15562	----	THE S. W. F. CLUB by CAROLINE E. JACOBS Author of _Joan of Jupiter Inn_, _Joan's Jolly Vacation_, _Patricia_, etc. The Goldsmith Publishing Co. Cleveland, Ohio George W. Jacobs & Company 1912 CONTENTS CHAPTER I PAULINE'S FLAG II THE MAPLES III UNCLE PAUL'S ANSWER IV BEGINNINGS V BEDELIA VI PERSONALLY CONDUCTED VII HILARY'S TURN VIII SNAP-SHOTS IX AT THE MANOR X THE END OF SUMMER CHAPTER I PAULINE'S FLAG Pauline dropped the napkin she was hemming and, leaning back in her chair, stared soberly down into the rain-swept garden. Overhead, Patience was having a "clarin' up scrape" in her particular corner of the big garret, to the tune of "There's a Good Time Coming." Pauline drew a quick breath; probably, there was a good time coming--any number of them--only they were not coming her way; they would go right by on the main road, they always did. "'There's a good time coming,'" Patience insisted shrilly, "'Help it on! Help it on!'" Pauline drew another quick breath. She would help them on! If they would none of them stop on their own account, they must be flagged. And--yes, she would do it--right now. Getting up, she brought her writing-portfolio from the closet, clearing a place for it on the little table before the window. Then her eyes went back to the dreary, rain-soaked garden. How did one begin a letter to an uncle one had never seen; and of whom one meant to ask a great favor? But at last, after more than one false start, the letter got itself written, after a fashion. Pauline read it over to herself, a little dissatisfied pucker between her brows:-- _Mr. Paul Almy Shaw, New York City, New York_. MY DEAR UNCLE PAUL: First, I should like you to understand that neither father nor mother know that I am writing this letter to you; and that if they did, I think they would forbid it; and I should like you to believe, too, that if it were not for Hilary I should not dream of writing it. You know so little about us, that perhaps you do not remember which of us Hilary is. She comes next to me, and is just thirteen. She hasn't been well for a long time, not since she had to leave school last winter, and the doctor says that what she needs is a thorough change. Mother and I have talked it over and over, but we simply can't manage it. I would try to earn some money, but I haven't a single accomplishment; besides I don't see how I could leave home, and anyway it would take so long, and Hilary needs a change now. And so I am writing to ask you to please help us out a little. I do hope you won't be angry at my asking; and I hope very, very much, that you will answer favorably. I remain, Very respectfully, PAULINE ALMY SHAW. WINTON, VT., May Sixteenth. Pauline laughed rather nervously as she slipped her letter into an envelope and addressed it. It wasn't a very big flag, but perhaps it would serve her purpose. Tucking the letter into her blouse, Pauline ran down-stairs to the sitting-room, where her mother and Hilary were. "I'm going down to the post-office, mother," she said; "any errands?" "My dear, in this rain?" "There won't be any mail for us, Paul," Hilary said, glancing listlessly up from the book she was trying to read; "you'll only get all wet and uncomfortable for nothing." Pauline's gray eyes were dancing; "No," she agreed, "I don't suppose there will be any mail for us--to-day; but I want a walk. It won't hurt me, mother. I love to be out in the rain." And all the way down the slippery village street the girl's eyes continued to dance with excitement. It was so much to have actually started her ball rolling; and, at the moment, it seemed that Uncle Paul must send it bounding back in the promptest and most delightful of letters. He had never married, and somewhere down at the bottom of his apparently crusty, old heart he must have kept a soft spot for the children of his only brother. Thus Pauline's imagination ran on, until near the post-office she met her father. The whole family had just finished a tour of the West in Mr. Paul Shaw's private car--of course, he must have a private car, wasn't he a big railroad man?--and Pauline had come back to Winton long enough to gather up her skirts a little more firmly when she saw Mr. Shaw struggling up the hill against the wind. "Pauline!" he stopped, straightening his tall, scholarly figure. "What brought you out in such a storm?" With a sudden feeling of uneasiness, Pauline wondered what he would say if she were to explain exactly what it was that had brought her out. With an impulse towards at least a half-confession, she said hurriedly, "I wanted to post a letter I'd just written; I'll be home almost as soon as you are, father." Then she ran on down the street. All at once she felt her courage weakening; unless she got her letter posted immediately she felt she should end by tearing it up. When it had slipped from her sight through the narrow slit labeled "LETTERS," she stood a moment, almost wishing it were possible to get it back again. She went home rather slowly. Should she confess at once, or wait until Uncle Paul's answer came? It should be here inside of a week, surely; and if it were favorable--and, oh, it must be favorable--would not that in itself seem to justify her in what she had done? On the front piazza, Patience was waiting for her, a look of mischief in her blue eyes. Patience was ten, a red-haired, freckled slip of a girl. She danced about Pauline now. "Why didn't you tell me you were going out so I could've gone, too? And what have you been up to, Paul Shaw? Something! You needn't tell me you haven't." "I'm not going to tell you anything," Pauline answered, going on into the house. The study door was half open, and when she had taken off her things, Pauline stood a moment a little uncertainly outside it. Then suddenly, much to her small sister's disgust, she went in, closing the door behind her. Mr. Shaw was leaning back in his big chair at one corner of the fireplace. "Well," he asked, looking up, "did you get your letter in in time, my dear?" "Oh, it wasn't the time." Pauline sat down on a low bench at the other end of the fireplace. "It was that I wanted to feel that it was really mailed. Did you ever feel that way about a letter, father? And as if, if you didn't hurry and get it in--you wouldn't--mail it?" Something in her tone made her father glance at her more closely; it was very like the tone in which Patience was apt to make her rather numerous confessions. Then it occurred to him, that, whether by accident or design, she was sitting on the very stool on which Patience usually placed herself at such times, and which had gained thereby the name of "the stool of penitence." "Yes," he answered, "I have written such letters once or twice in my life." Pauline stooped to straighten out the hearth rug. "Father," she said abruptly; "I have been writing to Uncle Paul." She drew a sharp breath of relief. "You have been writing to your Uncle Paul! About what, Pauline?" And Pauline told him. When she had finished, Mr. Shaw sat for some moments without speaking, his eyes on the fire. "It didn't seem very--wrong, at the time," Pauline ventured. "I had to do something for Hilary." "Why did you not consult your mother, or myself, before taking such a step, Pauline?" "I was afraid--if I did--that you would--forbid it; and I was so anxious to do something. It's nearly a month now since Dr. Brice said Hilary must have a change. We used to have such good times together--Hilary and I--but we never have fun anymore--she doesn't care about anything; and to-day it seemed as if I couldn't bear it any longer, so I wrote. I--I am sorry, if you're displeased with me, father, and yet, if Uncle Paul writes back favorably, I'm afraid I can't help being glad I wrote." Mr. Shaw rose, lighting the low reading-lamp, standing on the study table. "You are frank enough after the event, at least, Pauline. To be equally so, I am displeased; displeased and exceedingly annoyed. However, we will let the matter rest where it is until you have heard from your uncle, I should advise your saying nothing to your sisters until his reply comes. I am afraid you will find it disappointing." Pauline flushed. "I never intended telling Hilary anything about it unless I had good news for her; as for Patience--" Out in the hall again, with the study door closed behind her, Pauline stood a moment choking back a sudden lump in her throat. Would Uncle Paul treat her letter as a mere piece of school-girl impertinence, as father seemed to? From the sitting-room came an impatient summons. "Paul, will you never come!" "What is it, Hilary?" Pauline asked, coming to sit at one end of the old sofa. "That's what I want to know," Hilary answered from the other end. "Impatience says you've been writing all sorts of mysterious letters this afternoon, and that you came home just now looking like---" "Well, like what?" "Like you'd been up to something--and weren't quite sure how the grown-ups were going to take it," Patience explained from the rug before the fire. "How do you know I have been writing--anything?" Pauline asked. "There, you see!" Patience turned to Hilary, "she doesn't deny it!" "I'm not taking the trouble to deny or confirm little girl nonsense," Pauline declared. "But what makes you think I've been writing letters?" "Oh, 'by the pricking of my thumbs'!" Patience rolled over, and resting her sharp little chin in her hands, stared up at her sisters from under her mop of short red curls. "Pen! Ink! Paper! And such a lot of torn-up scraps! It's really very simple!" But Pauline was on her way to the dining-room. "Terribly convincing, isn't it?" Her tone should have squelched Patience, but it didn't. "You can't fool me!" that young person retorted. "I know you've been up to something! And I'm pretty sure father doesn't approve, from the way you waited out there in the hall just now." Pauline did not answer; she was busy laying the cloth for supper. "Anything up, Paul?" Hilary urged, following her sister out to the dining-room. "The barometer--a very little; I shouldn't wonder if we had a clear day to-morrow." "You are as provoking as Impatience! But I needn't have asked; nothing worth while ever does happen to us." "You know perfectly well, Pauline Almy Shaw!" Patience proclaimed, from the curtained archway between the rooms. "You know perfectly well, that the ev'dence against you is most in-crim-i-na-ting!" Patience delighted in big words. "Hilary," Pauline broke in, "I forgot to tell you, I met Mrs. Dane this morning; she wants us to get up a social--'If the young ladies at the parsonage will,' and so forth." "I hate socials! Besides, there aren't any 'young ladies' at the parsonage; or, at any rate, only one. I shan't have to be a young lady for two years yet." "Most in-crim-i-na-ting!" Patience repeated insistently; "you wrote." Pauline turned abruptly and going into the pantry began taking down the cups and saucers for the table. As soon as Hilary had gone back to the sitting-room, she called softly, "Patty, O Patty!" Patience grinned wickedly; she was seldom called Patty, least of all by Pauline. "Well?" she answered. "Come here--please," and when Patience was safely inside the pantry, Pauline shut the door gently--"Now see here, Impatience--" "That isn't what you called me just now!" "Patty then--Listen, suppose--suppose I have been--trying to do something to--to help Hilary to get well; can't you see that I wouldn't want her to know, until I was sure, really sure, it was going to come to something?" Patience gave a little jump of excitement. "How jolly! But who have you been writing to--about it, Paul!" "I haven't said that--" "See here, Paul, I'll play fair, if you do; but if you go trying to act any 'grown-up sister' business I'll--" And Pauline capitulated. "I can't tell you about it yet, Patty; father said not to. I want you to promise not to ask questions, or say anything about it, before Hilary. We don't want her to get all worked up, thinking something nice is going to happen, and then maybe have her disappointed." "Will it be nice--very nice?" "I hope so." "And will I be in it?" "I don't know. I don't know what it'll be, or when it'll be." "Oh, dear! I wish you did. I can't think who it is you wrote to, Paul. And why didn't father like your doing it?" "I haven't said that he--" "Paul, you're very tiresome. Didn't he know you were going to do it?" Pauline gathered up her cups and saucers without answering. "Then he didn't," Patience observed. "Does mother know about it?" "I mean to tell her as soon as I get a good chance," Pauline said impatiently, going back to the dining-room. When she returned a few moments later, she found Patience still in the pantry, sitting thoughtfully on the old, blue sugar bucket. "I know," Patience announced triumphantly. "You've been writing to Uncle Paul!" Pauline gasped and fled to the kitchen; there were times when flight was the better part of discretion, in dealing with the youngest member of the Shaw family. On the whole, Patience behaved very well that evening, only, on going to bid her father good-night, did she ask anxiously, how long it took to send a letter to New York and get an answer. "That depends considerably upon the promptness with which the party written to answers the letter," Mr. Shaw told her. "A week?" Patience questioned. "Probably--if not longer." Patience sighed. "Have _you_ been writing a letter to someone in New York?" her father asked. "No, indeed," the child said gravely, "but," she looked up, answering his glance. "Paul didn't tell me, father; I--guessed. Uncle Paul does live in New York, doesn't he?" "Yes," Mr. Shaw answered, almost sharply. "Now run to bed, my dear." But when the stairs were reached. Patience most certainly did not run. "I think people are very queer," she said to herself, "they seem to think _ten_ years isn't a bit more grown-up than six or seven." "Mummy," she asked, when later her mother came to take away her light, "father and Uncle Paul are brethren, aren't they?" "My dear! What put that into your head?" "Aren't they?" "Certainly, dear." "Then why don't they 'dwell together in unity'?" "Patience!" Mrs. Shaw stared down at the sharp inquisitive little face. "Why don't they?" Patience persisted. If persistency be a virtue, Patience was to be highly commended. "My dear, who has said that they do not?" Patience shrugged; as if things had always to be said. "But, mummy--" "Go to sleep now, dear." Mrs. Shaw bent to kiss her good-night. "All the same," Patience confided to the darkness, "I know they don't." She gave a little shiver of delight--something very mysterious was afoot evidently. Out on the landing, Mrs. Shaw found Pauline waiting for her. "Come into your room, mother, please, I've started up the fire; I want to tell you something." "I thought as much," her mother answered. She sat down in the big armchair and Pauline drew up before the fire. "I've been expecting it all the evening." Pauline dropped down on the floor, her head against her mother's knee. "This family is dreadfully keen-sighted. Mother dear, please don't be angry--" and Pauline made confession. When she had finished, Mrs. Shaw sat for some moments, as her husband had done, her eyes on the fire. "You told him that we could not manage it, Pauline?" she said at last. "My dear, how could you!" "But, mother dear, I was--desperate; something has to be done for--Hilary, and I had to do it!" "Do you suppose your father and I do not realize that quite as well as you do, Pauline?" "You and I have talked it over and over, and father never says--anything." "Not to you, perhaps; but he is giving the matter very careful consideration, and later he hopes--" "Mother dear, that is so indefinite!" Pauline broke in. "And I can't see--Father is Uncle Paul's only brother! If I were rich, and Hilary were not and needed things, I would want her to let me know." "It is possible, that under certain conditions, Hilary would not wish you to know." Mrs. Shaw hesitated, then she said slowly, "You know, Pauline, that your uncle is much older than your father; so much older, that he seemed to stand--when your father was a boy--more in the light of a father to him, than an older brother. He was much opposed to your father's going into the ministry, he wanted him to go into business with him. He is a strong-willed man, and does not easily relinquish any plan of his own making. It went hard with him, when your father refused to yield; later, when your father received the call to this parish, your uncle quite as strongly opposed his accepting it--burying himself alive in a little out-of-the-way hole, he called it. It came to the point, finally, on your uncle's insisting on his making it a choice between himself and Winton. He refused to ever come near the place and the two or three letters your father wrote at first remained unanswered. The breach between them has been one of the hardest trials your father has had to bear." "Oh," Pauline cried miserably, "what a horrid interfering thing father must think me! Rushing in where I had no right to! I wish I'd known--I just thought--you see, father speaks of Uncle Paul now and then--that maybe they'd only--grown apart--and that if Uncle Paul knew! But perhaps my letter will get lost. It would serve me right; and yet, if it does, I'm afraid I can't help feeling somewhat disappointed--on Hilary's account." Her mother smiled. "We can only wait and see. I would rather you said nothing of what I have been telling you to either Hilary or Patience, Pauline." "I won't, Mother Shaw. It seems I have a lot of secrets from Hilary. And I won't write any more such letters without consulting you or father, you can depend on that." Mr. Paul Shaw's answer did not come within the allotted week. It was the longest week Pauline had ever known; and when the second went by and still no word from her uncle, the waiting and uncertainty became very hard to bear, all the harder, that her usual confidant, Hilary, must not be allowed to suspect anything. The weather had turned suddenly warm, and Hilary's listlessness had increased proportionately, which probably accounted for the dying out of what little interest she had felt at first in Patience's "mysterious letter." Patience, herself, was doing her best to play fair; fortunately, she was in school the greater part of the day, else the strain upon her powers of self-control might have proved too heavy. "Mother," Pauline said one evening, lingering in her mother's room, after Hilary had gone to bed, "I don't believe Uncle Paul means answering at all. I wish I'd never asked him to do anything." "So do I, Pauline. Still it is rather early yet for you to give up hope. It's hard waiting, I know, dear, but that is something we all have to learn to do, sooner or later." "I don't think 'no news is good news,'" Pauline said; then she brightened. "Oh, Mother Shaw! Suppose the letter is on the way now, and that Hilary is to have a sea voyage! You'd have to go, too." "Pauline, Pauline, not so fast! Listen, dear, we might send Hilary out to The Maples for a week or two. Mrs. Boyd would be delighted to have her; and it wouldn't be too far away, in case we should be getting her ready for that--sea voyage." "I don't believe she'd care to go; it's quieter than here at home." "But it would be a change. I believe I'll suggest it to her in the morning." But when Mrs. Shaw did suggest it the next morning, Hilary was quite of Pauline's opinion. "I shouldn't like it a bit, mother! It would be worse than home--duller, I mean; and Mrs. Boyd would fuss over me so," she said impatiently. "You used to like going there, Hilary." "Mother, you can't want me to go." "I think it might do you good, Hilary. I should like you to try it." "Please, mother, I don't see the use of bothering with little half-way things." "I do, Hilary, when they are the only ones within reach." The girl moved restlessly, settling her hammock cushions; then she lay looking out over the sunny garden with discontented eyes. It was a large old-fashioned garden, separated on the further side by a low hedge from the old ivy-covered church. On the back steps of the church, Sextoness Jane was shaking out her duster. She was old and gray and insignificant looking; her duties as sexton, in which she had succeeded her father, were her great delight. The will with which she sang and worked now seemed to have in it something of reproach for the girl stretched out idly in the hammock. Nothing more than half-way things, and not too many of those, had ever come Sextoness Jane's way. Yet she was singing now over her work. Hilary moved impatiently, turning her back on the garden and the bent old figure moving about in the church beyond; but, somehow, she couldn't turn her back on what that bent old figure had suddenly come to stand for. Fifteen minutes later, she sat up, pushing herself slowly back and forth. "I wish Jane had chosen any other morning to clean the church in, Mother Shaw!" she protested with spirit. Her mother looked up from her mending. "Why, dear? It is her regular day." "Couldn't she do it, I wonder, on an irregular day! Anyhow, if she had, I shouldn't have to go to The Maples this afternoon. Must I take a trunk, mother?" "Hilary! But what has Jane to do with your going?" "Pretty nearly everything, I reckon. Must I, mother?" "No, indeed, dear; and you are not to go at all, unless you can do it willingly." "Oh, I'm fairly resigned; don't press me too hard, Mother Shaw. I think I'll go tell Paul now." "Well," Pauline said, "I'm glad you've decided to go, Hilary. I--that is, maybe it won't be for very long." CHAPTER II THE MAPLES That afternoon Pauline drove Hilary out to the big, busy, pleasant farm, called The Maples. As they jogged slowly down the one principal street of the sleepy, old town, Pauline tried to imagine that presently they would turn off down the by-road, leading to the station. Through the still air came the sound of the afternoon train, panting and puffing to be off with as much importance as the big train, which later, it would connect with down at the junction. "Paul," Hilary asked suddenly, "what are you thinking about?" Pauline slapped the reins lightly