to juliet's becoming eventually disgusted by some outrageous folly of madeline's, who seemed to think her professed volatility an excuse for every thing; and that the appellation of _a wild creature_, which she took pride in giving herself, would screen her from any resentment her unwarrantable conduct might provoke. still, as edward observed, she had a great deal of selfishness and cunning; as is generally the case with wild creatures; for when females have so little of the delicacy of their sex as to throw aside the restraints of propriety, the same want of delicacy makes them totally regardless of the feelings or convenience of others, and renders them callous to every thing like real sympathy or kindness of heart. at home, madeline was allowed to do exactly as she pleased; her father's thoughts were perpetually in his counting-house, and her step-mother, who spent all her time in the nursery, was incessantly occupied with the care of a large family of young children, of whom madeline never took the least account. and she was so much at mr. lansdowne's that juliet had few opportunities of returning her visits. she borrowed all juliet's best books, and did not scruple to lend them again to any person that she knew. some of the books were never returned; and others were brought back soiled, torn, and in a most deplorable condition. one of her jokes was to take up juliet's muslin-work, and disfigure it with what she called gobble-stitch. she came in one day and found the parlour unoccupied, and juliet's drawing-box on the table, with a beautiful landscape nearly finished. madeline sat down and daubed at it till it was quite spoiled, and when juliet discovered her at this employment, she turned it off with a laugh, insisting that she had greatly improved the picture. she found juliet one evening engaged in copying a very scarce and beautiful song, which she had borrowed from her music-master, and which had never been published in america. on juliet's being called up stairs for a few moments to her mother, madeline took the pen, and scribbled on the margin of the borrowed music, some nonsensical verses of her own composition, in ridicule of the music-master. edward presented his sister at christmas with a set of a new english magazine, which contained biographical sketches and finely engraved portraits of some of the most celebrated female authors. madeline came in soon after the arrival of the books; and having looked them over, she insisted on carrying one of the volumes home with her. next day she brought it back, with a pair of spectacles drawn with a pen and ink round the eyes of each of the portraits that, as she said, "the learned ladies might look still wiser." upon this edward immediately left the room, lest his indignation should induce him to say too much, and juliet could not help warmly expressing her dissatisfaction. but madeline pacified her by hanging round her neck and pleading that her love of fun was constantly leading her to do mischievous things; and that she was sure her darling juliet loved her too well not to forgive her. cecilia selden, a sensible and amiable girl, and formerly juliet's most intimate friend, was an object of madeline's particular dislike and ridicule; of which cecilia perceived so many palpable symptoms, that she left off visiting at mrs. lansdowne's house; to the great regret of edward. mrs. templeton, a lady that lived at the distance of a few squares, gave a juvenile ball, to which juliet and edward were invited, and also madeline with several of her little brothers and sisters. soon after juliet had gone up to her room to commence dressing, madeline came in followed by a servant with two bandboxes, and exclaiming, "well, juliet, i have brought all my trappings, and have come here to dress with _you_, that i may escape being put in requisition at home to assist in decorating the brats, who will entirely fill up _our_ carriage, so i am going to the ball in _yours_. there now, get away from the glass and let me begin." juliet removed from the glass, and throwing a shawl over her shoulders, sat down by the fire, determined to wait patiently till madeline had finished her toilet. but this was no expeditious matter. madeline always professed to be too giddy to have her clothes in order, or to think of any thing before the last moment. every article that she was to wear this evening required some alteration, which juliet was called upon to make, till lucy, a mulatto seamstress that lived in the family, came up to assist the young ladies in dressing. madeline's white satin under-frock was longer than the tulle dress that she wore over it: and after it was put on, it was necessary to make it shorter by turning the hem up all round and running it along with a needle and thread. her satin belt would not meet, and after a great deal of pulling and squeezing in vain, the only remedy was to take off the hooks and eyes and set them nearer to the ends. she desired lucy to arrange her hair for her, which was a difficult task, as madeline would not hold still a moment; and after it was at last accomplished, she declared that lucy had made a fright of her, and demolished the whole structure with her own hands, strewing the floor with hair-pins and flowers. she then called juliet to her assistance; and, in the course of time, her hair was finished to her satisfaction. when madeline was dressed, she took a lamp from the mantlepiece and setting it on the floor, that she might see her feet to advantage with her embroidered silk stockings and