across old Fanny's plump sides. "Oh, different things--traveling for one." Suppose Uncle Paul's letter should come in this afternoon's mail! That she would find it waiting for her when she got home! "So was I," Hilary said. "I was wishing that you and I were going off on that train, Paul." "Where to?" Paul asked. After all, it couldn't do any harm--Hilary would think it one of their "pretend" talks, and it would he nice to have some definite basis to build on later. "Anywhere," Hilary answered. "I would like to go to the seashore somewhere; but most anywhere, where there were people and interesting things to do and see, would do." "Yes," Pauline agreed. "There's Josie," Hilary said, and her sister drew rein, as a girl came to the edge of the walk to speak to them. "Going away?" she asked, catching sight of the valise. "Only out to the Boyds'," Pauline told her, "to leave Hilary." Josie shifted the strap of school-books under her arm impatiently. "'Only!'" she repeated. "Well, I just wish I was going, too; it's a deal pleasanter out there, than in a stuffy school room these days." "It's stupid--and you both know it," Hilary protested. She glanced enviously at Josie's strap of hooks. "And when school closes, you'll be through for good, Josie Brice. We shan't finish together, after all, now." "Oh, I'm not through yet," Josie assured her. "Father'll be going out past The Maples Saturday morning, I'll get him to take me along." Hilary brightened. "Don't forget," she urged, and as she and Pauline drove on, she added, "I suppose I can stick it out for a week." "Well, I should think as much. _Will_ you go on, Fanny!" Pauline slapped the dignified, complacent Fanny with rather more severity than before. "She's one great mass of laziness," she declared. "Father's spoiled her a great deal more than he ever has any of us." It was a three-mile drive from the village to The Maples, through pleasant winding roads, hardly deserving of a more important title than lane. Now and then, from the top of a low hill, they caught a glimpse of the great lake beyond, shining in the afternoon sunlight, a little ruffled by the light breeze sweeping down to it from the mountains bordering it on the further side. Hilary leaned back in the wide shaded gig; she looked tired, and yet the new touch of color in her cheeks was not altogether due to weariness. "The ride's done you good," Pauline said. "I wonder what there'll be for supper," Hilary remarked. "You'll stay, Paul?" "If you promise to eat a good one." It was comforting to have Hilary actually wondering what they would have. They had reached the broad avenue of maples leading from the road up to the house. It was a long, low, weather-stained house, breathing an unmistakable air of generous and warm-hearted hospitality. Pauline never came to it, without a sense of pity for the kindly elderly couple, who were so fond of young folks, and who had none of their own. Mrs. Boyd had seen them coming, and she came out to meet them, as they turned into the dooryard. And an old dog, sunning himself on the doorstep, rose with a slow wag of welcome. "Mother's sent you something she was sure you would like to have," Pauline said. "Please, will you take in a visitor for a few days?" she added, laying a hand on Hilary's. "You've brought Hilary out to stop?" Mrs. Boyd cried delightedly. "Now I call that mighty good of your mother. You come right 'long in, both of you: you're sure you can't stop, too, Pauline?" "Only to supper, thank you." Mrs. Boyd had the big valise out from under the seat by now. "Come right 'long in," she repeated. "You're tired, aren't you, Hilary? But a good night's rest'll set you up wonderful. Take her into the spare room, Pauline. Dear me, I must have felt you was coming, seeing that I aired it out beautiful only this morning. I'll go call Mr. Boyd to take Fanny to the barn." "Isn't she the dearest thing!" Pauline declared, as she and Hilary went indoors. The spare room was back of the parlor, a large comfortable room, with broad windows facing south and west, and a small vine-covered porch all its own on the south side of the room. Pauline pulled forward a great chintz-cushioned rocker, putting her sister into it, and opened the porch door. Beyond lay a wide, sloping meadow and beyond the meadow, the lake sparkled and rippled in the sunshine. "If you're not contented here, Hilary Shaw!" Pauline said, standing in the low doorway. "Suppose you pretend you've never been here before! I reckon you'd travel a long ways to find a nicer place to stay in." "I shouldn't doubt it if you were going to stay with me, Paul; I know I'm going to be homesick." Pauline stretched out a hand to Captain, the old dog, who had come around to pay his compliments. Captain liked visitors--when he was convinced that they really were visitors, not peddlers, nor agents, quite as well as his master and mistress did. "You'd be homesick enough, if you really were off on your travels--you'd better get used to it. Hadn't she, Captain?" Pauline went to unpack the valise, opening the drawers of the old-fashioned mahogany bureau with a little breath of pleasure. "Lavender! Hilary." Hilary smiled, catching some of her sister's enthusiasm. She leaned back among her cushions, her eyes on the stretch of shining water at the far end of the pasture. "I wish you were going to be here, Paul, so that we could go rowing. I wonder if I'll ever feel as if I could row again, myself." "Of course you will, and a great deal sooner than you think." Pauline hung Hilary's dressing-gown across the foot of the high double bed. "Now I think you're all settled, ma'am, and I hope to your satisfaction. Isn't it a veritable 'chamber of peace,' Hilary?" Through the open door and windows came the distant tinkle of a cow bell, and other farm sounds. There came, too, the scent of the early May pinks growing in the borders of Mrs. Boyd's old-fashioned flower beds. Already the peace and quiet of the house, the homely comfort, had done Hilary good; the thought of the long simple days to come, were not so depressing as they had seemed when thought of that morning. "Bless me, I'd forgotten, but I've a bit of news for you," Mrs. Boyd said, coming in, a moment or so later; "the manor's taken for the summer." "Really?" Pauline cried, "why it's been empty for ever and ever so long." The manor was an old rambling stone house, standing a little back from a bit of sandy beach, that jutted out into the lake about a mile from The Maples. It was a pleasant place, with a tiny grove of its own, and good-sized garden, which, year after year, in spite of neglect, was bright with old-fashioned hardy annuals planted long ago, when the manor had been something more than an old neglected house, at the mercy of a chance tenant. "Just a father and daughter. They've got old Betsy Todd to look after them," Mrs. Boyd went on. "The girl's about your age, Hilary. You wasn't looking to find company of that sort so near, was you?" Hilary looked interested. "No," she answered. "But, after all, the manor's a mile away." "Oh, she's back and forth every day--for milk, or one thing or another; she's terribly interested in the farm; father's taken a great notion to her. She'll be over after supper, you'll see; and then I'll make you acquainted with her." "Are they city people?" Pauline asked. "From New York!" Mrs. Boyd told her proudly. From her air one would have supposed she had planned the whole affair expressly for Hilary's benefit. "Their name's Dayre." "What is the girl's first name?" Pauline questioned. "Shirley; it's a queer name for a girl, to my thinking." "Is she pretty?" Pauline went on. "Not according to my notions; father says she is. She's thin and dark, and I never did see such a mane of hair--and it ain't always too tidy, neither--but she has got nice eyes and a nice friendly way of talking. Looks to me, like she hasn't been brought up by a woman." "She sounds--interesting," Pauline said, and when Mrs. Boyd had left them, to make a few changes in her supper arrangements, Pauline turned eagerly to Hilary. "You're in luck, Hilary Shaw! The newest kind of new people; even if it isn't a new place!" "How do you know they'll, or rather, she'll, want to know me?" Hilary asked, with one of those sudden changes of mood an invalid often shows, "or I her? We haven't seen her yet. Paul, do you suppose Mrs. Boyd would mind letting me have supper in here?" "Oh, Hilary, she's laid the table in the living-room! I heard her doing it. She'd be ever so disappointed." "Well," Hilary said, "come on then." Out in the living-room, they found Mr. Boyd waiting for them, and so heartily glad to see them, that Hilary's momentary impatience vanished. To Pauline's delight, she really brought quite an appetite to her supper. "You should've come out here long ago, Hilary," Mr. Boyd told her, and he insisted on her having a second helping of the creamed toast, prepared especially in her honor. Before supper was over. Captain's deep-toned bark proclaimed a newcomer, or newcomers, seeing that it was answered immediately by a medley of shrill barks, in the midst of which a girl's voice sounded authoritively--"Quiet, Phil! Pat, I'm ashamed of you! Pudgey, if you're not good instantly, you shall stay at home to-morrow night!" A moment later, the owner of the voice appeared at the porch door, "May I come in, Mrs. Boyd?" she asked. "Come right in, Miss Shirley. I've a couple of young friends here, I want you should get acquainted with," Mrs. Boyd cried. "You ain't had your supper yet, have you, Miss Shirley?" Mr. Boyd asked. "Father and I had tea out on the lake," Shirley answered, "but I'm hungry enough again by now, for a slice of Mrs. Boyd's bread and butter." And presently, she was seated at the table, chatting away with Paul and Hilary, as if they were old acquaintances, asking Mr. Boyd various questions about farm matters and answering Mrs. Boyd's questions regarding Betsy Todd and her doings, with the most delightful air of good comradeship imaginable. "Oh, me!" Pauline pushed hack her chair regretfully, "I simply must go, it'll be dark before I get home, as it is." "I reckon it will, deary," Mrs. Boyd agreed, "so I won't urge you to stay longer. Father, you just whistle to Colin to bring Fanny 'round." Hilary followed her sister into the bedroom. "You'll be over soon, Paul?" Pauline, putting on her hat before the glass, turned quickly. "As soon as I can. Hilary, don't you like her?" Hilary balanced herself on the arm of the big, old-fashioned rocker. "I think so. Anyway, I love to watch her talk; she talks all over her face." They went out to the gig, where Mr. and Mrs. Boyd and Shirley were standing. Shirley was feeding Fanny with handfuls of fresh grass. "Isn't she a fat old dear!" she said. "She's a fat old poke!" Pauline returned. "Mayn't I give you a lift? I can go 'round by the manor road 's well as not." Shirley accepted readily, settling herself in the gig, and balancing her pail of milk on her knee carefully. "Good-by," Pauline called. "Mind, you're to be ever and ever so much better, next time I come, Hilary." "Your sister has been sick?" Shirley asked, her voice full of sympathetic interest. "Not sick--exactly; just run down and listless." Shirley leaned a little forward, drawing in long breaths of the clear evening air. "I don't see how anyone can ever get run down--here, in this air; I'm hardly indoors at all. Father and I have our meals out on the porch. You ought to have seen Betsy Todd's face, the first time I proposed it. 'Ain't the dining-room to your liking, miss?'" she asked. "Betsy Todd's a queer old thing," Pauline commented. "Father has the worst time, getting her to come to church." "We were there last Sunday," Shirley said. "I'm afraid we were rather late; it's a pretty old church, isn't it? I suppose you live in that square white house next to it?" "Yes," Pauline answered. "Father came to Winton just after he was married, so we girls have never lived anywhere else nor been anywhere else--that counted. Any really big city, I mean. We're dreadfully tired of Winton--Hilary, especially." "It's a mighty pretty place." "I suppose so." Pauline slapped old Fanny impatiently. "Will you go on!" Fanny was making forward most reluctantly; the Boyd barn had been very much to her liking. Now, as the three dogs made a swift rush at her leaping and barking around her, she gave a snort of disgust, quickening her pace involuntarily. "Don't call them off, please!" Pauline begged Shirley. "She isn't in the least scared, and it's perfectly refreshing to find that she can move." "All the same, discipline must be maintained," Shirley insisted; and at her command the dogs fell behind. "Have you been here long?" Pauline asked. "About two weeks. We were going further up the lake--just on a sketching trip,--and we saw this house from the deck of the boat; it looked so delightful, and so deserted and lonely, that we came back from the next landing to see about it. We took it at once and sent for a lot of traps from the studio at home, they aren't here yet." Pauline looked her interest. It seemed a very odd, attractive way of doing things, no long tiresome plannings of ways and means beforehand. Suppose--when Uncle Paul's letter came--they could set off in such fashion, with no definite point in view, and stop wherever they felt like it. "I can't think," Shirley went on, "how such a charming old place came to be standing idle." "Isn't it rather--run down?" "Not enough to matter--really. I want father to buy it, and do what is needed to it, without making it all new and snug looking. The sunsets from that front lawn are gorgeous, don't you think so?" "Yes," Pauline agreed, "I haven't been over there in two years. We used to have picnics near there." "I hope you will again, this summer, and invite father and me. We adore picnics; we've had several since we came--he and I and the dogs. The dogs do love picnics so, too." Pauline had given up wanting to hurry Fanny; what a lot she would have to tell her mother when she got home. She was sorry when a turn in the road brought them within sight of the old manor house. "There's father!" Shirley said, nodding to a figure coming towards them across a field. The dogs were off to meet him directly, with shrill barks of pleasure. "May I get down here, please?" Shirley asked. "Thank you very much for the lift; and I am so glad to have met you and your sister, Miss Shaw. You'll both come and see me soon, won't you?" "We'd love to," Pauline answered heartily; "'cross lots, it's not so very far over here from the parsonage, and," she hesitated, "you--you'll be seeing Hilary quite often, while she's at The Maples, perhaps?" "I hope so. Father's on the lookout for a horse and rig for me, and then she and I can have some drives together. She will know where to find the prettiest roads." "Oh, she would enjoy that," Pauline said eagerly, and as she drove on, she turned more than once to glance back at the tall, slender figure crossing the field. Shirley seemed to walk as if the mere act of walking were in itself a pleasure. Pauline thought she had never before known anyone who appeared so alive from head to foot. "Go 'long, Fanny!" she commanded; she was in a hurry to get home now, with her burden of news. It seemed to her as if she had been away a long while, so much had happened in the meantime. At the parsonage gate, Pauline found Patience waiting for her. "You have taken your time, Paul Shaw!" the child said, climbing in beside her sister. "Fanny's time, you mean!" "It hasn't come yet!" Patience said protestingly. "I went for the mail myself this afternoon, so I know!" "Oh, well, perhaps it will to-morrow," Pauline answered, with so little of real concern in her voice, that Patience wondered. "Suppose you take Fanny on to the barn. Mother's home, isn't she?" Patience glanced at her sharply. "You've got something--particular--to tell mother! O Paul, please wait 'til I come. Is it about--" "You're getting to look more like an interrogation point every day, Impatience!" Pauline told her, getting down from the gig. Patience sniffed. "If nobody ever asked questions, nobody'd ever know anything!" she declared. "Is mother home?" Pauline asked again. "Who's asking things now!" Patience drew the reins up tightly and bouncing up and down on the carriage seat, called sharply--"Hi yi! Hi yi!" It was the one method that never failed to rouse Fanny's indignation, producing, for the moment, the desired effect; still, as Pauline said, it was hardly a proceeding that Hilary or she could adopt, or, least of all, their father. As she trotted briskly off to the barn now, the very tilt of Fanny's ears expressed injured dignity. Dignity was Fanny's strong point; that, and the ability to cover less ground in an afternoon than any other horse in Winton. The small human being at the other end of those taut reins might have known she would have needed no urging barnwards. "Maybe you don't like it," Patience observed, "but that makes no difference--'s long's it's for your good. You're a very unchristiany horse, Fanny Shaw. And I'll 'hi yi' you every time I get a chance; so now go on." However Patience was indoors in time to hear all but the very beginning of Pauline's story of her afternoon's experience. "I told you," she broke in, "that I saw a nice girl at church last Sunday--in Mrs. Dobson's pew; and Mrs. Dobson kept looking at her out of the corner of her eyes all the tune, 'stead of paying attention to what father was saying; and Miranda says, ten to one. Sally Dobson comes out in--" "That will do, Patience," her mother said, "if you are going to interrupt in this fashion, you must run away." Patience subsided reluctantly, her blue eyes most expressive. "Isn't it nice for Hilary, mother? Now she'll be contented to stay a week or two, don't you think?" Pauline said. "I hope so, dear. Yes, it is very nice." "She was looking better already, mother; brighter, you know." "Mummy, is asking a perfectly necessary question 'interrupting'?'" "Perhaps not, dear, if there is only one," smiled Mrs. Shaw. "Mayn't I, please, go with Paul and Hilary when they go to call on that girl?" "On whom, Patience?" Patience wriggled impatiently; grown people were certainly very trying at times. "On Paul's and Hilary's new friend, mummy." "Not the first time, Patience; possibly later--" Patience shrugged. "By and by," she observed, addressing the room at large, "when Paul and Hilary are married, I'll be Miss Shaw! And then--" the thought appeared to give her considerable comfort. "And maybe, Towser," she confided later, as the two sat together on the side porch, "maybe--some day--you and I'll go to call on them on our own account. I'm not sure it isn't your duty to call on those dogs--you lived here first, and I can't see why it isn't mine--to call on that girl. Father says, we should always hasten to welcome the stranger; and they sound dreadfully interesting." Towser blinked a sleepy acquiescence. In spite of his years, he still followed blindly where Patience led, though the consequences were frequently disastrous. It was the next afternoon that Pauline, reading in the garden, heard an eager little voice calling excitedly, "Paul, where are you! It's come! It's come! I brought it up from the office myself!" Pauline sprang up. "Here I am, Patience! Hurry!" "Well, I like that!" Patience said, coming across the lawn. "Hurry! Haven't I run every inch of the way home!" She waved the letter above her head--"'Miss Pauline A. Shaw!' It's type-written! O Paul, aren't you going to read it out here!" For Pauline, catching the letter from her, had run into the house, crying--"Mother! O Mother Shaw!" CHAPTER III UNCLE PAUL'S ANSWER "Mother! O mother, where are you!" Pauline cried, and on Mrs. Shaw's answering from her own room, she ran on up-stairs. "O Mother Shaw! It's come at last!" she announced breathlessly. "So I thought--when I heard Patience calling just now. Pauline, dear, try not to be too disappointed if--" "You open it, mother--please! Now it's really come, I'm--afraid to." Pauline held out her letter. "No, dear, it is addressed to you," Mrs. Shaw answered quietly. And Pauline, a good deal sobered by the gravity with which her mother had received the news, sat down on the wide window seat, near her mother's chair, tearing open the envelope. As she spread out the heavy businesslike sheet of paper within, a small folded enclosure fell from it into her lap. "Oh, mother!" Pauline caught up the narrow blue slip. She had never received a check from anyone before. "Mother! listen!" and she read aloud, "'Pay to the order of Miss Pauline A. Shaw, the sum of twenty-five dollars.'" Twenty-five dollars! One ought to be able to do a good deal with twenty-five dollars! "Goodness me!" Patience exclaimed. She had followed her sister up-stairs, after a discreet interval, curling herself up unobtrusively in a big chair just inside the doorway. "Can you do what you like with it, Paul?" But Pauline was bending over the letter, a bright spot of color on each cheek. Presently, she handed it to her mother. "I wish--I'd never written to him! Read it, mother!" And Mrs. Shaw read, as follows-- NEW YORK CITY, May 31, 19--. _Miss Pauline A. Shaw, Winton, Vt._ MY DEAR NIECE: Yours of May 16th to hand. I am sorry to learn that your sister Hilary appears to be in such poor health at present. Such being the case, however, it would seem to me that home was the best place for her. I do not at all approve of this modern fashion of running about the country, on any and every pretext. Also, if I remember correctly, your father has frequently described Winton to me as a place of great natural charms, and peculiarly adapted to those suffering from so-called nervous disorders. Altogether, I do not feel inclined to comply with your request to make it possible for your sister to leave home, in search of change and recreation. Instead, beginning with this letter, I will forward you each month during the summer, the sum of twenty-five dollars, to be used in procuring for your sisters and yourself--I understand, there is a third child--such simple and healthful diversions as your parents