white satin shoes, she began to caper and dance; and in performing one of her best steps she kicked down the lamp, which splashed all over her right foot, and over the lower part of her dress, beside deluging the carpet with oil. she screamed violently, and her volatility seemed to forsake her when she held up her beautiful tulle dress bespattered with lamp-oil. juliet endeavoured to console her, and lent her another pair of silk stockings, and lucy was sent to the nearest shoemaker's to bring several pair of white satin shoes that madeline might choose from among them. but what was to be done with the disfigured frock? madeline declared she had no other dress that was handsome enough to wear that evening, and said she would rather stay away from the ball than not look as she wished. juliet, who was about the same size, offered to lend her a frock, even the clear muslin she was to wear that night herself; but madeline said that juliet's dresses were all too plain for her, and that she had set her mind upon the white silk-sprigged tulle, and nothing else. she continued to lament her misfortune, when a thought struck her that it was possible to conceal the spots of oil by arranging artificial flowers round the lower part of the dress. but juliet had no such flowers, not having yet begun to wear them, and her mother had long since left them off. madeline's whole stock of flowers, was already disposed of on her head, and she protested against taking out a single one; saying, that it required a multitude to cover all the oil-stains. at last she exclaimed, "i have just thought of it, juliet,--there are plenty of flowers in the french vases on your front-parlour mantle-piece.[a] i will have _them_. they will do exactly."--"but," said juliet, "i know not that my mother will approve of the flowers being taken out of the vases."--"nonsense," replied madeline. "what a vastly proper person you are. tell her that your volatile friend madeline took them; and she will expect nothing better of such a wild creature." [a] it was formerly the fashion to decorate the mantle-piece with artificial flowers placed in china vases under glass shades. so saying, she ran down stairs, and found edward dressed for the ball, and waiting for them in the parlour. "here, ned, my boy," said she, "off with those glass shades, and hand me out the flowers from the vases. i have kicked over a lamp and splashed my frock with oil, and i must have all the flowers i can get, to hide the stains. why do you look so dubious? i will send them safely back again to-morrow morning. what, won't you give them to me? oh! then i shall make bold to help myself to them."--she jumped on a chair, and was going to lift one of the glass shades, when edward, fearful of the consequences, stepped up and took out the flowers for her; and when she had obtained them all, she ran off with them in her lap, dropping them along the stairs as she went. when she entered the chamber, she called out to juliet, "come now, dear creature, down on your knees with a pin-cushion in your hand, and pin these flowers all nicely round my frock, so as to cover every one of the vile oil-spots." "shall _i_ do it, miss?" said the maid, who had just finished wiping up the oil that had fallen on the carpet, and which, however, left a large splash of grease. "miss juliet will rumple her dress if she stoops down to put on the flowers."--"so much the better," said madeline, "it will be an advantage to that new muslin to have a little of the stiffness taken out. come, lucy, you may hold the candle." juliet then stooped down, and in a most painful posture proceeded to pin the flowers round madeline's frock, which she did so adroitly as to conceal all the spots of oil. just as this business was completed a servant brought into the room a small red morocco case, inclosing a beautiful pearl necklace, and accompanied by a note from her grandfather, in which he requested her acceptance of it as a new-year's gift, and desired that she would wear it on that evening at mrs. templeton's ball. while juliet was admiring the necklace, madeline took it out of her hand, saying, "let me see how this looks on _my_ neck. beautiful--really beautiful. ah, juliet, it is so pretty i cannot bear to take it off again. come _i_ shall wear it this evening."--"but indeed," said juliet, "i should like very much to wear it myself; particularly as it is my grandfather's request."--"nonsense," answered madeline; "grandpa is not going to the ball himself, and how will he know whether you wear it or not? and your father and mother are both at the theatre, and are ignorant even of its arrival. i forgot to bring a necklace with me: so this comes quite _apropos_. come, i am not going to give it up this evening. possession, you know, is nine points of the law: and your white neck requires no pearls to set it off." "you know very well that my neck is _not_ white," said juliet. "well then," replied madeline, "if it is brown, the pearls will make it look browner still. positively you shall not have it to-night, if i run for it." upon which she ran down stairs into the front-parlour, and pretended to hide behind the window-curtain, to save herself, as she told edward, from the vengeance of juliet, whose new necklace she had seized and carried off. edward did not think this a very good joke; however, he made no comment, and his sister coming down immediately after, he handed her and madeline into the carriage, and accompanied them to mrs. templeton's. at the ball the volatility of madeline reached