may approve, the only conditions I make, being, that at no time shall any of your pleasure trips take you further than ten miles from home, and that you keep me informed, from time to time, how this plan of mine is succeeding. Trusting this may prove satisfactory, Very respectfully, PAUL A. SHAW. "What do you think, mother?" Pauline asked, as Mrs. Shaw finished reading. "Isn't it a very--queer sort of letter?" "It is an extremely characteristic one, dear." "I think," Patience could contain herself no longer, "that you are the inconsideratest persons! You know I'm perfectly wild to know what's in that letter!" "Run away now, Patience," her mother said. "You shall hear about it later," and when Patience had obeyed--not very willingly, Mrs. Shaw turned again to Pauline. "We must show this to your father, before making any plans in regard to it, dear." "He's coming now. You show it to him, please, mother." When her mother had gone down-stairs, Pauline still sat there in the window seat, looking soberly out across the lawn to the village street, with its double rows of tall, old trees. So her flag had served little purpose after all! That change for Hilary was still as uncertain, as much a vague part of the future, as it had ever been. It seemed to the girl, at the moment, as if she fairly hated Winton. As though Hilary and she did not already know every stick and stone in it, had not long ago exhausted all its possibilities! New people might think it "quaint" and "pretty" but they had not lived here all their lives. And, besides, she had expressly told Uncle Paul that the doctor had said that Hilary needed a change. She was still brooding over the downfall of her hopes, when her mother called to her from the garden. Pauline went down, feeling that it mattered very little what her father's decision had been--it could make so little difference to them, either way. Mrs. Shaw was on the bench under the old elm, that stood midway between parsonage and church. She had been rereading Uncle Paul's letter, and to Pauline's wonder, there was something like a smile of amusement in her eyes. "Well, mother?" the girl asked. "Well, dear, your father and I have talked the matter over, and we have decided to allow you to accept your uncle's offer." "But that--hateful condition! How is Hilary to get a chance--here in Winton?" "Who was it that I heard saying, only this morning, Pauline, that even if Uncle Paul didn't agree, she really believed we might manage to have a very pleasant summer here at home?" "I know--but still, now that we know definitely--" "We can go to work definitely to do even better." "But how, mother!" "That is what we must think over. Suppose you put your wits to work right now. I must go down to Jane's for a few moments. After all, Pauline, those promised twenty-fives can be used very pleasantly--even in Winton." "But it will still be Winton." "Winton may develop some unexplored corners, some new outlooks." Pauline looked rather doubtful; then, catching sight of a small dejected-looking little figure in the swing, under the big cherry-tree at the foot of the lawn, she asked, "I suppose I may tell Patience now, mother? She really has been very good all this time of waiting." "She certainly has. Only, not too many details, Pauline. Patience is of such a confiding disposition." "Patience," Pauline called, "suppose we go see if there aren't some strawberries ripe?" Patience ran off for a basket. Strawberries! As if she didn't know they were only a pretext. Grown people were assuredly very queer--but sometimes, it was necessary to humor, their little whims and ways. "I don't believe they are ripe yet," she said, skipping along beside her sister. "O Paul, is it--nice?" "Mother thinks so!" "Don't you?" "Maybe I will--after a while. Hilary isn't to go away." "Is that what you wrote and asked Uncle Paul? And didn't you ask for us all to go?" "Certainly not--we're not sick," said Pauline, laughing. "Miranda says what Hilary needs is a good herb tonic!" "Miranda doesn't know everything." "What is Uncle Paul going to do then?" "Send some money every month--to have good times with at home." "One of those blue paper things?" "I suppose so," Pauline laughed. "And _you_ don't call that _nice_! Well of all the ungratefullest girls! Is it for us _all_ to have good times with? Or just Hilary?" "All of us. Of course, Hilary must come first." Patience fairly jumped up and down with excitement. "When will they begin, and what will they be like? O Paul, just think of the good times we've had _without_ any money 't all! Aren't we the luckiest girls!" They had reached the strawberry-bed and Patience dropped down in the grass beside it, her hands clasped around her knees. "Good times in Winton will be a lot better than good times anywhere else. Winton's such a nice sociable place." Pauline settled herself on the top rail of the fence bordering the garden at the back. Patience's enthusiasm was infectious. "What sort of good times do you mean?" she asked. "Picnics!" "We have such a lot of picnics--year after year!" "A nice picnic is always sort of new. Miranda does put up such beautiful lunches. O Paul, couldn't we afford chocolate layer cake _every_ time, now?" "You goosey!" Pauline laughed again heartily. "And maybe there'll be an excursion somewhere's, and by'n'by there'll be the town fair. Paul, there's a ripe berry! And another and--" "See here, hold on, Impatience!" Pauline protested, as the berries disappeared, one after another, down Patience's small throat. "Perhaps, if you stop eating them all, we can get enough for mother's and father's supper." "Maybe they went and hurried to get ripe for to-night, so we could celebrate," Patience suggested. "Paul, mayn't I go with you next time you go over to The Maples?" "We'll see what mother says." "I hate 'we'll see's'!" Patience declared, reaching so far over after a particularly tempting berry, that she lost her balance, and fell face down among them. "Oh, dear!" she sighed, as her sister came to her assistance, "something always seems to happen clean-apron afternoon! Paul, wouldn't it be a 'good time,' if Miranda would agree not to scold 'bout perfectly unavoidable accidents once this whole summer?" "Who's to do the deciding as to the unavoidableness?" Pauline asked. "Come on, Patience, we've got about all the ripe ones, and it must be time for you to lay the supper-table." "Not laying supper-tables would be another good time," Patience answered. "We did get enough, didn't we? I'll hull them." "I wonder," Pauline said, more as if speaking to herself, "whether maybe mother wouldn't think it good to have Jane in now and then--for extra work? Not supper-tables, young lady." "Jane would love it. She likes to work with Miranda--she says Miranda's such a nice lady. Do you think she is, Paul?" "I'm thinking about other things just now." "I don't--There's mother. Goodness, Miranda's got the cloth on!" And away sped the child. To Patience's astonishment, nothing was said at supper, either of Uncle Paul's letter, or the wonderful things it was to lead to. Mr. Shaw kept his wife engaged with parish subjects and Pauline appeared lost in thoughts of her own. Patience fidgeted as openly as she dared. Of all queer grown-ups--and it looked as though most grown-ups were more or less queer--father was certainly the queerest. Of course, he knew about the letter; and how could he go on talking about stupid, uninteresting matters--like the Ladies' Aid and the new hymn books? Even the first strawberries of the season passed unnoticed, as far as he was concerned, though Mrs. Shaw gave Patience a little smiling nod, in recognition of them. "Mother," Pauline exclaimed, the moment her father had gone back to his study, "I've been thinking--Suppose we get Hilary to pretend--that coming home is coming to a _new_ place? That she is coming to visit us? We'll think up all the interesting things to do, that we can, and the pretty places to show her." "That would be a good plan, Pauline." "And if she's company, she'll have to have the spare room," Patience added. "Jolly for you, Patience!" Pauline said. "Only, mother, Hilary doesn't like the spare room; she says it's the dreariest room in the house." "If she's company, she'll have to pretend to like it, it wouldn't be good manners not to," Patience observed. The prospect opening out ahead of them seemed full of delightful possibilities. "I hope Miranda catches on to the game, and gives us pound-cake and hot biscuits for supper ever so often, and doesn't call me to do things, when I'm busy entertaining 'the company.'" "Mother," Pauline broke in--"do keep quiet. Impatience--couldn't we do the spare room over--there's that twenty-five dollars? We've planned it so often." "We might make some alterations, dear--at least." "We'll take stock the first thing to-morrow morning. I suppose we can't really start in before Monday." "Hardly, seeing that it is Friday night." They were still talking this new idea over, though Patience had been sent to bed, when Mr. Shaw came in from a visit to a sick parishioner. "We've got the most beautiful scheme on hand, father," Pauline told him, wheeling forward his favorite chair. She hoped he would sit down and talk things over with them, instead of going on to the study; it wouldn't be half as nice, if he stayed outside of everything. "New schemes appear to be rampant these days," Mr. Shaw said, but he settled himself comfortably in the big chair, quite as though he meant to stay with them. "What is this particular one?" He listened, while Pauline explained, really listened, instead of merely seeming to. "It does appear an excellent idea," he said; "but why should it be Hilary only, who is to try to see Winton with new eyes this summer? Suppose we were all to do so?" Pauline clapped her hands softly. "Then you'll help us? And we'll all pretend. Maybe Uncle Paul's thought isn't such a bad one, after all." "Paul always believed in developing the opportunities nearest hand," Mr. Shaw answered. He stroked the head Towser laid against his knee. "Your mother and I will be the gainers--if we keep all our girls at home, and still achieve the desired end." Pauline glanced up quickly. How could she have thought him unheeding--indifferent? "Somehow, I think it will work out all right," she said. "Anyhow, we're going to try it, aren't we. Mother Shaw? Patience thinks it the best idea ever, there'll be no urging needed there." Pauline went up to bed that night feeling strangely happy. For one thing the uncertainty was over, and if they set to work to make this summer full of interest, to break up the monotony and routine that Hilary found so irksome, the result must be satisfactory. And lastly, there was the comforting conviction, that whatever displeasure her father had felt at first, at her taking the law into her own hands in such unforeseen fashion, had disappeared now; and he was not going to stay "outside of things," that was sure. The next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, Pauline ran up-stairs to the spare room. She threw open the shutters of the four windows, letting in the fresh morning air. The side windows faced west, and looked out across the pleasant tree-shaded yard to the church; those at the front faced south, overlooking the broad village street. In the bright sunlight, the big square room stood forth in all its prim orderliness. "It is ugly," Pauline decided, shaking her head disapprovingly, but it had possibilities. No room, with four such generous windows and--for the fire-board must come out--such a wide deep fireplace, could be without them. She turned, as her mother came in, duly attended by Patience. "It is hideous, isn't it, mother? The paper, I mean--and the carpet isn't much better. It did very well, I suppose, for the visiting ministers--probably they're too busy thinking over their sermons to notice--but for Hilary--" Mrs. Shaw smiled. "Perhaps you are right, dear. As to the unattractiveness of the paper--" "We must repaper--that's sure; plain green, with a little touch of color in the border, and, oh, Mother Shaw, wouldn't a green and white matting be lovely?" "And expensive, Pauline." "It wouldn't take all the twenty-five, I'm sure. Miranda'll do the papering, I know. She did the study last year. Mother, couldn't we have Jane in for the washing and ironing this week, and let Miranda get right at this room? I'll help with the ironing, too." "I suppose so, dear. Miranda is rather fussy about letting other people do her regular work, you know." "I'll ask her." "And remember, Pauline, each day is going to bring new demands--don't put all your eggs into one basket." "I won't. We needn't spend anything on this room except for the paper and matting." Half an hour later, Pauline was on her way down to the village store for samples of paper. She had already settled the matter with Miranda, over the wiping of the breakfast dishes. Miranda had lived with the Shaws ever since Pauline was a baby, and was a very important member of the family, both in her own and their opinion. She was tall and gaunt, and somewhat severe looking; however, in her case, looks were deceptive. It would never have occurred to Miranda that the Shaws' interests were not her interests--she considered herself an important factor in the upbringing of the three young people. If she had a favorite, it was probably Hilary. "Hmn," she said, when Pauline broached the subject of the spare room, "what put that notion in your head, I'd like to know! That paper ain't got a tear in it!" So Pauline went further, telling her something of Uncle Paul's letter and how they hoped to carry his suggestion out. Miranda stood still, her hands in the dish water--"That's your pa's own brother, ain't it?" Pauline nodded. "And Miranda--" "I reckon he ain't much like the minister. Well, me an' Sarah Jane ain't the least bit alike--if we are sisters. I guess I can manage 'bout the papering. But it does go 'gainst me, having that sexton woman in. Still, I reckon you can't be content, 'till we get started. Looking for the old gentleman up, later, be you?" "For whom?" Pauline asked. "Your pa's brother. The minister's getting on, and the other one's considerable older, I understand." "I don't think he will be up," Pauline answered; she hadn't thought of that before. Suppose he should come! She wondered what he would be like. Half way down the street, Pauline was overtaken by her younger sister. "Are you going to get the new things now, Paul?" she asked eagerly. "Of course not, just get some samples." "There's always such a lot of getting ready first," Patience sighed. "Paul, mother says I may go with you to-morrow afternoon." "All right," Pauline agreed. "Only, you've got to promise not to 'hi yi' at Fanny all the way." "I won't--all the way." "And--Impatience?" "Yes?" "You needn't say what we want the new paper for, or anything about what we are planning to do--in the store I mean." "Mr. Ward would be mighty interested." "I dare say." "Miranda says you're beginning to put on considerable airs, since you've been turning your hair up, Paul Shaw. When I put my hair up, I'm going on being just as nice and friendly with folks, as before, you'll see." Pauline laughed, which was not at all to Patience's liking. "All the same, mind what I say," she warned. "Can I help choose?" Patience asked, as they reached the store. "If you like." Pauline went through to the little annex devoted to wall papers and carpetings. It was rather musty and dull in there, Patience thought; she would have liked to make a slow round of the whole store, exchanging greetings and various confidences with the other occupants. The store was a busy place on Saturday morning, and Patience knew every man, woman and child in Winton. They had got their samples and Pauline was lingering before a new line of summer dressgoods just received, when the young fellow in charge of the post-office and telegraph station called to her: "I say, Miss Shaw, here's a message just come for you." "For me--" Pauline took it wonderingly. Her hands were trembling, she had never received a telegram before--Was Hilary? Then she laughed at herself. To have sent a message, Mr. Boyd would have first been obliged to come in to Winton. Out on the sidewalk, she tore open the envelope, not heeding Patience's curious demands. It was from her uncle, and read-- "Have some one meet the afternoon train Saturday, am sending you an aid towards your summer's outings." "Oh," Pauline said, "do hurry, Patience. I want to get home as fast as I can." CHAPTER IV BEGINNINGS Sunday afternoon, Pauline and Patience drove over to The Maples to see Hilary. They stopped, as they went by, at the postoffice for Pauline to mail a letter to her uncle, which was something in the nature of a very enthusiastic postscript to the one she had written him Friday night, acknowledging and thanking him for his cheque, and telling him of the plans already under discussion. "And now," Patience said, as they turned out of the wide main street, "we're really off. I reckon Hilary'll be looking for us, don't you?" "I presume she will," Pauline answered. "Maybe she'll want to come back with us." "Oh, I don't believe so. She knows mother wants her to stay the week out. Listen, Patty--" Patience sat up and took notice. When people Pattied her, it generally meant they had a favor to ask, or something of the sort. "Remember, you're to be very careful not to let Hilary suspect--anything." "About the room and--?" "I mean--everything." "Won't she like it--all, when she does know?" "Well, rather!" Patience wriggled excitedly. "It's like having a fairy godmother, isn't it? And three wishes? If you'd had three wishes, Paul, wouldn't you've chosen--" "You'd better begin quieting down, Patience, or Hilary can't help suspecting something." Patience drew a long breath. "If she knew--she wouldn't stay a single day longer, would she?" "That's one reason why she mustn't know." "When will you tell her; or is mother going to?" "I don't know yet. See here, Patience, you may drive--if you won't hi yi." "Please, Paul, let me, when we get to the avenue. It's stupid coming to a place, like Fanny'd gone to sleep." "Not before--and only once then," Pauline stipulated, and Patience possessed her soul in at least a faint semblance of patience until they turned into the avenue of maples. Then she suddenly tightened her hold on the reins, bounced excitedly up and down, crying sharply--"Hi yi!" Fanny instantly pricked up her ears, and, what was more to the purpose, actually started into what might almost have been called a trot. "There! you see!" Patience said proudly, as they turned into the yard. Hilary came down the porch steps. "I heard Impatience urging her Rosinante on," she laughed. "Why didn't you let her drive all the way, Paul? I've been watching for you since dinner." "We've been pretty nearly since dinner getting here, it seems to me," Patience declared. "We had to wait for Paul to write a letter first to--" "Are you alone?" Pauline broke in hurriedly, asking the first question that came into her mind. Hilary smiled ruefully. "Not exactly. Mr. Boyd's asleep in the sitting-room, and Mrs. Boyd's taking a nap up-stairs in her own room." "You poor child!" Pauline said. "Jump out, Patience!" "_Have_ you brought me something to read? I've finished both the books I brought with me, and gone through a lot of magazines--queer old things, that Mrs. Boyd took years and years ago." "Then you've done very wrong," Pauline told her severely, leading Fanny over to a shady spot at one side of the yard and tying her to the fence--a quite unnecessary act, as nothing would have induced Fanny to take her departure unsolicited. "Guess!" Pauline came back, carrying a small paper-covered parcel. "Father sent it to you. He was over at Vergennes yesterday." "Oh!" Hilary cried, taking it eagerly and sitting down on the steps. "It's a book, of course." Even more than her sisters, she had inherited her father's love of books, and a new book was an event at the parsonage. "Oh," she cried again, taking off the paper and disclosing the pretty tartan cover within, "O Paul! It's 'Penelope's Progress.' Don't you remember those bits we read in those odd magazines Josie lent us? And how we wanted to read it all?" Pauline nodded. "I reckon mother told father about it; I saw her following him out to the gig yesterday morning." They went around to the little porch leading from Hilary's room, always a pleasant spot in the afternoons. "Why," Patience exclaimed, "it's like an out-door parlor, isn't it?" There was a big braided mat on the floor of the porch, its colors rather faded by time and use, but looking none the worse for that, a couple of rockers, a low stool, and a small table, covered with a bit of bright cretonne. On it stood a blue and white pitcher filled with field flowers, beside it lay one or two magazines. Just outside, extending from one of the porch posts to the limb of an old cherry tree, hung Hilary's hammock, gay with cushions. "Shirley did it yesterday afternoon," Hilary explained. "She was over here a good while. Mrs. Boyd let us have the things and the chintz for the cushions, Shirley made them, and we filled them with hay." Pauline, sitting on the edge of the low porch, looked about her with appreciative eyes. "How pleasant and cozy it is, and after all, it only took a little time and trouble." Hilary laid her new book on the table. "How soon do you suppose we can go over to the manor, Paul? I imagine the Dayres have fixed it up mighty pretty. Mr. Dayre was over here, last night. He and Shirley are ever so--chummy. He's Shirley Putnam Dayre, and she's Shirley Putnam Dayre, Junior. So he calls her 'Junior' and she calls him 'Senior.' They're just like brother and sister. He's an artist, they've been everywhere together. And, Paul, they think Winton is delightful. Mr. Dayre says the village street, with its great overhanging trees, and old-fashioned houses, is a picture in itself, particularly up at our end, with the church, all ivy-covered. He means to paint the church sometime this summer." "It would make a pretty picture," Pauline said thoughtfully. "Hilary, I wonder--" "So do I," Hilary said. "Still, after all, one would like to see different places--" "And love only one," Pauline added; she turned to her sister. "You are better, aren't you--already?" "I surely am. Shirley's promised to take me out on the lake soon. She's going to be friends with us, Paul--really friends. She says we must call her 'Shirley,' that she doesn't like 'Miss Dayre,' she hears it so seldom." "I think it's nice--being called 'Miss,'" Patience remarked, from where she had curled herself up in the hammock. "I suppose she doesn't want it, because she can have it--I'd love to be called 'Miss Shaw.'" "Hilary," Pauline said, "would you mind very much, if you couldn't go away this summer?" "It wouldn't do much good if I did, would it?" "The not minding would--to mother and the rest of us--" "And if you knew what--" Patience began excitedly. "Don't you want to go find Captain, Impatience?" Pauline asked hastily, and Patience, feeling that she had made a false move, went with most unusual meekness. "Know what?" Hilary asked. "I--shouldn't wonder, if the child had some sort of scheme on hand," Pauline said, she hoped she wasn't--prevaricating; after all, Patience probably did have some scheme in her head--she usually had. "I haven't thought much about going away the last day or so," Hilary said. "I suppose it's the feeling better, and, then, the getting to know Shirley." "I'm glad of that." Pauline sat silent for some moments; she was watching a fat bumble bee buzzing in and out among the flowers in the garden. It was always still, over here at the farm, but to-day, it seemed a different sort of stillness, as if bees and birds and flowers knew that it was Sunday afternoon. "Paul," Hilary asked suddenly, "what are you smiling to yourself about?" "Was I smiling? I didn't know it. I guess because it is so nice and peaceful here and because--Hilary, let's start a club--the 'S. W. F. Club.'" "The what?" "The 'S. W. F. Club.' No, I shan't tell you what the letters stand for! You've got to think it out for yourself." "A real club, Paul?" "Indeed, yes." "Who's to belong?" "Oh, lots of folks. Josie and Tom, and you and I--and I think, maybe, mother and father." "Father! To belong to a club!" "It was he who put the idea into my head." Hilary came to sit beside her sister on the step. "Paul, I've a feeling that there is something--up! And it isn't the barometer!" "Where did you get it?" "From you." Pauline sprang up. "Feelings are very unreliable things to go by, but I've one just now--that if we don't hunt Impatience up pretty quick--there will be something doing." They found Patience sitting on the barn floor, utterly regardless of her white frock. A whole family of kittens were about her. "Aren't they dears!" Patience demanded. "Mrs. Boyd says I may have my choice, to take home with me," Hilary said. The parsonage cat had died the fall before, and had had no successor as yet. Patience held up a small coal-black one. "Choose this, Hilary! Miranda says a black cat brings luck, though it don't look like we needed any black cats to bring--" "I like the black and white one," Pauline interposed, just touching Patience with the tip of her shoe. "Maybe Mrs. Boyd would give us each one, that would leave one for her," Patience suggested cheerfully. "I imagine mother would have something to say to that," Pauline told her. "Was Josie over yesterday, Hilary?" Hilary nodded. "In the morning." As they were going back to the house, they met Mr. Boyd, on his way to pay his regular weekly visit to the far pasture. "Going to salt the colts?" Patience asked. "Please, mayn't I come?" "There won't be time, Patience," Pauline said. "Not time!" Mr. Boyd objected, "I'll be back to supper, and you girls are going to stay to supper." He carried Patience off with him, declaring that he wasn't sure he should let her go home at all, he meant to keep her altogether some day, and why not to-night? "Oh, I couldn't stay to-night," the child assured him earnestly. "Of course, I couldn't ever stay for always, but by'n'by, when--there isn't so much going on at home--there's such a lot of things keep happening at home now, only don't tell Hilary, please--maybe, I could come make you a truly visit." Indoors, Pauline and Hilary found Mrs. Boyd down-stairs again from her nap. "You ain't come after Hilary?" she questioned anxiously. "Only to see her," Pauline answered, and while she helped Mrs. Boyd get supper, she confided to her the story of Uncle Paul's letter and the plans already under way. Mrs. Boyd was much interested. "Bless me, it'll do her a heap of good, you'll see, my dear. I'm not sure, I don't agree with your uncle, when all's said and done, home's the best place for young folks." Just before Pauline and Patience went home that evening, Mrs. Boyd beckoned Pauline mysteriously into the best parlor. "I always meant her to have them some day--she being my god-child--and maybe they'll do her as much good now, as any time, she'll want to fix up a bit now and then, most likely. Shirley had on a string of them last night, but not to compare with these." Mrs. Boyd was kneeling before a trunk in the parlor closet, and presently she put a little square shell box into Pauline's bands. "Box and all, just like they came to me--you know, they were my grandmother's--but Hilary's a real careful sort of girl." "But, Mrs. Boyd--I'm not sure that mother would--" Pauline knew quite well what was in the box. "That's all right! You just slip them in Hilary's top drawer, where she'll come across them without expecting it. Deary me, I never wear them, and as I say, I've always meant to give them to her some day." "She'll be perfectly delighted--and they'll look so pretty. Hilary's got a mighty pretty neck, I think." Pauline went out to the gig, the little box hidden carefully in her blouse, feeling that Patience was right and that these were very fairy-story sort of days. "You'll be over again soon, won't you?" Hilary urged. "We're going to be tre-men-dous-ly busy," Patience began, but her sister cut her short. "As soon as I can, Hilary. Mind you go on getting better." By Monday noon, the spare room had lost its look of prim order. In the afternoon, Pauline and her mother went down to the store to buy the matting. There was not much choice to be had, and the only green and white there was, was considerably beyond the limit they had allowed themselves. "Never mind," Pauline said cheerfully, "plain white will look ever so cool and pretty--perhaps, the green would fade. I'm going to believe so." Over a low wicker sewing-chair, she did linger longingly; it would look so nice beside one of the west windows. She meant to place a low table for books and work between those side windows. In the end, prudence won the day, and surely, the new paper and matting were enough to be grateful for in themselves. By the next afternoon the paper was on and the matting down. Pauline was up garret rummaging, when she heard someone calling her from the foot of the stairs. "I'm here, Josie," she called back, and her friend came running up. "What are you doing?" she asked. Pauline held up an armful of old-fashioned chintz. "Oh, how pretty!" Josie exclaimed. "It makes one think of high-waisted dresses, and minuets and things like that." Pauline laughed. "They were my great-grandmother's bed curtains." "Goodness! What are you going to do with them?" "I'm not sure mother will let me do anything. I came across them just now in looking for some green silk she said I might have to cover Hilary's pin-cushion with." "For the new room? Patience has been doing the honors of the new paper and matting--it's going to be lovely, I think." Pauline scrambled to her feet, shaking out the chintz: "If only mother would--it's pink and green--let's go ask her." "What do you want to do with it, Pauline?" Mrs. Shaw asked. "I haven't thought that far--use it for draperies of some kind, I suppose," the girl answered. They were standing in the middle of the big, empty room. Suddenly, Josie gave a quick exclamation, pointing to the bare corner between the front and side windows. "Wouldn't a cozy corner be delightful--with cover and cushions of the chintz?" "May we, mother?" Pauline begged in a coaxing tone. "I suppose so, dear--only where is the bench part to come from?" "Tom'll make the frame for it, I'll go get him this minute," Josie answered. "And you might use that single mattress from up garret," Mrs. Shaw suggested. Pauline ran up to inspect it, and to see what other treasures might be forthcoming. The garret was a big, shadowy place, extending over the whole house, and was lumber room, play place and general refuge, all in one. Presently, from under the eaves, she drew forward a little old-fashioned sewing-chair, discarded on the giving out of its cane seat. "But I could tack a piece of burlap on and cover it with a cushion," Pauline decided, and bore it down in triumph to the new room, where Tom Brice was already making his measurements for the cozy corner. Josie was on the floor, measuring for the cover. "Isn't it fun, Paul? Tom says it won't take long to do his part." Tom straightened himself, slipping his rule into his pocket. "I don't see what you want it for, though," he said. "'Yours not to reason why--'" Pauline told him. "We see, and so will Hilary. Don't you and Josie want to join the new club--the 'S. W. F. Club'?" "Society of Willing Females, I suppose?" Tom remarked. "It sounds like some sort of sewing circle," Josie said. Pauline sat down in one of the wide window places. "I'm not sure it might not take in both. It is--'The Seeing Winton First Club.'" Josie looked as though she didn't quite understand, but Tom whistled softly. "What else have you been doing for the past fifteen years, if you please, ma'am?" he asked quizzically. Pauline laughed. "One ought to know a place rather thoroughly in fifteen years, I suppose; but--I'm hoping we can make it seem at least a little bit new and different this summer--for Hilary. You see, we shan't be able to send her away, and so, I thought, perhaps, if we tried looking at Winton--with new eyes--" "I see," Josie cried. "I think it's a splendiferous ideal" "And, I thought, if we formed a sort of club among ourselves and worked together--" "Listen," Josie interrupted again, "we'll make it a condition of membership, that each one must, in turn, think up something pleasant to do." "Is the membership to be limited?" Tom asked. Pauline smiled. "It will be so--necessarily--won't it?" For Winton was not rich in young people. "There will be enough of us," Josie declared hopefully. "Like the model dinner party?" her brother asked. "Not less than the Graces, nor more than the Muses." And so the new club was formed then and there. There were to be no regular and formal meetings, no dues, nor fines, and each member was to consider himself, or herself, an active member of the programme committee. Tom, as the oldest member of their immediate circle of friends, was chosen president before that first meeting adjourned; no other officers were considered necessary at the time. And being president, to him was promptly delegated the honor--despite his vigorous protests--of arranging for their first outing and notifying the other members--yet to be. "But," he expostulated, "what's a fellow to think up--in a hole like this?" "Winton isn't a hole!" his sister protested. It was one of the chief occupations of Josie's life at present, to contradict all such heretical utterances on Tom's part. He was to go away that fall to commence his studies for the medical profession, for it was Dr. Brice's great desire that, later, his son should assist him in his practice. But, so far, Tom though wanting to follow his father's profession, was firm in his determination, not to follow it in Winton. "And remember," Pauline said, as the three went down-stairs together, "that it's the first step that counts--and to think up something very delightful, Tom." "It mustn't be a picnic, I suppose? Hilary won't be up to picnics yet awhile." "N-no, and we want to begin soon. She'll be back Friday, I think," Pauline answered. By Wednesday night the spare room was ready for the expected guest. "It's as if someone had waved a fairy wand over it, isn't it?" Patience said delightedly. "Hilary'll be so surprised." "I think she will and--pleased." Pauline gave one of the cushions in the cozy corner a straightening touch, and drew the window shades--Miranda had taken them down and turned them--a little lower. "It's a regular company room, isn't it?" Patience said joyously. The minister drove over to The Maples himself on Friday afternoon to bring Hilary home. "Remember," Patience pointed a warning forefinger at him, just as he was starting, "not a single solitary hint!" "Not a single solitary one," he promised. As he turned out of the gate. Patience drew a long breath. "Well, he's off at last! But, oh, dear, however can we wait 'til he gets back?" CHAPTER V BEDELIA It was five o'clock that afternoon when Patience, perched, a little white-clad sentry, on the gate-post, announced joyously--"They're coming! They're coming!" Patience was as excited as if the expected "guest" were one in fact, as well as name. It was fun to be playing a game of make-believe, in which the elders took part. As the gig drew up before the steps, Hilary looked eagerly out. "Will you tell me," she demanded, "why father insisted on coming 'round the lower road, by the depot--he didn't stop, and he didn't get any parcel? And when I asked him, he just laughed and looked mysterious." "He went," Pauline answered, "because we asked him to--company usually comes by train--real out-of-town company, you know." "Like visiting ministers and returned missionaries," Patience explained. Hilary looked thoroughly bewildered. "But are you expecting company? You must be," she glanced from one to another, "you're all dressed up," "We were expecting some, dear," her mother told her, "but she has arrived." "Don't you see? You're it!" Patience danced excitedly about her sister. "I'm the company!" Hilary said wonderingly. Then her eyes lighted up. "I understand! How perfectly dear of you all." Mrs. Shaw patted the hand Hilary slipped into hers. "You have come back a good deal better than you went, my dear. The change has done you good." "And it didn't turn out a stupid--half-way affair, after all," Hilary declared. "I've had a lovely time. Only, I simply had to come home, I felt somehow--that--that--" "We were expecting company?" Pauline laughed. "And you wanted to be here?" "I reckon that was it," Hilary agreed. As she sat there, resting a moment, before going up-stairs, she hardly seemed the same girl who had gone away so reluctantly only eight days before. The change of scene, the outdoor life, the new friendship, bringing with it new interests, had worked wonders, "And now," Pauline suggested, taking up her sister's valise, "perhaps you would like to go up to your room--visitors generally do." "To rest after your journey, you know," Patience prompted. Patience believed in playing one's part down to the minutest detail. "Thank you," Hilary answered, with quite the proper note of formality in her voice, "if you don't mind; though I did not find the trip as fatiguing as I had expected." But from the door, she turned back to give her mother a second and most uncompany-like hug. "It is good to be home, Mother Shaw! And please, you don't want to pack me off again anywhere right away--at least, all by myself?" "Not right away," her mother answered, kissing her. "I guess you will think it is good to be home, when you know--everything," Patience announced, accompanying her sisters up-stairs, but on the outside of the banisters. "Patty!" Pauline protested laughingly--"Was there ever such a child for letting things out!" "I haven't!" the child exclaimed, "only now--it can't make any difference." "There is mystery in the very air!" Hilary insisted. "Oh, what have you all been up to?" "You're not to go in there!" Patience cried, as Hilary stopped before the door of her own and Pauline's room. "Of course you're not," Pauline told her. "It strikes me, for company--you're making yourself very much at home! Walking into peoples' rooms." She led the way along the hall to the spare room, throwing the door wide open. "Oh!" Hilary cried, then stood quite still on the threshold, looking about her with wide, wondering eyes. The spare room was grim and gray no longer. Hilary felt as if she must be in some strange, delightful dream. The cool green of the wall paper, with the soft touch of pink in ceiling and border, the fresh white matting, the cozy corner opposite--with its delicate old-fashioned chintz drapery and big cushions, the new toilet covers--white over green, the fresh curtains at the windows, the cushioned window seats, the low table and sewing-chair, even her own narrow white bed, with its new ruffled spread, all went to make a room as strange to her, as it was charming and unexpected. "Oh," she said again, turning to her mother, who had followed them up-stairs, and stood waiting just outside the door. "How perfectly lovely it all is--but it isn't for me?" "Of course it is," Patience said. "Aren't you company--you aren't just Hilary now, you're 'Miss Shaw' and you're here on a visit; and there's company asked to supper to-morrow night, and it's going to be such fun!" Hilary's color came and went. It was something deeper and better than fun. She understood now why they had done this--why Pauline had said that--about her not going away; there was a sudden lump in the girl's throat--she was glad, so glad, she had said that downstairs----about not wanting to go away. And when her mother and Patience had gone down-stairs again and Pauline had begun to unpack the valise, as she had unpacked it a week ago at The Maples, Hilary sat in the low chair by one of the west windows, her hands folded in her lap, looking about this new room of hers. "There," Pauline said presently, "I believe that's all now--you'd better lie down, Hilary--I'm afraid you're tired." "No, I'm not; at any rate, not very. I'll lie down if you like, only I know I shan't be able to sleep." Pauline lowered the pillow and threw a light cover over her. "There's something in the top drawer of the dresser," she said, "but you're not to look at it until you've lain down at least half an hour." "I feel as if I were in an enchanted palace,", Hilary said, "with so many delightful surprises being sprung on me all the while." After Pauline had gone, she lay watching the slight swaying of the wild roses in the tall jar on the hearth. The wild roses ran rampant in the little lane leading from the back of the church down past the old cottage where Sextoness Jane lived. Jane had brought these with her that morning, as her contribution to the new room. To Hilary, as to Patience, it seemed as if a magic wand had been waved, transforming the old dull room into a place for a girl to live and dream in. But for her, the name of the wand was Love. There must be no more impatient longings, no fretful repinings, she told herself now. She must not be slow to play her part in this new game that had been originated all for her. The half-hour up, she slipped from the bed and began unbuttoning her blue-print frock. Being company, it stood to reason she must dress for supper. But first, she must find out what was in the upper drawer. The first glimpse of the little shell box, told her that. There were tears in Hilary's gray eyes, as she stood slipping the gold beads slowly through her fingers. How good everyone was to her; for the first time some understanding of the bright side even of sickness--and she had not been really sick, only run-down--and, yes, she had been cross and horrid, lots of times--came to her. "I'll go over just as soon as I can and thank her," the girl thought, clasping the beads about her neck, "and I'll keep them always and always." A little later, she came down-stairs all in white, a spray of the pink and white wild roses in her belt, her soft, fair hair freshly brushed and braided. She had been rather neglectful of her hair lately. There was no one on the front piazza but her father, and he looked up from his book with a smile of pleasure. "My dear, how well you are looking! It is certainly good to see you at home again, and quite your old self." Hilary came to sit on the arm of his chair. "It is good to be at home again. I suppose you know all the wonderful surprises I found waiting me?" "Supper's ready," Patience proclaimed from the doorway. "Please come, because--" she caught herself up, putting a hand into Hilary's, "I'll show you where to sit, Miss Shaw." Hilary laughed. "How old are you, my dear?" she asked, in the tone frequently used by visiting ministers. "I'm a good deal older than I'm treated generally," Patience answered. "Do you like Winton?" "I am sure I shall like it very much." Hilary slipped into the chair Patience drew forward politely. "The company side of the table--sure enough," she laughed. "It isn't proper to say things to yourself sort of low down in your voice," Patience reproved her, then at a warning glance from her mother subsided into silence as the minister took his place. For to-night, at least, Miranda had amply fulfilled Patience's hopes, as to company suppers. And she, too, played her part in the new game, calling Hilary "Miss," and never by any chance intimating that she had seen her before. "Did you go over to the manor to see Shirley?" Patience asked. Hilary shook her head. "I promised her Pauline and I would be over soon. We may have Fanny some afternoon, mayn't we, father?" Patience's blue eyes danced. "They can't have Fanny, can they, father?" she nodded at him knowingly. Hilary eyed her questioningly. "What is the matter, Patience?" "Nothing is the matter with her," Pauline said hurriedly. "Don't pay any attention to her." "Only, if you would hurry," Patience implored. "I--I can't wait much longer!" "Wait!" Hilary asked. "For what?" Patience pushed back her chair. "For--Well, if you just knew what for, Hilary Shaw, you'd do some pretty tall hustling!" "Patience!" her father said