its climax. she talked, laughed, flirted, jumped, and occasionally appealed to those in the same cotillon to know if they had ever seen such a wild creature. edward, however, could not help observing her unkindness and rudeness to the little children, whom she pushed about and scolded, whenever they came in her way. two of her younger sisters were preparing to dance together, when madeline and edward, who were looking for a place, came up. "this cotillon is completed," said edward, "and so, i believe, are all the others. let us stand by, and look on. i always enjoy seeing the children dance." "no indeed," said madeline, "i had rather dance myself. here, ellen and clara, go and sit down, and give us your places." the children began to object; but she pushed them away and commenced the cotillon, saying she was determined to dance every set. the next set, however, no one asked madeline to dance. she looked very much displeased at being obliged to sit still, and was yet more so, when charles templeton brought up a very handsome little midshipman, in his uniform, who, on being introduced to both the young ladies, immediately requested the pleasure of miss lansdowne's hand for the next set. juliet stood up with the midshipman; but there was some delay in forming the cotillons, and her partner perceived that one of his shoe-strings was broken. he asked charles templeton, who was in the next cotillon, if he would put him in a way of repairing the accident; and charles desired the midshipman to accompany him to his room for the purpose. madeline, who had heard all that passed, stepped up to juliet and said to her--"juliet, as you are one of the modest people, i suppose it will embarrass you to stand here till your partner comes back again; so do you sit down, and i will stand and keep your place for you. you know i have brass enough for any thing." juliet, grateful for madeline's unexpected kindness, and feeling really some embarrassment at standing up in the cotillon without her partner, consented willingly, and took madeline's seat. in a few minutes the midshipman returned, and looked much surprised when he saw another young lady in the place of his partner; but before he had time to consider why it was so, the music commenced, and madeline began to right and left, and led off the cotillon; disappointing juliet of her dance. the midshipman, however, did not speak to madeline during the whole set; and when he had led her to a seat, he left her, and went up to edward, and expressed his surprise that miss lansdowne, after being engaged to dance with him, had substituted another young lady in her place. edward, to whom his sister had explained how it happened, repeated her account to the midshipman, who was much vexed, and went immediately to apologize to juliet, and to ask her hand for the next set, which she was obliged to refuse, as she was pre-engaged both for that set and the following. "so," said madeline, as she passed juliet on her way to the cotillon with a new partner, "you see i tricked you out of the smart young midshipman, who is the prettiest fellow in the room, and i was determined not to sit still a single set." madeline's volatility attracted the attention of the whole company, and the delight of finding herself an object of general notice gave her fresh spirits as she ran to the very top of the country-dance, oversetting a little boy on her way, afterwards romping down the middle, and throwing herself into a seat the moment she had got to the bottom. soon after, while refreshments were handed round, she took an opportunity of purposely spilling a glass of lemonade on cecilia selden's pink crape frock, and she threw a piece of orange-peel in edward's way that he might slip on it, which he did, and very nearly fell down. juliet, who had recently recovered from a severe cold, brought with her into the ball-room a very handsome blue silk scarf, which her mother had lent her, enjoining her to put it on whenever she was not dancing, as a guard against being suddenly chilled when in a perspiration. madeline, happening to look at juliet, observed the scarf and thought it very becoming. she suddenly twitched it off juliet's shoulders and threw it over her own, saying, "now, juliet, you have been beautified with this scarf long enough. it is my turn to wear it awhile." poor juliet knew not how to object, though her seat (the only one she had been able to obtain) was directly against a window, from which there was a draught of air on the back of her neck. the consequence was a renewal of her cold, and a sore throat which confined her for several days to the house. the above may serve as a specimen of madeline's various exploits at the ball. after juliet and her brother had got home, edward stood for half an hour in the middle of the parlour-floor with his bed-candle in his hand, while he expostulated with his sister on her strange infatuation for her new friend; declaring that, with all her volatility and apparent frankness and good-humour, he had never known a girl more artful, selfish, and heartless than madeline malcolm. instead of returning the flowers and the necklace on the following morning, as she ought to have done, madeline wore them in the evening to another ball; and finally when mrs. lansdowne sent for the flowers, they came home in a most deplorable state, soiled, crushed, and broken; so that they were no longer fit to ornament the vases, and some of them were entirely lost. madeline did not come in to see juliet till she knew that she had quite recovered