reprovingly. "May I be excused, mother?" Patience asked. "I'll wait out on the porch." And Mrs. Shaw replied most willingly that she might. "Is there anything more--to see, I mean, not to eat?" Hilary asked. "I don't see how there can be." "Are you through?" Pauline answered. "Because, if you are, I'll show you." "It was sent to Paul," Patience called, from the hall door. "But she says, of course, it was meant for us all; and I think, myself, she's right about that." "Is it--alive?" Hilary asked. "'It' was--before supper," Pauline told her. "I certainly hope nothing has happened to--'it' since then." "A dog?" Hilary suggested. "Wait and see; by the way, where's that kitten?" "She's to follow in a few days; she was a bit too young to leave home just yet." "I've got the sugar!" Patience called. Hilary stopped short at the foot of the porch steps. Patience's remark, if it had not absolutely let the cat out of the bag, had at least opened the bag. "Paul, it can't be--" "In the Shaw's dictionary, at present, there doesn't appear to be any such word as can't," Pauline declared. "Come on---after all, you know, the only way to find out--is to find out." Patience had danced on ahead down the path to the barn. She stood waiting for them now in the broad open doorway, her whole small person one animated exclamation point, while Towser, just home from a leisurely round of afternoon visits, came forward to meet Hilary, wagging a dignified welcome. "If you don't hurry, I'll 'hi yi' you, like I do Fanny!" Patience warned them. She moved to one side, to let Hilary go on into the barn. "Now!" she demanded, "isn't that something more?" From the stall beside Fanny's, a horse's head reached inquiringly out for the sugar with which already she had come to associate the frequent visits of these new friends. She was a pretty, well-made, little mare, light sorrel, with white markings, and with a slender, intelligent face. Hilary stood motionless, too surprised to speak. "Her name's Bedelia," Patience said, doing the honors. "She's very clever, she knows us all already. Fanny hasn't been very polite to her, and she knows it--Bedelia does, I mean--sometimes, when Fanny isn't looking, I've caught Bedelia sort of laughing at her--and I don't blame her one bit. And, oh, Hilary, she can go--there's no need to 'hi yi' her." "But--" Hilary turned to Pauline. "Uncle Paul sent her," Pauline explained. "She came last Saturday afternoon. One of the men from Uncle Paul's place in the country brought her. She was born and bred at River Lawn--that's Uncle Paul's place--he says." Hilary stroked the glossy neck gently, if Pauline had said the Sultan of Turkey, instead of Uncle Paul, she could hardly have been more surprised. "Uncle Paul--sent her to you!" she said slowly. "To _us_." "Bless me, that isn't all he sent," Patience exclaimed. It seemed to Patience that they never would get to the end of their story. "You just come look at this, Hilary Shaw!" she ran on through the opening connecting carriage-house with stable. "Oh!" Hilary cried, following with Pauline. Beside the minister's shabby old gig, stood the smartest of smart traps, and hanging on the wall behind it, a pretty russet harness, with silver mountings. Hilary sat down on an old saw horse; she felt again as though she must be dreaming. "There isn't another such cute rig in town, Jim says so," Patience said. Jim was the stable boy. "It beats Bell Ward's all to pieces." "But why--I mean, how did Uncle Paul ever come to send it to us?" Hilary said. Of course one had always known that there was--somewhere--a person named Uncle Paul; but he had appeared about as remote and indefinite a being as--that same Sultan of Turkey, for instance. "After all, why shouldn't he?" Pauline answered. "But I don't believe he would've if Paul had not written to him that time," Patience added. "Maybe next time I tell you anything, you'll believe me, Hilary Shaw." But Hilary was staring at Pauline. "You didn't write to Uncle Paul?" "I'm afraid I did." "Was--was that the letter--you remember, that afternoon?" "I rather think I do remember." "Paul, how did you ever dare?" "I was in the mood to dare anything that day." "And did he answer; but of course he did." "Yes--he answered. Though not right away." "Was it a nice letter? Did he mind your having written? Paul, you didn't ask him to send you--these," Hilary waved her hand rather vaguely. "Hardly--he did that all on his own. It wasn't a bad sort of letter, I'll tell you about it by and by. We can go to the manor in style now, can't we--even if father can't spare Fanny. Bedelia's perfectly gentle, I've driven her a little ways once or twice, to make sure. Father insisted on going with me. We created quite a sensation down street, I assure you." "And Mrs. Dane said," Patience cut in, "that in her young days, clergymen didn't go kiting 'bout the country in such high-fangled rigs." "Never mind what Mrs. Dane said, or didn't say," Pauline told her. "Miranda says, what Mrs. Dane hasn't got to say on any subject, wouldn't make you tired listening to it." "Patience, if you don't stop repeating what everyone says, I shall--" "If you speak to mother--then you'll be repeating," Patience declared. "Maybe, I oughtn't to have said those things before--company." "I think we'd better go back to the house now," Pauline suggested. "Sextoness Jane says," Patience remarked, "that she'd have sure admired to have a horse and rig like that, when she was a girl. She says, she doesn't suppose you'll be passing by her house very often." "And, now, please," Hilary pleaded, when she had been established in her hammock on the side porch, with her mother in her chair close by, and Pauline sitting on the steps, "I want to hear--everything. I'm what Miranda calls 'fair mazed.'" So Pauline told nearly everything, blurring some of the details a little and getting to that twenty-five dollars a month, with which they were to do so much, as quickly as possible. "O Paul, really," Hilary sat up among her cushions--"Why, it'll be--riches, won't it?" "It seems so." "But--Oh, I'm afraid you've spent all the first twenty-five on me; and that's not a fair division--is it, Mother Shaw?" "We used it quite according to Hoyle," Pauline insisted. "We got our fun that way, didn't we, Mother Shaw?" Their mother smiled. "I know I did." "All the same, after this, you've simply got to 'drink fair, Betsy,' so remember," Hilary warned them. "Bedtime, Patience," Mrs. Shaw said, and Patience got slowly out of her big, wicker armchair. "I did think--seeing there was company,--that probably you'd like me to stay up a little later to-night." "If the 'company' takes my advice, she'll go, too," her mother answered. "The 'company' thinks she will." Hilary slipped out of the hammock. "Mother, do you suppose Miranda's gone to bed yet?" "I'll go see," Patience offered, willing to postpone the inevitable for even those few moments longer. "What do you want with Miranda?" Pauline asked. "To do something for me." "Can't I do it?" "No--and it must be done to-night. Mother, what are you smiling over?" "I thought it would be that way, dear." "Miranda's coming," Patience called. "She'd just taken her back hair down, and she's waiting to twist it up again. She's got awful funny back hair." "Patience! Patience!" her mother said reprovingly. "I mean, there's such a little--" "Go up-stairs and get yourself ready for bed at once." Miranda was waiting in the spare room. "You ain't took sick, Hilary?" Hilary shook her head. "Please, Miranda, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, will you bring Pauline's bed in here?" "I guessed as much," Miranda said, moving Hilary's bed to one side. "Hilary--wouldn't you truly rather have a room to yourself--for a change?" Pauline asked. "I have had one to myself--for eight days--and, now I'm going back to the old way." Sitting among the cushions of the cozy corner, Hilary superintended operations, and when the two single white beds were standing side by side, in their accustomed fashion, the covers turned back for the night, she nodded in satisfied manner. "Thank you so much, Miranda; that's as it should be. Go get your things, Paul. To-morrow, you must move in regularly. Upper drawer between us, and the rest share and share alike, you know." Patience, who had hit upon the happy expedient of braiding her hair--braids, when there were a lot of them, took a long time--got slowly up from the hearth rug, her head a sight to behold, with its tiny, hornlike red braids sticking out in every direction. "I suppose I'd better be going. I wish I had someone to talk to, after I'd gone to bed." And a deep sigh escaped her. Pauline kissed the wistful little face. "Never mind, old girl, you know you'd never stay awake long enough to talk to anyone." She and Hilary stayed awake talking, however, until Pauline's prudence got the better of her joy in having her sister back in more senses than one. It was so long since they had had such a delightful bedtime talk. "Seeing Winton First Club," Hilary said musingly. "Paul, you're ever so clever. Shirley insisted those letters stood for 'Suppression of Woman's Foibles Club'; and Mr. Dayre suggested they meant, 'Sweet Wild Flowers.'" "You've simply got to go to sleep now, Hilary, else mother'll come and take me away." Hilary sighed blissfully. "I'll never say again--that nothing ever happens to us." Tom and Josie came to supper the next night. Shirley was there, too, she had stopped in on her way to the post-office with her father that afternoon, to ask how Hilary was, and been captured and kept to supper and the first club meeting that followed. Hilary had been sure she would like to join, and Shirley's prompt and delighted acceptance of their invitation proved her right. "I've only got five names on my list," Tom said, as the young folks settled themselves on the porch after supper. "I suppose we'll think of others later." "That'll make ten, counting us five, to begin with," Pauline said. "Bell and Jack Ward," Tom took out his list, "the Dixon boys and Edna Ray. That's all." "I'd just like to know where I come in, Tom Brice!" Patience demanded, her voice vibrant with indignation. "Upon my word! I didn't suppose--" "I am to belong! Ain't I, Paul?" "But Patty--" "If you're going to say no, you needn't Patty me!" "We'll see what mother thinks," Hilary suggested. "You wouldn't want to be the only little girl to belong?" "I shouldn't mind," Patience assured her, then feeling pretty sure that Pauline was getting ready to tell her to run away, she decided to retire on her own account. That blissful time, when she should be "Miss Shaw," had one drawback, which never failed to assert itself at times like these--there would be no younger sister subject to her authority. "Have you decided what we are to do?" Pauline asked Tom, when Patience had gone. "I should say I had. You'll be up to a ride by next Thursday, Hilary? Not a very long ride." "I'm sure I shall," Hilary answered eagerly. "Where are we going?" "That's telling." "He won't even tell me," Josie said. Tom's eyes twinkled. "You're none of you to know until next Thursday. Say, at four o'clock." "Oh," Shirley said, "I think it's going to be the nicest club that ever was." CHAPTER VI PERSONALLY CONDUCTED "Am I late?" Shirley asked, as Pauline came down the steps to meet her Thursday afternoon. "No, indeed, it still wants five minutes to four. Will you come in, or shall we wait out here? Hilary is under bond not to make her appearance until the last minute." "Out here, please," Shirley answered, sitting down on the upper step. "What a delightful old garden this is. Father has at last succeeded in finding me my nag, horses appear to be at a premium in Winton, and even if he isn't first cousin to your Bedelia, I'm coming to take you and Hilary to drive some afternoon. Father got me a surrey, because, later, we're expecting some of the boys up, and we'll need a two-seated rig." "We're coming to take you driving, too," Pauline said. "Just at present, it doesn't seem as if the summer would be long enough for all the things we mean to do in it." "And you don't know yet, what we are to do this afternoon?" "Only, that it's to be a drive and, afterwards, supper at the Brices'. That's all Josie, herself, knows about it. Tom had to take her and Mrs. Brice into so much of his confidence." Through the drowsy stillness of the summer afternoon, came the notes of a horn, sounding nearer and nearer. A moment later, a stage drawn by two of the hotel horses turned in at the parsonage drive at a fine speed, drawing up before the steps where Pauline and Shirley were sitting, with considerable nourish. Beside the driver sat Tom, in long linen duster, the megaphone belonging to the school team in one hand. Along each side of the stage was a length of white cloth, on which was lettered-- SEEING WINTON STAGE As the stage stopped, Tom sprang down, a most businesslike air on his boyish face. "This is the Shaw residence, I believe?" he asked, consulting a piece of paper. "I--I reckon so," Pauline answered, too taken aback to know quite what she was saying. "All right!" Tom said. "I understand--" "Then it's a good deal more than I do," Pauline cut in. "That there are several young people here desirous of joining our little sight-seeing trip this afternoon." From around the corner of the house at that moment peeped a small freckled face, the owner of which was decidedly very desirous of joining that trip. Only a deep sense of personal injury kept Patience from coming forward,--she wasn't going where she wasn't wanted--but some day--they'd see! Shirley clapped her hands delightedly. "How perfectly jolly! Oh, I am glad you asked me to join the club." "I'll go tell Hilary!" Pauline said. "Tom, however--" "I beg your pardon, Miss?" Pauline laughed and turned away. "Oh, I say, Paul," Tom dropped his mask of pretended dignity, "let the Imp come with us--this time." Pauline looked doubtful. She, as well as Tom, had caught sight of that small flushed face, on which longing and indignation had been so plainly written. "I'm not sure that mother will--" she began, "But I'll see." "Tell her--just this first time," Tom urged, and Shirley added, "She would love it so." "Mother says," Pauline reported presently, "that Patience may go _this_ time--only we'll have to wait while she gets ready." From an upper window came an eager voice. "I'm most ready now!" "She'll never forget it--as long as she lives," Shirley said, "and if she hadn't gone she would never've forgotten _that_." "Nor let us--for one while," Pauline remarked--"I'd a good deal rather work with than against that young lady." Hilary came down then, looking ready and eager for the outing. She had been out in the trap with Pauline several times; once, even as far as the manor to call upon Shirley. "Why," she exclaimed, "you've brought the Folly! Tom, how ever did you manage it?" "Beg pardon, Miss?" Hilary shrugged her shoulders, coming nearer for a closer inspection of the big lumbering stage. It had been new, when the present proprietor of the hotel, then a young man, now a middle-aged one, had come into his inheritance. Fresh back from a winter in town, he had indulged high hopes of booming his sleepy little village as a summer resort, and had ordered the stage--since christened the Folly--for the convenience and enjoyment of the guests--who had never come. A long idle lifetime the Folly had passed in the hotel carriage-house; used so seldom, as to make that using a village event, but never allowed to fall into disrepair, through some fancy of its owner. As Tom opened the door at the back now, handing his guests in with much ceremony, Hilary laughed softly. "It doesn't seem quite--respectful to actually sit down in the poor old thing. I wonder, if it's more indignant, or pleased, at being dragged out into the light of day for a parcel of young folks?" "'Butchered to make a Roman Holiday'?" Shirley laughed. At that moment Patience appeared, rather breathless--but not half as much so as Miranda, who had been drawn into service, and now appeared also--"You ain't half buttoned up behind, Patience!" she protested, "and your hair ribbon's not tied fit to be seen.--My sakes, to think of anyone ever having named that young one _Patience_!" "I'll overhaul her, Miranda," Pauline comforted her. "Come here, Patience." "Please, I am to sit up in front with you, ain't I, Tom?" Patience urged. "You and I always get on so beautifully together, you know." Tom relaxed a second time. "I don't see how I can refuse after that," and the over-hauling process being completed, Patience climbed up to the high front seat, where she beamed down on the rest with such a look of joyful content that they could only smile back in response. From the doorway, came a warning voice. "Not too far, Tom, for Hilary; and remember, Patience, what you have promised me." "All right, Mrs. Shaw," Tom assured her, and Patience nodded her head assentingly. From the parsonage, they went first to the doctor's. Josie was waiting for them at the gate, and as they drew up before it, with horn blowing, and horses almost prancing--the proprietor of the hotel had given them his best horses, in honor of the Folly--she stared from her brother to the stage, with its white placard, with much the same look of wonder in her eyes as Pauline and Hilary had shown. "Miss Brice?" Tom was consulting his list again. "So that's what you've been concocting, Tom Brice!" Josie answered. Tom's face was as sober as his manner. "I am afraid we are a little behind scheduled time, being unavoidably delayed." "He means they had to wait for me to get ready," Patience explained. "You didn't expect to see me along, did you, Josie?" And she smiled blandly. "I don't know what I did expect--certainly, not this." Josie took her place in the stage, not altogether sure whether the etiquette of the occasion allowed of her recognizing its other inmates, or not. But Pauline nodded politely. "Good afternoon. Lovely day, isn't it?" she remarked, while Shirley asked, if she had ever made this trip before. "Not in this way," Josie answered. "I've never ridden in the Folly before. Have you, Paul?" "Once, from the depot to the hotel, when I was a youngster, about Impatience's age. You remember, Hilary?" "Of course I do. Uncle Jerry took me up in front." Uncle Jerry was the name the owner of the stage went by in Winton. "He'd had a lot of Boston people up, and had been showing them around." "This reminds me of the time father and I did our own New York in one of those big 'Seeing New York' motors," Shirley said. "I came home feeling almost as if we'd been making a trip 'round some foreign city." "Tom can't make Winton seem foreign," Josie declared. There were three more houses to stop at, lower down the street. From windows and porches all along the route, laughing, curious faces stared wonderingly after them, while a small body-guard of children sprang up as if by magic to attend them on their way. This added greatly to the delight of Patience, who smiled condescendingly down upon various intimates, blissfully conscious of the envy she was exciting in their breasts. It was delightful to be one of the club for a time, at least. "And now, if you please, Ladies and Gentlemen," Tom had closed the door to upon the last of his party, "we will drive first to The Vermont House, a hostelry well known throughout the surrounding country, and conducted by one of Vermont's best known and honored sons." "Hear! Hear!" Jack Ward cried. "I say, Tom, get that off again where Uncle Jerry can hear it, and you'll always be sure of his vote." They had reached the rambling old hotel, from the front porch of which Uncle Jerry himself, surveyed them genially. "Ladies and Gentlemen," standing up, Tom turned to face the occupants of the stage, his megaphone, carried merely as a badge of office, raised like a conductor's baton, "I wish to impress upon your minds that the building now before you--liberal rates for the season--is chiefly remarkable for never having sheltered the Father of His Country." "Now how do you know that?" Uncle Jerry protested. "Ain't that North Chamber called the 'Washington room'?" "Oh, but that's because the first proprietor's first wife occupied that room--and she was famous for her Washington pie," Tom answered readily. "I assure you, sir, that any and all information which I shall have the honor to impart to these strangers within our gates may be relied upon for its accuracy." He gave the driver the word, and the Folly continued on its way, stopping presently before a little story-and-a-half cottage not far below the hotel and on a level with the street. "This cottage, my young friends," Tom said impressively, "should be--and I trust is--enshrined deep within the hearts of all true Wintonites. Latterly, it has come to be called the Barker cottage, but its real title is 'The Flag House'; so called, because from that humble porch, the first Stars and Stripes ever seen in Winton flung its colors to the breeze. The original flag is still in possession of a lineal descendant of its first owner, who is, unfortunately, not an inhabitant of this town." The boyish gravity of tone and manner was not all assumed now. No one spoke for a moment; eleven pairs of young eyes were looking out at the little weather-stained building with new interest. "I thought," Bell Ward said at last, "that they called it the _flag_ place, because someone of that name had used to live there." "So did I," Hilary said. As the stage moved on, Shirley leaned back for another look. "I shall get father to come and sketch it," she said. "Isn't it the quaintest old place?" "We will now proceed," Tom announced, "to the village green, where I shall have the pleasure of relating to you certain anecdotes regarding the part it played in the early life of this interesting old village." "Not too many, old man," Tracy Dixon suggested hurriedly, "or it may prove a one-sided pleasure." The green lay in the center of the town,--a wide, open space, with flagstaff in the middle; fine old elms bordered it on all four sides. The Vermont House faced it, on the north, and on the opposite side stood the general store, belonging to Mr. Ward, with one or two smaller places of business. "The business section" of the town, Tom called it, and quite failed to notice Tracy's lament that he had not brought his opera glasses with him. "Really, you know," Tracy explained to his companions, "I should have liked awfully to see it. I'm mighty interested in business sections." "Cut that out," his brother Bob commanded, "the chap up in front is getting ready to hold forth again." They were simple enough, those anecdotes, that "the chap up in front" told them; but in the telling, the boy's voice lost again all touch of mock gravity. His listeners, sitting there in the June sunshine, looking out across the old green, flecked with the waving tree shadows, and bright with the buttercups nodding here and there, seemed to see those men and boys drilling there in the far-off summer twilights; to hear the sharp words of command; the sound of fife and drum. And the familiar names mentioned more than once, well-known village names, names belonging to their own families in some instances, served to deepen the impression. "Why," Edna Ray said slowly, "they're like the things one learns at school; somehow, they make one realize that there truly was a Revolutionary War. Wherever did you pick up such a lot of town history, Tom?" "That's telling," Tom answered. Back up the broad, main street they went, past the pleasant village houses, with their bright, well-kept dooryards, under the wide-spreading trees beneath which so many generations of young folks had come and gone; past the square, white parsonage, with its setting of green lawn; past the old stone church, and on out into the by-roads of the village, catching now and then a glimpse of the great lake beyond; and now and then, down some lane, a bit of the street they had left. They saw it all with eyes that for once had lost the indifference of long familiarity, and were swift to catch instead its quiet, restful beauty, helped in this, perhaps, by Shirley's very real admiration. The ride ended at Dr. Brice's gate, and here Tom dropped his mantle of authority, handing all further responsibility as to the entertainment of the party over to his sister. Hilary was carried off to rest until supper time, and the rest scattered about the garden, a veritable rose garden on that June afternoon, roses being Dr. Brice's pet hobby. "It must be lovely to _live_ in the country," Shirley said, dropping down on the grass before the doctor's favorite _La France_, and laying her face against the soft, pink petals of a half-blown bud. Edna eyed her curiously. She had rather resented the admittance of this city girl into their set. Shirley's skirt and blouse were of white linen, there was a knot of red under the broad sailor collar, she was hatless and the dark hair,--never kept too closely within bounds--was tossed and blown; there was certainly nothing especially cityfied in either appearance or manner. "That's the way I feel about the city," Edna said slowly, "it must be lovely to live _there_." Shirley laughed. "It is. I reckon just being alive anywhere such days as these ought to content one. You haven't been over to the manor lately, have you? I mean since we came there. We're really getting the garden to look like a garden. Reclaiming the wilderness, father calls it. You'll come over now, won't you--the club, I mean?" "Why, of course," Edna answered, she thought she would like to go. "I suppose you've been over to the forts?" "Lots of times--father's ever so interested in them, and it's just a pleasant row across, after supper." "I have fasted too long, I must eat again," Tom remarked, coming across the lawn. "Miss Dayre, may I have the honor?" "Are you conductor, or merely club president now?" Shirley asked. "Oh, I've dropped into private life again. There comes Hilary--doesn't look much like an invalid, does she?" "But she didn't look very well the first time I saw her," Shirley answered. The long supper table was laid under the apple trees at the foot of the garden, which in itself served to turn the occasion into a festive affair. "You've given us a bully send-off, Mr. President," Bob declared. "It's going to be sort of hard for the rest of us to keep up with you." "By the way," Tom said, "Dr. Brice--some of you may have heard of him--would like to become an honorary member of this club. Any contrary votes?" "What's an honorary member?" Patience asked. Patience had been remarkably good that afternoon--so good that Pauline began to feel worried, dreading the reaction. "One who has all the fun and none of the work," Tracy explained, a merry twinkle in his brown eyes. Patience considered the matter. "I shouldn't mind the work; but mother won't let me join regularly--mother takes notions now and then--but, please mayn't I be an honorary member?" "Onery, you mean, young lady!" Tracy corrected. Patience flashed a pair of scornful eyes at him. "Father says punning is the very lowest form of--" "Never mind, Patience," Pauline said, "we haven't answered Tom yet. I vote we extend our thanks to the doctor for being willing to join." "He isn't a bit more willing than I am," Patience observed. There was a general laugh among the real members, then Tom said, "If a Shaw votes for a Brice, I don't very well see how a Brice can refuse to vote for a Shaw." "The motion is carried," Bob seconded him. "Subject to mother's consent," Pauline added, a quite unnecessary bit of elder sisterly interference, Patience thought. "And now, even if it is telling on yourself, suppose you own up, old man?" Jack Ward turned to Tom. "You see we don't in the least credit you with having produced all that village history from your own stores of knowledge." "I never said you need to," Tom answered, "even the idea was not altogether original with me." Patience suddenly leaned forward, her face all alight with interest. "I love my love with an A," she said slowly, "because he's an--author." Tom whistled. "Well, of all the uncanny young ones!" "It's very simple," Patience said loftily. "So it is, Imp," Tracy exclaimed; "I love him with an A, because he's an--A-M-E-R-I-C-A-N!" "I took him to the sign of The Apple Tree," Bell took up the thread. "And fed him (mentally) on subjects--antedeluvian, or almost so," Hilary added. "What _are_ you talking about?" Edna asked impatiently. "Mr. Allen," Pauline told her. "I saw him and Tom walking down the back lane the other night," Patience explained. Patience felt that she had won her right to belong to the club now--they'd see she wasn't just a silly little girl. "Father says he--I don't mean Tom--" "We didn't suppose you did," Tracy laughed. "Knows more history than any other man in the state; especially, the history of the state." "Mr. Allen!" Shirley exclaimed. "T. C. Allen! Why, father and I read one of his books just the other week. It's mighty interesting. Does he live in Winton?" "He surely does," Bob grinned, "and every little while he comes up to school and puts us through our paces. It's his boast that he was born, bred and educated right in Vermont. He isn't a bad old buck--if he wouldn't pester a fellow with too many questions." "He lives out beyond us," Hilary told Shirley. "There's a great apple tree right in front of the gate. He has an old house-keeper to look after him. I wish you could see his books--he's literally surrounded with them." "Not storybooks," Patience added. "He says, they're books full of stories, if one's a mind to look for them." "Please," Edna protested, "let's change the subject. Are we to have badges, or not?" "Pins," Bell suggested. "Pins would have to be made to order," Pauline objected, "and would be more or less expensive." "And it's an unwritten by-law of this club, that we shall go to no unnecessary expense," Tom insisted. "But--" Bell began. "Oh, I know what you're thinking," Tom broke in, "but Uncle Jerry didn't charge for the stage--he said he was only too glad to have the poor thing used--'twas a dull life for her, shut up in the carriage-house year in and year out." "The Folly isn't a she," Patience protested. "Folly generally is feminine," Tracy said, "and so--" "And he let us have the horses, too--for our initial outing," Tom went on. "Said the stage wouldn't be of much use without them." "Three cheers for Uncle Jerry!" Bob Dixon cried. "Let's make him an honorary member." "But the badges," Edna said. "I never saw such people for going off at tangents." "Ribbon would be pretty," Shirley suggested, "with the name of the club in gilt letters. I can letter pretty well." Her suggestion was received with general acclamation, and after much discussion, as to color, dark blue was decided on. "Blue goes rather well with red," Tom said, "and as two of our members have red hair," his glance went from Patience to Pauline. "I move we adjourn, the president's getting personal," Pauline pushed back her chair. "Who's turn is it to be next?" Jack asked. They drew lots with blades of grass; it fell to Hilary. "I warn you," she said, "that I can't come up to Tom." Then the first meeting of the new club broke up, the members going their various ways. Shirley went as far as the parsonage, where she was to wait for her father. "I've had a beautiful time," she said warmly. "And I've thought what to do when my turn comes. Only, I think you'll have to let father in as an honorary, I'll need him to help me out." "We'll be only too glad," Pauline said heartily. "This club's growing fast, isn't it? Have you decided, Hilary?" Hilary shook her head, "N-not exactly; I've sort of an idea." CHAPTER VII HILARY'S TURN Pauline and Hilary were up in their own room, the "new room," as it had come to be called, deep in the discussion of certain samples that had come in that morning's mail. Uncle Paul's second check was due before long now, and then there were to be new summer dresses, or rather the goods for them, one apiece all around. "Because, of course," Pauline said, turning the pretty scraps over, "Mother Shaw's got to have one, too. We'll have to get it--on the side--or she'll declare she doesn't need it, and she does." "Just the goods won't come to so very much," Hilary said. "No, indeed, and mother and I can make them." "We certainly got a lot out of that other check, or rather, you and mother did," Hilary went on. "And it isn't all gone?" "Pretty nearly, except the little we decided to lay by each month. But we did stretch it out in a good many directions. I don't suppose any of the other twenty-fives will seem quite so big." "But there won't be such big things to get with them," Hilary said, "except these muslins." "It's unspeakably delightful to have money for the little unnecessary things, isn't it?" Pauline rejoiced. That first check had really gone a long ways. After buying the matting and paper, there had been quite a fair sum left; enough to pay for two magazine subscriptions, one a review that Mr. Shaw had long wanted to take, another, one of the best of the current monthlies; and to lay in quite a store of new ribbons and pretty turnovers, and several yards of silkaline to make cushion covers for the side porch, for Pauline, taking hint from Hilary's out-door parlor at the farm, had been quick to make the most of their own deep, vine-shaded side porch at the parsonage. The front piazza belonged in a measure to the general public, there were too many people coming and going to make it private enough for a family gathering place. But the side porch was different, broad and square, only two or three steps from the ground; it was their favorite gathering place all through the long, hot summers. With a strip of carpet for the floor, a small table resurrected from the garret, a bench and three wicker rockers, freshly painted green, and Hilary's hammock, rich in pillows, Pauline felt that their porch was one to be proud of. To Patience had been entrusted the care of keeping the old blue and white Canton bowl filled with fresh flowers, and there were generally books and papers on the table. And they might have done it all before, Pauline thought now, if they had stopped to think. "Have you decided?" Hilary asked her, glancing at the sober face bent over the samples. "I believe I'd forgotten all about them; I think I'll choose this--" Pauline held up a sample of blue and white striped dimity. "That _is_ pretty." "You can have it, if you like." "Oh, no, I'll have the pink." "And the lavender dot, for Mother Shaw?" "Yes," Hilary agreed. "Patience had better have straight white, it'll be in the wash so often." "Why not let her choose for herself, Paul?" Hilary suggested. "Hilary! Oh, Hilary Shaw!" Patience called excitedly, at that moment from downstairs. "Up here!" Hilary called back, and Patience came hurrying up, stumbling more than once in her eagerness. The next moment, she pushed wide the door of the "new room." "See what's come! It's addressed to you, Hilary--it came by express--Jed brought it up from the depot!" Jed was the village expressman. She deposited her burden on the table beside Hilary. It was a good-sized, square box, and with all that delightful air of mystery about it that such packages usually have. "What do you suppose it is, Paul?" Hilary cried. "Why, I've never had anything come unexpectedly, like this, before." "A whole lot of things are happening to us that never've happened before," Patience said. "See, it's from Uncle Paul!" she pointed to the address at the upper left-hand corner of the package. "Oh, Hilary, let me open it, please, I'll go get the tack hammer." "Tell mother to come," Hilary said. "Maybe it's books, Paul!" she added, as Patience scampered off. Pauline lifted the box. "It doesn't seem quite heavy enough for books." "But what else could it be?" Pauline laughed. "It isn't another Bedelia, at all events. It could be almost anything. Hilary, I believe Uncle Paul is really glad I wrote to him." "Well, I'm not exactly sorry," Hilary declared. "Mother can't come yet," Patience explained, reappearing. "She says not to wait. It's that tiresome Mrs. Dane; she just seems to know when we don't want her, and then to come--only, I suppose if she waited 'til we did want to see her, she'd never get here." "Mother didn't say that. Impatience, and you'd better not let her hear you saying it," Pauline warned. But Patience was busy with the tack hammer. "You can take the inside covers off," she said to Hilary. "Thanks, awfully," Hilary murmured. "It'll be my turn next, won't it?" Patience dropped the tack hammer, and wrenched off the cover of the box--"Go ahead, Hilary! Oh, how slow you are!" For Hilary was going about her share of the unpacking in the most leisurely way. "I want to guess first," she said. "Such a lot of wrappings! It must be something breakable." "A picture, maybe," Pauline suggested. Patience dropped cross-legged on the floor. "Then I don't think Uncle Paul's such a very sensible sort of person," she said. "No, not pictures!" Hilary lifted something from within the box, "but something to get pictures with. See, Paul!" "A camera! Oh, Hilary!" "And not a little tiny one." Patience leaned over to examine the box. "It's a three and a quarter by four and a quarter. We can have fun now, can't we?" Patience believed firmly in the cooperative principle. "Tom'll show you how to use it," Pauline said. "He fixed up a dark room last fall, you know, for himself." "And here are all the doings." Patience came to investigate the further contents of the express package. "Films and those funny little pans for developing in, and all." Inside the camera was a message to the effect that Mr. Shaw hoped his niece would be pleased with his present and that it would add to the summer's pleasures, "He's getting real uncley, isn't he?" Patience observed. Then she caught sight of the samples Pauline had let fall. "Oh, how pretty! Are they for dresses for us?" "They'd make pretty scant ones, I'd say," Pauline, answered. "Silly!" Patience spread the bright scraps out on her blue checked gingham apron. "I just bet you've been choosing! Why didn't you call me?" "To help us choose?" Pauline asked, with a laugh. But at the present moment, her small sister was quite impervious to sarcasm. "I think I'll have this," she pointed to a white ground, closely sprinkled with vivid green dots. "Carrots and greens!" Pauline declared, glancing at her sister's red curls. "You'd look like an animated boiled dinner! If you please, who said anything about your choosing?" "You look ever so nice in all white, Patty," Hilary said hastily. "Have you and Paul chosen all white?" "N-no." "Then I shan't!" She looked up quickly, her blue eyes very persuasive. "I don't very often have a brand new, just-out-of-the-store dress, do I?" Pauline laughed. "Only don't let it be the green then. Good, here's mother, at last!" "Mummy, is blue or green better?" Patience demanded. Mrs. Shaw examined and duly admired the camera, and decided in favor of a blue dot; then she said, "Mrs. Boyd is down-stairs, Hilary." "How nice!" Hilary jumped up. "I want to see her most particularly." "Bless me, child!" Mrs. Boyd exclaimed, as Hilary came into the sitting-room, "how you are getting on! Why, you don't look like the same girl of three weeks back." Hilary sat down beside her on the sofa. "I've got a most tremendous favor to ask, Mrs. Boyd." "I'm glad to hear that! I hear you young folks are having fine times lately. Shirley was telling me about the club the other night." "It's about the club--and it's in two parts; first, won't you and Mr. Boyd be honorary members?--That means you can come to the good times if you like, you know.--And the other is--you see, it's my turn next--" And when Pauline came down, she found the two deep in consultation. The next afternoon, Patience carried out her long-intended plan of calling at the manor. Mrs. Shaw was from home for the day, Pauline and Hilary were out in the trap with Tom and Josie and the camera. "So there's really no one to ask permission of, Towser," Patience explained, as they started off down the back lane. "Father's got the study door closed, of course that means he mustn't be disturbed for anything unless it's absolutely necessary." Towser wagged comprehendingly. He was quite ready for a ramble this bright afternoon, especially a ramble 'cross lots. Shirley and her father were not at home, neither--which was even more disappointing--were any of the dogs; so, after a short chat with Betsy Todd, considerably curtailed by that body's too frankly expressed wonder that Patience should've been allowed to come unattended by any of her elders, she and Towser wandered home again. In the lane, they met Sextoness Jane, sitting on the roadside, under a shady tree. She and Patience exchanged views on parish matters, discussed the new club, and had an all-round good gossip. "My sakes!" Jane said, her faded eyes bright with interest, "it must seem like Christmas all the time up to your house." She looked past Patience to the old church beyond, around which her life had centered itself for so many years. "There weren't ever such doings at the parsonage--nor anywhere else, what I knowed of--when I was a girl. Why, that Bedelia horse! Seems like she give an air to the whole place--so pretty and high-stepping--it's most's good's a circus--not that I've ever been to a circus, but I've hear tell on them--just to see her go prancing by." "I think," Patience said that evening, as they were all sitting on the porch in the twilight, "I think that Jane would like awfully to belong to our club." "Have you started a club, too?" Pauline teased. Patience tossed her red head. "'The S. W. F. Club,' I mean; and you know it, Paul Shaw. When I get to be fifteen, I shan't act half so silly as some folks." "What ever put that idea in your head?" Hilary asked. It was one of Hilary's chief missions in life to act as intermediary between her younger and older sister. "Oh, I just gathered it, from what she said. Towser and I met her this afternoon, on our way home from the manor." "From where, Patience?" her mother asked quickly, with that faculty for taking hold of the wrong end of a remark, that Patience had had occasion to deplore more than once. And in the diversion this caused, Sextoness Jane was forgotten. "Here comes Mr. Boyd, Hilary!" Pauline called from the foot of the stairs. Hilary finished tying the knot of cherry ribbon at her throat, then snatching up her big sun-hat from the bed, she ran down-stairs. Before the side door, stood the big wagon, in which Mr. Boyd had driven over from the farm, its bottom well filled with fresh straw. For Hilary's outing was to be a cherry picnic at The Maples, with supper under the trees, and a drive home later by moonlight. Shirley had brought over the badges a day or two before; the blue ribbon, with its gilt lettering, gave an added touch to the girls' white dresses and cherry ribbons. Mr. Dayre had been duly made an honorary member. He and Shirley were to meet the rest of the party at the farm. As for Patience H. M., as Tom called her, she had been walking very softly the past few days. There had been no long rambles without permission, no making calls on her own account. There _had_ been a private interview between herself and Mr. Boyd, whom she had met, not altogether by chance, down street the day before. The result was that, at the present moment, Patience--white-frocked, blue-badged, cherry-ribboned--was sitting demurely in one corner of the big wagon. Mr. Boyd chuckled as he glanced down at her; a body'd have to get up pretty early in the morning to get ahead of that youngster. Though not in white, nor wearing cherry ribbons, Mr. Boyd sported his badge with much complacency. Winton was looking up, decidedly. 