from her sore-throat; having, as she afterward told her, a perfect antipathy to a sick-room, and a mortal dislike to the dismals. she forgot to return the necklace till juliet, with many blushes, and much confusion, at last reminded her of it. "why," said she, "you seem very uneasy about that necklace. between friends like us, every thing ought to be common." madeline, however, had never offered to lend juliet the smallest article belonging to herself. the next time madeline came, she brought the necklace in her hand. "here," said she "is this most important affair; i took a fancy to wear it round my _head_ at mrs. linton's, and i can assure you i had a great deal of pulling and stretching to get it to clasp. why did grandpapa give you such a short necklace? however, soon after i began to dance, snap went the thread, and down came all the pearls showering about the floor. how i laughed; but i set all the beaux in the cotillon to picking them up, and i suppose they found the most of them. you see i have brought you a handful. and now you can amuse yourself with stringing them again. come now, don't look so like ned.--how can you expect a wild creature as i am, to be careful of flowers, and beads, and all such trumpery? i dare say, you are now thinking that your sober cecilia selden would have returned the pearls 'in good order and well conditioned.' but i never allow any one to get angry with me: you know i am a privileged person. so now look agreeable, and smile immediately. smile, smile, i tell you." juliet _did_ smile, and madeline throwing her arms round her neck, kissed her, exclaiming, as she patted her cheek, "there's my own good baby. she always, at last, does as i bid her." the next day juliet heard that the windows of mr. malcolm's house were all shut up; but she was not long in suspense as to the cause, for shortly after, madeline came running in the back way, and said with a most afflicted countenance, "o, juliet, you may pity me now if you never did before. we have just heard from new orleans of the death of aunt medford, my father's only sister." _juliet._ i am very sorry you have received such bad news. _madeline._ oh! but the worst of it is, that it will prevent our going to the play to-night. we had engaged seats with the rosemores, in a delightful box. we were going to see the belle's stratagem, with the masquerade, and the song, and the minuet, and the new french dancers. i would not have missed such an entertainment for a hundred dollars. how very provoking that the bad news did not arrive one day later. if it had not come till to-morrow i should not have cared, for then our charming evening at the theatre would have been over. and now, to think that instead of going to the play, i must stay at home and look at my father grieving for old aunt medford. there now, juliet, your face is again in the style of ned's. positively, if you are so particular, i shall cut your acquaintance. those that i consider my friends must enter into all my "whims and oddities," and not expect me to act according to rule. i hate hypocrisy. why should i pretend to grieve for aunt medford when i have never seen her since i was six years old? _juliet._ but sympathy for your father-- _madeline._ why, where is the use of sympathy? when people are in grief, sympathy only makes them worse. _juliet._ if you yourself were in affliction, madeline, you would find the sympathy of your family and friends very gratifying. _madeline._ wait till _i am_ in affliction and then i will tell you. "_toujours gai_," is my motto, and "_vive la bagatelle_" for ever. so saying, she danced out of the room, and went home; but in a short time she returned, looking very mysterious, and peeping in at the door to ascertain if juliet was alone. "juliet, love," said madeline in a low voice, "come with me into the back parlour, lest we should be interrupted. i have something of great consequence to tell you." as madeline often dealt in mysteries, juliet thought this new secret nothing more than usual, and accompanied her into the back parlour, where madeline cautiously bolted the folding-doors and locked the side door. "now, juliet," said she in an under voice, "i know i may depend on your secrecy." "certainly you may," replied juliet. _madeline._ well then, i must confide to you a plan that has just struck me. i cannot bear the idea of giving up the play to-night, and you know it is out of the question for any of the family to be _seen_ there. _juliet._ of course none of you can go to the theatre when your house is shut up for the death of a near relation, and when mr. malcolm is in such deep affliction. _madeline._ it is certainly a great pity that aunt medford died; particularly just at the time she did, as it will spoil all our gayety for the winter. no more plays, and balls, and parties this season. people ought always to die in the summer. but you know, dear juliet, i have not seen my aunt medford for ten years, and i really have forgotten all about her. so, how can you expect me to be inconsolable? and i cannot endure the thought of being disappointed in going to the theatre. i might as well go, as stay at home and think about it all the evening. _juliet._ o no, indeed! even if you have no personal regard for your aunt, respect for your father's feelings and a proper regard for decorum, ought to subdue your desire of going at this time to a place of public amusement. _madeline._ that is exactly such a speech as cecilia selden would make on a similar occasion. it is a pity "the truly wise man" is