'Twasn't such a slow old place, after all. "All ready?" he asked, as Pauline slipped a couple of big pasteboard boxes under the wagon seat, and threw in some shawls for the coming home. "All ready. Good-by, Mother Shaw. Remember, you and father have got to come with us one of these days. I guess if Mr. Boyd can take a holiday you can." "Good-by," Hilary called, and Patience waved joyously. "This'll make two times," she comforted herself, "and two times ought to be enough to establish what father calls 'a precedent.'" They stopped at the four other houses in turn; then Mr. Boyd touched his horses up lightly, rattling them along at a good rate out on to the road leading to the lake and so to The Maples. There was plenty of fun and laughter by the way. They had gone picnicking together so many summers, this same crowd, had had so many good times together. "And yet it seems different, this year, doesn't it?" Bell said. "We really aren't doing new things--exactly, still they seem so." Tracy touched his badge. "These are the 'Blue Ribbon Brand,' best goods in the market." "Come to think of it, there aren't so very many new things one can do," Tom remarked. "Not in Winton, at any rate," Bob added. "If anyone dares say anything derogatory to Winton, on this, or any other, outing of the 'S. W. F. Club,' he, or she, will get into trouble," Josie said sternly. Mrs. Boyd was waiting for them on the steps, Shirley close by, while a glimpse of a white umbrella seen through the trees told that Mr. Dayre was not far off. "It's the best cherry season in years," Mrs. Boyd declared, as the young folks came laughing and crowding about her. She was a prime favorite with them all. "My, how nice you look! Those badges are mighty pretty." "Where's yours?" Pauline demanded. "It's in my top drawer, dear. Looks like I'm too old to go wearing such things, though 'twas ever so good in you to send me one." "Hilary," Pauline turned to her sister, "I'm sure Mrs. Boyd'll let you go to her top drawer. Not a stroke of business does this club do, until this particular member has her badge on." "Now," Tom asked, when that little matter had been attended to, "what's the order of the day?" "I hope you've worn old dresses?" Mrs. Boyd said. "I haven't, ma'am," Tracy announced. "Order!" Bob called. "Eat all you like--so long's you don't get sick--and each pick a nice basket to take home," Mrs. Boyd explained. There were no cherries anywhere else quite so big and fine, as those at The Maples. "You to command, we to obey!" Tracy declared. "Boys to pick, girls to pick up," Tom ordered, as they scattered about among the big, bountifully laden trees. "For cherry time, Is merry time," Shirley improvised, catching the cluster of great red and white cherries Jack tossed down to her. Even more than the rest of the young folks, Shirley was getting the good of this happy, out-door summer, with its quiet pleasures and restful sense of home life. She had never known anything before like it. It was very different, certainly, from the studio life in New York, different from the sketching rambles she had taken other summers with her father. They were delightful, too, and it was pleasant to think of going back to them again--some day; but just at present, it was good to be a girl among other girls, interested in all the simple, homely things each day brought up. And her father was content, too, else how could she have been so? It was doing him no end of good. Painting a little, sketching a little, reading and idling a good deal, and through it all, immensely amused at the enthusiasm with which his daughter threw herself into the village life. "I shall begin to think soon, that you were born and raised in Winton," he had said to her that very morning, as she came in fresh from a conference with Betsy Todd. Betsy might be spending her summer in a rather out-of-the-way spot, and her rheumatism might prevent her from getting into town--as she expressed it--but very little went on that Betsy did not hear of, and she was not one to keep her news to herself. "So shall I," Shirley had laughed back. She wondered now, if Pauline or Hilary would enjoy a studio winter, as much as she was reveling in her Winton summer? She decided that probably they would. Cherry time _was_ merry time that afternoon. Of course. Bob fell out of one of the trees, but Bob was so used to tumbling, and the others were so used to having him tumble, that no one paid much attention to it; and equally, of course, Patience tore her dress and had to be taken in hand by Mrs. Boyd. "Every rose must have its thorns, you know, kid," Tracy told her, as she was borne away for this enforced retirement. "We'll leave a few cherries, 'gainst you get back." Patience elevated her small freckled nose, she was an adept at it. "I reckon they will be mighty few--if you have anything to do with it." "You're having a fine time, aren't you, Senior?" Shirley asked, as Mr. Dayre came scrambling down from his tree; he had been routed from his sketching and pressed into service by his indefatigable daughter. "Scrumptious! Shirley, you've got a fine color--only it's laid on in spots." "You're spattery, too," she retorted. "I must go help lay out the supper now." "Will anyone want supper, after so many cherries?" Mr. Dayre asked. "Will they?" Pauline laughed. "Well, you just wait and see." Some of the boys brought the table from the house, stretching it out to its uttermost length. The girls laid the cloth, Mrs. Boyd provided, and unpacked the boxes stacked on the porch. From the kitchen came an appetizing odor of hot coffee. Hilary and Bell went off after flowers for the center of the table. "We'll put one at each place, suggestive of the person--like a place card," Hilary proposed. "Here's a daisy for Mrs. Boyd," Bell laughed. "Let's give that to Mr. Boyd and cut her one of these old-fashioned spice pinks," Hilary said. "Better put a bit of pepper-grass for the Imp," Tracy suggested, as the girls went from place to place up and down the long table. "Paul's to have a pansy," Hilary insisted. She remembered how, if it hadn't been for Pauline's "thought" that wet May afternoon, everything would still be as dull and dreary as it was then. At her own place she found a spray of belated wild roses, Tom had laid there, the pink of their petals not more delicate than the soft color coming and going in the girl's face. "We've brought for-get-me-not for you, Shirley," Bell said, "so that you won't forget us when you get back to the city." "As if I were likely to!" Shirley exclaimed. "Sound the call to supper, sonny!" Tom told Bob, and Bob, raising the farm dinner-horn, sounded it with a will, making the girls cover their ears with their hands and bringing the boys up with a rush. "It's a beautiful picnic, isn't it?" Patience said, reappearing in time to slip into place with the rest. "And after supper, I will read you the club song," Tracy announced. "Are we to have a club song?" Edna asked. "We are." "Read it now, son--while we eat," Tom suggested. Tracy rose promptly--"Mind you save me a few scraps then. First, it isn't original--" "All the better," Jack commented. "Hush up, and listen-- "'A cheerful world?--It surely is. And if you understand your biz You'll taboo the worry worm, And cultivate the happy germ. "'It's a habit to be happy, Just as much as to be scrappy. So put the frown away awhile, And try a little sunny smile.'" There was a generous round of applause. Tracy tossed the scrap of paper across the table to Bell. "Put it to music, before the next round-up, if you please." Bell nodded. "I'll do my best." "We've got a club song and a club badge, and we ought to have a club motto," Josie said. "It's right to your hand, in your song," her brother answered. "'It's a habit to be happy.'" "Good!" Pauline seconded him, and the motto was at once adopted. CHAPTER VIII SNAP-SHOTS Bell Ward set the new song to music, a light, catchy tune, easy to pick up. It took immediately, the boys whistled it, as they came and went, and the girls hummed it. Patience, with cheerful impartiality, did both, in season and out of season. It certainly looked as though it were getting to be a habit to be happy among a good many persons in Winton that summer. The spirit of the new club seemed in the very atmosphere. A rivalry, keen but generous, sprang up between the club members in the matter of discovering new ways of "Seeing Winton," or, failing that, of giving a new touch to the old familiar ones. There were many informal and unexpected outings, besides the club's regular ones, sometimes amongst all the members, often among two or three of them. Frequently, Shirley drove over in the surrey, and she and Pauline and Hilary, with sometimes one of the other girls, would go for long rambling drives along the quiet country roads, or out beside the lake. Shirley generally brought her sketch-book and there were pleasant stoppings here and there. And there were few days on which Bedelia and the trap were not out, Bedelia enjoying the brisk trots about the country quite as much as her companions. Hilary soon earned the title of "the kodak fiend," Josie declaring she took pictures in her sleep, and that "Have me; have my camera," was Hilary's present motto. Certainly, the camera was in evidence at all the outings, and so far, Hilary had fewer failures to her account than most beginners. Her "picture diary" she called the big scrap-book in which was mounted her record of the summer's doings. Those doings were proving both numerous and delightful. Mr. Shaw, as an honorary member, had invited the club to a fishing party, which had been an immense success. The doctor had followed it by a moonlight drive along the lake and across on the old sail ferry to the New York side, keeping strictly within that ten-mile-from-home limit, though covering considerably more than ten miles in the coming and going. There had been picnics of every description, to all the points of interest and charm in and about the village; an old-time supper at the Wards', at which the club members had appeared in old-fashioned costumes; a strawberry supper on the church lawn, to which all the church were invited, and which went off rather better than some of the sociables had in times past. As the Winton _Weekly News_ declared proudly, it was the gayest summer the village had known in years. Mr. Paul Shaw's theory about developing home resources was proving a sound one in this instance at least. Hilary had long since forgotten that she had ever been an invalid, had indeed, sometimes, to be reminded of that fact. She had quite discarded the little "company" fiction, except now and then, by way of a joke. "Who'd want to be company?" she protested. "I'd rather be one of the family these days." "That's all very well," Patience retorted, "when you're getting all the good of being both. You've got the company room." Patience had not found her summer quite as cloudless as some of her elders; being an honorary member had not meant _all_ of the fun in her case. She wished very much that it were possible to grow up in a single night, thus wiping out forever that drawback of being "a little girl." Still, on the whole, she managed to get a fair share of the fun going on and quite agreed with the editor of the _Weekly News_, going so far as to tell him so when she met him down street. She had a very kindly feeling in her heart for the pleasant spoken little editor; had he not given her her full honors every time she had had the joy of being "among those present"? There had been three of those checks from Uncle Paul; it was wonderful how far each had been made to go. It was possible nowadays to send for a new book, when the reviews were more than especially tempting. There had also been a tea-table added to the other attractions of the side porch, not an expensive affair, but the little Japanese cups and saucers were both pretty and delicate, as was the rest of the service; while Miranda's cream cookies and sponge cakes were, as Shirley declared, good enough to be framed. Even the minister appeared now and then of an afternoon, during tea hour, and the young people, gathered on the porch, began to find him a very pleasant addition to their little company, he and they getting acquainted, as they had never gotten acquainted before. Sextoness Jane came every week now to help with the ironing, which meant greater freedom in the matter of wash dresses; and also, to Sextoness Jane herself, the certainty of a day's outing every week. To Sextoness Jane, those Tuesdays at the parsonage were little short of a dissipation. Miranda, unbending in the face of such sincere and humble admiration, was truly gracious. The glimpses the little bent, old sextoness got of the young folks, the sense of life going on about her, were as good as a play, to quote her own simile, confided of an evening to Tobias, her great black cat, the only other inmate of the old cottage. "I reckon Uncle Paul would be rather surprised," Pauline said one evening, "if he could know all the queer sorts of ways in which we use his money. But the little easings-up do count for so much." "Indeed they do," Hilary agreed warmly, "though it hasn't all gone for easings-ups, as you call them, either." She had sat down right in the middle of getting ready for bed, to revel in her ribbon box; she so loved pretty ribbons! The committee on finances, as Pauline called her mother, Hilary, and herself, held frequent meetings. "And there's always one thing," the girl would declare proudly, "the treasury is never entirely empty." She kept faithful account of all money received and spent; each month a certain amount was laid away for the "rainy day"--which meant, really, the time when the checks should cease to come---"for, you know, Uncle Paul only promised them for the _summer_," Pauline reminded the others, and herself, rather frequently. Nor was all of the remainder ever quite used up before the coming of the next check. "You're quite a business woman, my dear," Mr. Shaw said once, smiling over the carefully recorded entries in the little account-book she showed him. "We must have named you rightly." She wrote regularly to her uncle; her letters unconsciously growing more friendly and informal from week to week. They were bright, vivid letters, more so than Pauline had any idea of. Through them, Mr. Paul Shaw felt himself becoming very well acquainted with these young relatives whom he had never seen, and in whom, as the weeks went by, he felt himself growing more and more interested. Without realizing it, he got into the habit of looking forward to that weekly letter; the girl wrote a nice clear hand, there didn't seem to be any nonsense about her, and she had a way of going right to her point that was most satisfactory. It seemed sometimes as if he could see the old white parsonage and ivy-covered church; the broad tree-shaded lawns; the outdoor parlor, with the young people gathered about the tea-table; Bedelia, picking her way along the quiet country roads; the great lake in all its moods; the manor house. Sometimes Pauline would enclose one or two of Hilary's snap-shots of places, or persons. At one of these, taken the day of the fishing picnic, and under which Hilary had written "The best catch of the season," Mr. Paul Shaw looked long and intently. Somehow he had never pictured Phil to himself as middle-aged. If anyone had told him, when the lad was a boy, that the time would come when they would be like strangers to each other--Mr. Paul Shaw slipped the snap-shot and letter back into their envelope. It was that afternoon that he spent considerable time over a catalogue devoted entirely to sporting goods; and it was a fortnight later that Patience came flying down the garden path to where Pauline and Hilary were leaning over the fence, paying a morning call to Bedelia, sunning herself in the back pasture. "You'll never guess what's come _this_ time! And Jed says he reckons he can haul it out this afternoon if you're set on it! And it's addressed to the 'Misses Shaw,' so that means it's _mine, too_!" Patience dropped on the grass, quite out of breath. The "it" proved to be a row-boat with a double set of oar-locks, a perfect boat for the lake, strong and safe, but trig and neat of outline. Hilary named it the "Surprise" at first sight, and Tom was sent for at once to paint the name in red letters to look well against the white background and to match the boat's red trimmings. Its launching was an event. Some of the young people had boats over at the lake, rather weather-beaten, tubby affairs, Bell declared them, after the coming of the "Surprise." A general overhauling took place immediately, the girls adopted simple boating dresses--red and white, which were their boating colors. A new zest was given to the water picnics, Bedelia learning to know the lake road very well. August had come before they fairly realized that their summer was more than well under way. In little more than a month the long vacation would be over. Tom and Josie were to go to Boston to school; Bell to Vergennes. "There'll never be another summer quite like it!" Hilary said one morning. "I can't bear to think of its being over." "It isn't--yet," Pauline answered. "Tom's coming," Patience heralded from the gate, and Hilary ran indoors for hat and camera. "Where are you off to this morning?" Pauline asked, as her sister came out again. "Out by the Cross-roads' Meeting-House," Tom answered. "Hilary has designs on it, I believe." "You'd better come, too, Paul," Hilary urged. "It's a glorious morning for a walk." "I'm going to help mother cut out; perhaps I'll come to meet you with Bedelia 'long towards noon. You wait at Meeting-House Hill." "_I'm_ not going to be busy this morning," Patience insinuated. "Oh, yes you are, young lady," Pauline told her. "Mother said you were to weed the aster bed." Patience looked longingly after the two starting gayly off down the path, their cameras swung over their shoulders, then she looked disgustedly at the aster bed. It was quite the biggest of the smaller beds.--She didn't see what people wanted to plant so many asters for; she had never cared much for asters, she felt she should care even less about them in the future. Tiresome, stiff affairs! By the time Tom and Hilary reached the old Cross-Roads' Meeting-House that morning, after a long roundabout ramble, Hilary, for one, was quite willing to sit down and wait for Pauline and the trap, and eat the great, juicy blackberries Tom gathered for her from the bushes along the road. It had rained during the night and the air was crisp and fresh, with a hint of the coming fall. "Summer's surely on the down grade," Tom said, throwing himself on the bank beside Hilary. "So Paul and I were lamenting this morning. I don't suppose it matters as much to you folks who are going off to school." "Still it means another summer over," Tom said soberly. He was rather sorry that it was so--there could never be another summer quite so jolly and carefree. "And the breaking up of the club, I suppose?" "I don't see why we need call it a break--just a discontinuance, for a time." "And why that, even? There'll be a lot of you left, to keep it going." "Y-yes, but with three, or perhaps more, out, I reckon we'll have to postpone the next installment until another summer." Tom went off then for more berries, and Hilary sat leaning back against the trunk of the big tree crowning the top of Meeting-House Hill, her eyes rather thoughtful. From where she sat, she had a full view of both roads for some distance and, just beyond, the little hamlet scattered about the old meeting-house. Before the gate of one of the houses stood a familiar gig, and presently, as she sat watching, Dr. Brice came down the narrow flower-bordered path, followed by a woman. At the gate both stopped; the woman was saying something, her anxious, drawn face seeming out of keeping with the cheery freshness of the morning and the flowers nodding their bright heads about her. As the doctor stood listening, his old shabby medicine case in his hand, with face bent to the troubled one raised to his, and bearing indicating grave sympathy and understanding, Hilary reached for her camera. "Upon my word! Isn't the poor pater exempt?" Tom laughed, coming back. "I want it for the book Josie and I are making for you to take away with you, 'Winton Snap-shots.' We'll call it 'The Country Doctor.'" Tom looked at the gig, moving slowly off down the road now. He hated to say so, but he wished Hilary would not put that particular snap-shot in. He had a foreboding that it was going to make him a bit uncomfortable--later--when the time for decision came; though, as for that, he had already decided--beyond thought of change. He wished that the pater hadn't set his heart on his coming back here to practice--and he wished, too, that Hilary hadn't taken that photo. "Paul's late," he said presently. "I'm afraid she isn't coming." "It's past twelve," Tom glanced at the sun. "Maybe we'd better walk on a bit." But they had walked a considerable bit, all the way to the parsonage, in fact, before they saw anything of Pauline. There, she met them at the gate. "Have you seen any trace of Patience--and Bedelia?" she asked eagerly. "Patience and Bedelia?" Hilary repeated wonderingly. "They're both missing, and it's pretty safe guessing they're together." "But Patience would never dare--" "Wouldn't she!" Pauline exclaimed. "Jim brought Bedelia 'round about eleven and when I came out a few moments later, she was gone and so was Patience. Jim's out looking for them. We traced them as far as the Lake road." "I'll go hunt, too," Tom offered. "Don't you worry, Paul; she'll turn up all right--couldn't down the Imp, if you tried." "But she's never driven Bedelia alone; and Bedelia's not Fanny." However, half an hour later, Patience drove calmly into the yard, Towser on the seat beside her, and if there was something very like anxiety in her glance, there was distinct triumph in the way she carried her small, bare head. "We've had a beautiful drive!" she announced, smiling pleasantly from her high seat, at the worried, indignant group on the porch. "I tell you, there isn't any need to 'hi-yi' this horse!" "My sakes!" Miranda declared. "Did you ever hear the beat of that!" "Get down, Patience!" Mrs. Shaw said, and Patience climbed obediently down. She bore the prompt banishment to her own room which followed, with seeming indifference. Certainly, it was not unexpected; but when Hilary brought her dinner up to her presently, she found her sitting on the floor, her head on the