not here. how neddy would applaud. _juliet._ but where is the use of talking in this manner. you know you _cannot_ go to the theatre. _madeline._ i know i _can_. _juliet._ how? in what way? i do not understand you. _madeline._ my going to the theatre to-night depends principally on _you_. _juliet._ on me! _madeline._ yes, for i will not venture alone, and you must go with me. _juliet._ go with you--_i_ go with you! _madeline._ yes. _juliet._ and who else? _madeline._ nobody else. now don't look as if you were ready to run through the wall to get away from me; but listen and understand. our nursery-maid, kitty, has permission to go this evening and stay all night with a sick sister. so when she is off, i can easily slip into her room and select a suit of her clothes, (which i believe will nearly fit me,) and she has a tolerably large wardrobe for a servant. then i will steal in the back way, bringing a suit for you. don't look shocked. i shall tell my father and mother that being very low-spirited, i am coming in here to spend a quiet evening with you. i heard mrs. lansdowne, when i was here yesterday, propose to your father to leave her at her sister, mrs. wilmar's, on his way to the wistar party to-night, and call for her as he comes back; which of course will not be before ten o'clock at the very earliest. therefore the coast will be clear, as i suppose ned will go to his beloved athenæum. so you see every thing seems to conspire fortunately to forward our plot. _juliet._ _our_ plot. o! do not call it _ours_. i never will have any thing to do with a plot. _madeline._ yes, but you _must_ though. why this is nothing. i have plotted a hundred things in the course of my life, and so i shall again. well, now hear the whole. i will slip in the back-way, and you must be alone in your room ready to receive me. after we have put on our disguises, we will go down stairs very softly and steal out at the alley gate. then we will make the best of our way to the theatre, and go in at the gallery-door, passing, of course as two servant-girls. when we have reached the gallery we will mix with the crowd, and sit at our ease and enjoy the play; at least the masquerade-scene, which i would not miss for the world. i am absolutely dying to see the french dancers. nobody can possibly discover us under our disguises. we will not go till the first act is over, and the audience settled; and we will come away before the last scene of the comedy. then after we get home we will resume our proper dresses, and present ourselves to our parents, looking as demure as if we had been sitting by the fire, and talking sensibly, all the evening. no one will ever know what we have really been doing. it will be a most charming frolic, and something for you and i to laugh about, ten years hence. i always enjoy these queer exploits that no one else has courage to undertake. _juliet_ (_firmly._) madeline, i will _not_ disguise myself like a servant-girl; and i will _never_ accompany you secretly to the theatre, nor to any other place. juliet spoke in so firm a tone, that madeline was at first abashed, and remained for a few moments silent. but, not easily repelled, she soon recovered from her confusion, and exerted all her eloquence to prevail on her dear friend, as she called her, to join in the scheme. by turns she flattered, caressed, and ridiculed her, and then tried to win her consent by representing the delights of the masquerade-scene, as she had heard it described by a lady who had recently seen the comedy of the belle's stratagem. juliet held out steadily for a long time. but at length her firmness gave way, and she finally yielded; as madeline had foreseen. her reluctance was so great, that her consent was, after all, rather extorted than given, and madeline, having kissed her rather oftener than usual, ran gayly to her own home, singing "i won't be a nun." after madeline had gone, juliet felt so uneasy at having suffered herself to be persuaded against her conscience, that she was on the point of calling her back and retracting her promise. when she went to dinner, the consciousness of her intended deceit destroyed her appetite, and made her feel as if she could not raise her eyes towards her parents, or answer them when they spoke to her. edward bent on her a scrutinizing glance, and saw that all was not right; but supposing that she had committed some fault in the course of the morning for which her mother had seriously reprimanded her, he was unwilling to notice her apparent mortification, and tried to divert the attention of his parents by talking to them of cooper's last novel, which had been published that morning, and of which he had already gone through the first volume. mrs. lansdowne, however, remarking that her daughter did not eat, inquired if she felt unwell, and juliet replied that she had a violent headache: which was literally true. after dinner, her mother recommended that she should retire to her room and lie down, which she gladly did: her mind being too much agitated to take interest in any occupation. once in the afternoon, she heard edward come up stairs and tap at her door; but fearing that he had observed her confusion at dinner, and that he might ask her some question concerning it, she lay still, and did not answer to his knock, so that, supposing her to be asleep, he softly withdrew. towards evening, her mother came to inquire after her: and juliet, unwilling to meet the family at table in her present state of discomposure, requested to have her tea sent up. "my dear," said mrs. lansdowne, "as you are not well, i will not go to my sister wilmar's this evening, but i will stay at home and sit with you." "o, no, dear mother!" replied juliet, "i know you wish to see aunt wilmar: i am sure my tea will relieve my headache, and i have no doubt, when i have drunk it, i shall feel well enough to rise, and sit up all the evening." accordingly, after juliet had taken her tea, she rose and adjusted her dress, and when mrs. lansdowne came up again, she found her daughter sitting by the fire with a book, and apparently so much recovered, that she felt no scruples about leaving her, as she was really desirous of passing the evening with mrs. wilmar, who was confined to the house with the influenza. at last juliet heard her father and mother depart, and edward went out soon after. in a few minutes, madeline came cautiously up stairs, and glided into the chamber, carrying a large bundle. "all's safe," said she, "the coast is _quite_ clear, and we have not a moment to lose. it is a fine moonlight night." juliet's courage now failed entirely; and she vehemently besought madeline to give up a scheme fraught with so much risk and impropriety. but madeline was immovable, declaring that she had set her heart on it, and that she enjoyed nothing so much as what she called an out-of-the-way frolic. "since you are so cowardly, juliet," said she, "i wish i could venture to go alone; but wild as i am, i confess i am not quite equal to that--come, now, off with your frock, and get yourself dressed in these delectable habiliments." she then began to unfasten juliet's dress, who pale, trembling, and with tears in her eyes, arrayed herself in the clothes that madeline had brought for her. the gown was a very dirty one of dark blue domestic gingham, and she put on with it a yellowish chequered handkerchief, and a check apron. over this she pinned an old red woollen shawl, and she covered her head with a coarse and broken black leghorn bonnet. the clothes that madeline had allotted to herself were a little better, consisting of a dark calico frock, a coarse tamboured muslin collar, an old straw bonnet very yellow and faded, and a plaid cloak which belonged to the cook, and which she had taken out of a closet in the garret. the two young ladies did not know, or did not recollect, that when _real_ servant-girls go to the theatre, they generally dress as well as they can, and take pains to appear to the best advantage. the clothes that madeline had selected were quite too dirty and shabby for the occasion. to complete their costume, she gave juliet a pair of coarse calf-skin shoes, which were so large that as she walked her feet seemed to rise up out of them. madeline, for her part, put on a pair of carpet-moccasins over her slippers. after they were dressed and ready to depart for the theatre, juliet's tremor increased, and she was again on the point of relinquishing her share in the business; but she again yielded to the solicitations of madeline, who led her softly down stairs by the light of the moon that shone in at the staircase windows. they stole, undiscovered, across the yard and out at the alley-gate; and finding themselves in the street, began to walk very fast, as people generally do when they are going to the play. when they came in view of the theatre, they saw no persons there, except two or three gentlemen who went in at the pit-door. juliet's heart failed entirely; and she shrank back as madeline, taking her hand, attempted to pull her towards the door that admitted the gallery-people. "we have now gone too far to recede," whispered madeline,--"you must stand by me now. i _will not_ go back, and _you must_ come forward. here, take my money and put it down with yours--i forgot my gloves, and my hands will betray me, so i must keep them wrapped up in my cloak." juliet laid the money on the ledge before the doorkeeper, who looked at them with some surprise. they pulled their bonnets more closely over their faces, and passed up the stairs; madeline running as fast as possible, and juliet entreating her in a low voice to stop a little, as she could not keep pace with her. they soon found themselves in the gallery, and being assisted over the benches by a very polite black man, they took their seats among some coloured people about the centre of the middle row. the crowd and heat were intolerable. juliet kept her eyes cast down; afraid to look round the house, or even to steal a glance towards the stage. madeline, however, looked round boldly, and in a few minutes, to her great consternation, she perceived edward lansdowne standing up in the back part of one of the stage-boxes. having finished his novel, and feeling no inclination to read any more that night, he had concluded to go to the theatre, reminded of it by seeing the bill in the evening paper. "juliet," whispered madeline, "there is my evil genius." "where, where?" exclaimed juliet, thrown almost off her guard. "if we can distinguish _him_ at so great a distance, he can also discover _us_."--"you forget," replied madeline, "that we are in disguise." these words, though uttered in a whisper, were evidently heard by the people round, who all turned to look at them; and some tried to peep under their bonnets, which made juliet draw hers down over her face till her sight was entirely obscured by it. the play went on; but madeline and juliet could not enjoy it, all their attention being engaged by the continual fear of discovery. juliet, however heard enough to convince her that her parents would never have taken her to see the belle's stratagem; as when they did indulge her with a visit to the theatre, they always selected a night when the play was unexceptionable, and the whole entertainment such as a young lady could witness with propriety. at length came the masquerade-scene, and in a short time the french dancers appeared. just then, a short, fat, red-faced and very vulgar englishwoman who sat behind madeline and juliet, gave each of them a twitch on the shoulder, saying, in a broad yorkshire dialect, "i'll thank you gals or ladies or whatsomdever you be, to take off your bunnets and let a body have some chance of seeing the show; for i've been popping my ead back and furrads atween you ever sence you comed hin, and thof i've as good a right to see as any body else, i've ardly got a squint at the hactors yet." the girls were now in a most critical dilemma. to take off their bonnets seemed out of the question, as the exposure of their heads would no doubt betray them, and their fear and perplexity were so great that they had not presence of mind either to speak or move. "don't pertend that you don't ear me," said the englishwoman, giving them both a hard push forward with her huge hands. "i bees a true king georgeswoman, and won't be put upon by none of the yankees, not i, thof i _am_ come to their country. i pays my money as well as you, and i've jist as good a right to see the show; and if you won't take off them big bunnets, i'll be bound i'll make you, if there's even a row about it. i've raised a row afore this time when i've been put upon." "oh! let us go, let us go," said juliet, gasping with terror, and seizing madeline's arm. "honly wait," continued the englishwoman, "till i tells my usband, who sets ahind here, to call 'turn 'em out.' you _may_ be ladies. but i bees an onest oman, and if i've come to a land of liberty, the more reason that i should make free to speak my mind; and if we're all hequal, why then nobody han't no right to put upon me." by this time the two girls, in an agony of trepidation, had scrambled over the benches and got to the door, expecting every instant to hear the dreaded words, "turn them out," and to see edward's eyes directed towards them, with those of the whole audience. scarcely conscious of what they were doing, they ran down the gallery-stairs, and flew out of the door into the street. as is usual toward the latter part of the play, a number of boys had collected about the fruit-stalls waiting for checks, that they might gain admittance to see the farce; and as madeline ran past them, her cloak flew open, and the moonbeams shone brightly on a brilliant ring which she always wore on her fore-finger. this with something in their appearance that would cause even unpractised eyes to suspect that they were young ladies, attracted the attention of the boys, who stared at them with surprise and curiosity. madeline and juliet ran down the street in breathless terror. they had gone about a square from the theatre before they recollected that their way home lay in a contrary direction, and that they ought to go _up_ the street instead of _down_. "oh! we are going _from_ home instead of _towards_ it," exclaimed juliet; and they immediately turned about and ran up chestnut street. they again passed the theatre, terrified, bewildered, their bonnets falling back and discovering their frightened faces in full view; madeline's cloak half untied and flying out behind her, and juliet still grasping one corner of her shawl (which had fallen entirely off her shoulders) and dragging it after her along the pavement. on seeing them running back in this forlorn condition, the boys set up a loud shout, and calling out "hurrah for the ladies," pursued them up chestnut street. a young gentleman who had left the theatre a few minutes before, and was walking leisurely up the street, turned round to discover the meaning of all the noise that was coming after him, and caught juliet, breathless and almost dead, by her two hands. "juliet," he exclaimed, "my sister juliet!" "oh, edward!" she shrieked, and fell into his arms drowned in tears. "save me, save me," cried madeline, catching him by the coat. "madeline too!" said edward. "what does all this mean?" another gentleman now came up, and ordered off the boys, reprimanding them severely for chasing two unprotected females; and edward taking one of the girls under each arm, walked on in silence, much affected by the sobbing of juliet. madeline soon recovered herself, and attempted an explanation of the strange predicament in which he had found them; passing it off as a very good joke, and a further proof of her ungovernable volatility. edward remained silent. he would not reproach her, but he determined in his mind what course to pursue. he took leave of madeline at her own door, and on entering his father's house, he told juliet that she had better, as soon as possible, divest herself of her disguise. juliet could not speak, but she wept on her brother's shoulder; and edward kissed her cheek, and bade her good night. she retired to bed, but she could not sleep; and in the morning she rose earlier than usual, and went into the parlour, where she knew she would find edward. she looked very pale, and her eyes were swimming in tears. "oh! edward," said she, "what did my father and mother say, when they came home last night, and you told them all that happened?" "i told them nothing," replied edward, "i love you too well to betray you. i have kept your secret, and i shall never disclose it. but i must have a recompense." _juliet._ any, any recompense, dearest edward. what can you ask that i could possibly refuse. _edward._ i require you, from this day, to give up all acquaintance with madeline malcolm. your infatuation for a girl who, under the name of wildness and volatility, sets all propriety at defiance, is to me astonishing. henceforward let there be no more intimacy between you. it must be checked before it leads to consequences still worse than the adventures of last night. _juliet._ i acknowledge that madeline is too regardless of decorum, and that she says and does many strange and improper things: but then she has so good a heart. _edward._ tell me one proof of it. you have fallen into the common error of supposing that all persons who profess to be giddy, wild, and reckless, have kind feelings and good hearts. on the contrary, they may too often be classed with the most selfish, cold, and heartless people in the world; for they have seldom either sense or sensibility, and while resolutely bent on the gratification of their own whims, are generally regardless of the peace and convenience of those about them. when i first went to college i thought as you do. i supposed that the most careless, noisy, and desperate boys must necessarily have kind and generous feelings. but i found the contrary to my cost; and i am now convinced, that, with some few exceptions, the best hearts are generally united with the best heads and the best manners. _juliet._ but even if i never visit madeline myself, how shall i prevent her running in to me as she does, two or three times a day? _edward._ very easily. write her a concise note, intimating that you do not consider it proper to continue your acquaintance with her. _juliet._ oh! edward, i never can do that. _edward._ is not this the recompense i am entitled to, for keeping your secret? _juliet._ indeed, edward, you are too cruel. _edward._ severe, perhaps, but not cruel. the exigency of the case requires decisive measures. "i am cruel only to be kind," and you will thank me for it hereafter. _juliet._ well then, i _will_ write the note. and if it _must be done_ i will do it immediately; for if i allow myself to think about it long, it will grieve me so much that i shall never have resolution to go through with it. (_she goes to the desk and writes._) there now, edward, read this note. _edward_, (_reading_.) "though convinced that it is better our intimacy should cease, it is not without regret that i decline all further intercourse with madeline malcolm. for her health and happiness i offer my best wishes; but in future we can only meet as strangers. "juliet lansdowne." now seal and send it. _juliet._ oh, edward! it is hard to give up madeline. but i believe you are right, and i ought not to regret it. _edward._ i _know_ i am right. juliet then rang the bell for a servant, to whom with a quivering lip and hesitating hand she gave the note, desiring him to leave it next door for miss malcolm. after breakfast, when juliet was again alone with her brother, she said to him, "edward, i have never yet concealed any thing from my parents. i think if i were to disclose to them the whole truth, i should feel less miserable." edward approved of this determination, and they went together to their mother, to whom juliet candidly related the whole history of their going to the theatre in disguise. she kindly endeavoured to throw as little blame on madeline as possible; and edward tried to apologize for juliet's partiality for this dangerous girl, and for the yielding gentleness of disposition with which his sister had allowed herself to be influenced by her; and for her want of judgment in not perceiving the faults of madeline in as strong a light as they appeared to every one else. mrs. lansdowne's pleasure, on finding that her daughter had consented to give up this very improper intimacy, counterbalanced her regret at juliet's having been persuaded by madeline to join in the folly and indecorum of the preceding evening. for this, however, she thought the girls had been sufficiently punished by all they had suffered at the theatre, and during their ignominious flight from it. madeline's parents had no suspicion of her having been at the play in disguise, and the idea of confessing it to them never for a moment entered her head. she was highly indignant at juliet's note; and fortunately her resentment was too great to allow her to make any attempt at renewing their intimacy. she took care, however, to let no one suppose that the acquaintance had ceased by juliet's desire; telling every body that juliet lansdowne was a little fool, and that she had grown quite tired of her. in the spring, mr. malcolm removed with his family to new york, and their house next door to mr. lansdowne's was immediately taken by the father of cecilia selden who had again become the intimate friend of juliet. the end. transcriber's note: punctuation has been standardised. hyphenation and spelling have been retained as appear in the original publication except as follows: page mrs. evering had a very excellant cook, a _changed to_ mrs. evering had a very excellent cook, a page vous remerçie_,--_il fait beau-tems_ _changed to_ vous remerçie_,--_il fait beau-temps_ page and then she counted all the window sat _changed to_ and then she counted all the windows at page i will have _them_. they will de _changed to_ i will have _them_. they will do page kindness, and feeling really some embarrasment _changed to_ kindness, and feeling really some embarrassment