bed. It was only a few days now to Shirley's turn and it was going to be such a nice turn. Patience felt that for once Patience Shaw had certainly acted most unwisely. "Patty, how could you!" Hilary put the tray on the table and sitting down on the bed, took the tumbled head on her knee. "We've been so worried! You see, Bedelia isn't like Fanny!" "That's why I wanted to get a chance to drive her by myself for once! She went beautifully! out on the Lake road I just let her loose!" For the moment, pride in her recent performance routed all contrition from Patience's voice--"I tell you, folks I passed just stared!" "Patience, how--" "I wasn't scared the least bit; and, of course, Bedelia knew it. Uncle Jerry says they always know when you're scared, and if Mr. Allen is the most up in history of any man in Vermont, Uncle Jerry is the most in horses." Hilary felt that the conversation was hardly proceeding upon the lines her mother would have approved of, especially under present circumstances. "That has nothing to do with it, you know, Patience," she said, striving to be properly severe. "I think it has--everything. I think it's nice not being scared of things. You're sort of timid 'bout things, aren't you, Hilary?" Hilary made a movement to rise. "Oh, please," Patience begged. "It's going to be such a dreadful long afternoon--all alone." "But I can't stay, mother would not want--" "Just for a minute. I--I want to tell you something. I--coming back, I met Jane, and I gave her a lift home--and she did love it so--she says she's never ridden before behind a horse that really went as if it enjoyed it as much as she did. That was some good out of being bad, wasn't it? And--I told you--ever'n' ever so long ago, that I was mighty sure Jane'd just be tickled to death to belong to our club. I think you might ask her--I don't see why she shouldn't like Seeing Winton, same's we do--she doesn't ever have fun--and she'll be dead pretty soon. She's getting along, Jane is--it'd make me mad's anything to have to die 'fore I'd had any fun to speak of. Jane's really very good company--when you draw her out--she just needs drawing out--Jane does. Seems to me, she remembers every funeral and wedding and everything--that's ever taken place in Winton." Patience stopped, sheer out of breath, but there was an oddly serious look on her little eager face. Hilary stroked back the tangled red curls. "Maybe you're right, Patty; maybe we have been selfish with our good times. I'll have to go now, dear. You--I may tell mother--that you are sorry--truly, Patty?" Patience nodded. "But I reckon, it's a good deal on account of Shirley's turn," she explained. Hilary bit her lip. "You don't suppose you could fix that up with mother? You're pretty good at fixing things up with mother, Hilary." "Since how long?" Hilary laughed, but when she had closed the door, she opened it again to stick her head in. "I'll try, Patty, at any rate," she promised. She went down-stairs rather thoughtful. Mrs. Shaw was busy in the study and Pauline had gone out on an errand. Hilary went up-stairs again, going to sit by one of the side windows in the "new room." Over at the church, Sextoness Jane was making ready for the regular weekly prayer meeting; never a service was held in the church that she did not set all in order. Through one of the open windows, Hilary caught sight of the bunch of flowers on the reading-desk. Jane had brought them with her from home. Presently, the old woman herself came to the window to shake her dust-cloth, standing there a moment, leaning a little out, her eyes turned to the parsonage. Pauline was coming up the path, Shirley and Bell were with her. They were laughing and talking, the bright young voices making a pleasant break in the quiet of the garden. It seemed to Hilary, as if she could catch the wistful look in Jane's faded eyes, a look only half consciously so, as if the old woman reached out vaguely for something that her own youth had been without and that only lately she had come to feel the lack of. A quick lump came into the girl's throat. Life had seemed so bright and full of untried possibilities only that very morning, up there on Meeting-House Hill, with the wind in one's face; and then had come that woman, following the doctor down from the path. Life was surely anything but bright for her this crisp August day--and now here was Jane. And presently--at the moment it seemed very near indeed to Hilary--she and Paul and all of them would be old and, perhaps, unhappy. And then it would be good to remember--that they had tried to share the fun and laughter of this summer of theirs with others. Hilary thought of the piece of old tapestry hanging on the studio wall over at the manor--of the interwoven threads--the dark as necessary to the pattern as the bright. Perhaps they had need of Sextoness Jane, of the interweaving of her life into theirs--of the interweaving of all the village lives going on about them--quite as much as those more sober lives needed the brightening touch of theirs. "Hilary! O Hilary!" Pauline called. "I'm coming," Hilary answered, and went slowly down to where the others were waiting on the porch. "Has anything happened?" Pauline asked. "I've been having a think--and I've come to the conclusion that we're a selfish, self-absorbed set." "Mother Shaw!" Pauline went to the study window, "please come out here. Hilary's calling us names, and that isn't polite." Mrs. Shaw came. "I hope not very bad names," she said. Hilary swung slowly back and forth in the hammock. "I didn't mean it that way--it's only--" She told what Patience had said about Jane's joining the club, and then, rather reluctantly, a little of what she had been thinking. "I think Hilary's right," Shirley declared. "Let's form a deputation and go right over and ask the poor old soul to join here and now." "I would never've thought of it," Bell said. "But I don't suppose I've ever given Jane a thought, anyway." "Patty's mighty cute--for all she's such a terror at times," Pauline admitted. "She knows a lot about the people here--and it's just because she's interested in them." "Come on," Shirley said, jumping up. "We're going to have another honorary member." "I think it would be kind, girls," Mrs. Shaw said gravely. "Jane will feel herself immensely flattered, and I know of no one who upholds the honor of Winton more honestly or persistently." "And please, Mrs. Shaw," Shirley coaxed, "when we come back, mayn't Patience Shaw, H. M., come down and have tea with us?" "I hardly think--" "Please, Mother Shaw," Hilary broke in; "after all--she started this, you know. That sort of counterbalances the other, doesn't it?" "Well, we'll see," her mother laughed. Pauline ran to get one of the extra badges with which Shirley had provided her, and then the four girls went across to the church. Sextoness Jane was just locking the back door--not the least important part of the afternoon's duties with her--as they came through the opening in the hedge. "Good afternoon," she said cheerily, "was you wanting to go inside?" "No," Pauline answered, "we came over to invite you to join our club. We thought, maybe, you'd like to?" "My Land!" Jane stared from one to another of them. "And wear one of them blue-ribbon affairs?" "Yes, indeed," Shirley laughed. "See, here it is," and she pointed to the one in Pauline's hand. Sextoness Jane came down the steps. "Me, I ain't never wore a badge! Not once in all my life! Oncet, when I was a little youngster, 'most like Patience, teacher, she got up some sort of May doings. We was all to wear white dresses and red, white and blue ribbons--very night before, I come down with the mumps. Looks like I always come down when I ought to've stayed up!" "But you won't come down with anything this time," Pauline pinned the blue badge on the waist of Jane's black and white calico. "Now you're an honorary member of 'The S. W. F. Club.'" Jane passed a hand over it softly. "My Land!" was all she could say. She was still stroking it softly as she walked slowly away towards home. My, wouldn't Tobias be interested! CHAPTER IX AT THE MANOR "'All the names I know from nurse: Gardener's garters, Shepherd's purse, Bachelor's buttons, Lady's smock, And the Lady Hollyhock,'" Patience chanted, moving slowly about the parsonage garden, hands full of flowers, and the big basket, lying on the grass beyond, almost full. Behind her, now running at full speed, now stopping suddenly, back lifted, tail erect, came Lucky, the black kitten from The Maples. Lucky had been an inmate of the parsonage for some weeks now and was thriving famously in her adopted home. Towser tolerated her with the indifference due such a small, insignificant creature, and she alternately bullied and patronized Towser. "We haven't shepherd's purse, nor lady's smock, that I know of, Lucky," Patience said, glancing back at the kitten, at that moment threatening battle at a polite nodding Sweet William, "but you can see for yourself that we have hollyhocks, while as for bachelor's buttons! Just look at that big, blue bunch in one corner of the basket." It was the morning of the day of Shirley's turn and Pauline was hurrying to get ready to go over and help decorate the manor. She was singing, too; from the open windows of the "new room" came the words-- "'A cheerful world?--It surely is And if you understand your biz You'll taboo the worry worm, And cultivate the happy germ.'" To which piece of good advice, Patience promptly whistled back the gay refrain. On the back porch, Sextoness Jane--called in for an extra half-day--was ironing the white dresses to be worn that afternoon. And presently, Patience, her basket quite full and stowed away in the trap waiting before the side door, strolled around to interview her. "I suppose you're going this afternoon?" she asked. Jane looked up from waxing her iron. "Well, I was sort of calculating on going over for a bit; Miss Shirley having laid particular stress on my coming and this being the first reg'lar doings since I joined the club. I told her and Pauline they mustn't look for me to go junketing 'round with them all the while, seeing I'm in office--so to speak--and my time pretty well taken up with my work. I reckon you're going?" "I--" Patience edged nearer the porch. Behind Jane stood the tall clothes-horse, with its burden of freshly ironed white things. At sight of a short, white frock, very crisp and immaculate, the blood rushed to the child's face, then as quickly receded.--After all, it would have had to be ironed for Sunday and--well, mother certainly had been very non-committal the past few days--ever since that escapade with Bedelia, in fact--regarding her youngest daughter's hopes and fears for this all-important afternoon. And Patience had been wise enough not to press the matter. "But, oh, I do wonder if Hilary has--" Patience went back to the side porch. Hilary was there talking to Bedelia. "You--you have fixed it up?" the child inquired anxiously. Hilary looked gravely unconscious. "Fixed it up?" she repeated. "About this afternoon--with mother?" "Oh, yes! Mother's going; so is father." Patience repressed a sudden desire to stamp her foot, and Hilary, seeing the real doubt and longing in her face, relented. "Mother wants to see you, Patty. I rather think there are to be conditions." Patience darted off. From the doorway, she looked back--"I just knew you wouldn't go back on me, Hilary! I'll love you forever'n' ever." Pauline came out a moment later, drawing on her driving gloves. "I feel like a story-book girl, going driving this time in the morning, in a trap like this. I wish you were coming, too, Hilary." "Oh, I'm like the delicate story-book girl, who has to rest, so as to be ready for the dissipations that are to come later. I look the part, don't I?" Pauline looked down into the laughing, sun-browned face. "If Uncle Paul were to see you now, he might find it hard to believe I hadn't--exaggerated that time." "Well, it's your fault--and his, or was, in the beginning. You've a fine basket of flowers to take; Patience has done herself proud this morning." "It's wonderful how well that young lady can behave--at times." "Oh, she's young yet! When I hear mother tell how like her you used to be, I don't feel too discouraged about Patty." "That strikes me as rather a double-edged sort of speech," Pauline gathered up the reins. "Good-by, and don't get too tired." Shirley's turn was to be a combination studio tea and lawn-party, to which all club members, both regular and honorary, not to mention their relatives and friends, had been bidden. Following this, was to be a high tea for the regular members. "That's Senior's share," Shirley had explained to Pauline. "He insists that it's up to him to do something." Mr. Dayre was on very good terms with the "S. W. F. Club." As for Shirley, after the first, no one had ever thought of her as an outsider. It was hard now, Pauline thought, as she drove briskly along, the lake breeze in her face, and the sound of Bedelia's quick trotting forming a pleasant accompaniment to her, thoughts, very hard, to realize how soon the summer would be over. But perhaps--as Hilary said--next summer would mean the taking up again of this year's good times and interests,--Shirley talked of coming back. As for the winter--Pauline had in mind several plans for the winter. Those of the club members to stay behind must get together some day and talk them over. One thing was certain, the club motto must be lived up to bravely. If not in one way, why in another. There must be no slipping back into the old dreary rut and routine. It lay with themselves as to what their winter should be. "And there's fine sleighing here, Bedelia," she said. "We'll get the old cutter out and give it a coat of paint." Bedelia tossed her head, as if she heard in imagination the gay jingling of the sleighbells. "But, in the meantime, here is the manor," Pauline laughed, "and it's the prettiest August day that ever was, and lawn-parties and such festivities are afoot, not sleighing parties." The manor stood facing the lake with its back to the road, a broad sloping lawn surrounded it on three sides, with the garden at the back. For so many seasons, it had stood lonely and neglected, that Pauline never came near it now, without rejoicing afresh in its altered aspect. Even the sight of Betsy Todd's dish towels, drying on the currant bushes at one side of the back door, added their touch to the sense of pleasant, homely life that seemed to envelop the old house nowadays. Shirley came to the gate, as Pauline drew up, Phil, Pat and Pudgey in close attention. "I have to keep an eye on them," she told Pauline. "They've just had their baths, and they're simply wild to get out in the middle of the road and roll. I've told them no self-respecting dog would wish to come to a lawn-party in anything but the freshest of white coats, but I'm afraid they're not very self-respecting." "Patience is sure Towser's heart is heavy because he is not to come; she has promised him a lawn-party on his own account, and that no grown-ups shall be invited. She's sent you the promised flowers, and hinted--more or less plainly--that she would have been quite willing to deliver them in person." "Why didn't you bring her? Oh, but I'm afraid you've robbed yourself!" "Oh, no, we haven't. Mother says, flowers grow with picking." "Come on around front," Shirley suggested. "The boys have been putting the awning up." "The boys" were three of Mr. Dayre's fellow artists, who had come up a day or two before, on a visit to the manor. One of them, at any rate, deserved Shirley's title. He came forward now. "Looks pretty nice, doesn't it?" he said, with a wave of the hand towards the red and white striped awning, placed at the further edge of the lawn. Shirley smiled her approval, and introduced him to Pauline, adding that Miss Shaw was the real founder of their club. "It's a might jolly sort of club, too," young Oram said. "That is exactly what it has turned out to be," Pauline laughed. "Are the vases ready, Shirley?" Shirley brought the tray of empty flower vases out on the veranda, and sent Harry Oram for a bucket of fresh water. "Harry is to make the salad," she explained to Pauline, as he came back. "Before he leaves the manor he will have developed into a fairly useful member of society." "You've never eaten one of my salads, Miss Shaw," Harry said. "When you have, you'll think all your previous life an empty dream." "It's much more likely her later life will prove a nightmare,--for a while, at least," Shirley declared. "Still, Paul, Harry does make them rather well. Betsy Todd, I am sorry to say, doesn't approve of him. But there are so many persons and things she doesn't approve of; lawn-parties among the latter." Pauline nodded sympathetically; she knew Betsy Todd of old. Her wonder was, that the Dayres had been able to put up with her so long, and she said so. "'Hobson's choice,'" Shirley answered, with a little shrug. "She isn't much like our old Thèrese at home, is she, Harry? But nothing would tempt Thèrese away from her beloved New York. 'Vairmon! Nevaire have I heard of zat place!' she told Harry, when he interviewed her for us. Senior's gone to Vergennes--on business thoughts intent, or I hope they are. He's under strict orders not to 'discover a single bit' along the way, and to get back as quickly as possible." "You see how beautifully she has us all in training?" Harry said to Pauline. Pauline laughed. Suddenly she looked up from her flowers with sobered face. "I wonder," she said slowly, "if you know what it's meant to us--you're being here this summer, Shirley? Sometimes things do fit in just right after all. It's helped out wonderfully this summer, having you here and the manor open." "Pauline has a fairy-story uncle down in New York," Shirley turned to Harry. "You've heard of him--Mr. Paul Shaw." "Well,--rather! I've met him, once or twice--he didn't strike me as much of a believer in fairy tales." "He's made us believe in them," Pauline answered. "I think Senior might have provided me with such a delightful sort of uncle," Shirley observed. "I told him so, but he says, while he's awfully sorry I didn't mention it before, he's afraid it's too late now." "Uncle Paul sent us Bedelia," Pauline told the rather perplexed-looking Harry, "and the row-boat and the camera and--oh, other things." "Because he wanted them to have a nice, jolly summer," Shirley explained. "Pauline's sister had been sick and needed brightening up." "You don't think he's looking around for a nephew to adopt, do you?" Harry inquired. "A well-intentioned, intelligent young man--with no end of talent." "For making salads," Shirley added with a sly smile. "Oh, well, you know," Harry remarked casually, "these are what Senior calls my 'salad days.'" Whereupon Shirley rose without a word, carrying off her vases of flowers. The party at the manor was, like all the club affairs, a decided success. Never had the old place looked so gay and animated, since those far-off days of its early glory. The young people coming and going--the girls in their light dresses and bright ribbons made a pleasant place of the lawn, with its background of shining water. The tennis court, at one side of the house, was one of the favorite gathering spots; there were one or two boats out on the lake. The pleasant informality of the whole affair proved its greatest charm. Mr. Allen was there, pointing out to his host the supposed end of the subterranean passage said to connect the point on which the manor stood with the old ruined French fort over on the New York side. The minister was having a quiet chat with the doctor, who had made a special point of being there. Mothers of club members were exchanging notes and congratulating each other on the good comradeship and general air of contentment among the young people. Sextoness Jane was there, in all the glory of her best dress--one of Mrs. Shaw's handed-down summer ones--and with any amount of items picked up to carry home to Tobias, who was certain to expect a full account of this most unusual dissipation on his mistress's part. Even Betsy Todd condescended to put on her black woolen--usually reserved for church and funerals--and walk about among the other guests; but always, with an air that told plainly how little she approved of such goings on. The Boyds were there, their badges in full evidence. And last, though far from least, in her own estimation, Patience was there, very crisp and white and on her best behavior,--for, setting aside those conditions mother had seen fit to burden her with, was the delightful fact that Shirley had asked her to help serve tea. The principal tea-table was in the studio, though there was a second one, presided over by Pauline and Bell, out under the awning at the edge of the lawn. Patience thought the studio the very nicest room she had ever been in. It was long and low--in reality, the old dancing-hall, for the manor had been built after the pattern of its first owner's English home; and in the deep, recessed windows, facing the lake, many a bepatched and powdered little belle of Colonial days had coquetted across her fan with her bravely-clad partner. Mr. Dayre had thrown out an extra window at one end, at right angles to the great stone fireplace, banked to-day with golden rod, thereby securing the desired north light. On the easel, stood a nearly finished painting,--a sunny corner of the old manor kitchen, with Betsy Todd in lilac print gown, peeling apples by the open window, through which one caught a glimpse of the tall hollyhocks in the garden beyond. Before this portrait, Patience found Sextoness Jane standing in mute astonishment. "Betsy looks like she was just going to say--'take your hands out of the dish!' doesn't she?" Patience commented. Betsy had once helped out at the parsonage, during a brief illness of Miranda's, and the young lady knew whereof she spoke. "I'd never've thought," Jane said slowly, "that anyone'd get that fond of Sister Todd--as to want a picture of her!" "Oh, it's because she's such a character, you know," Patience explained serenely. Jane was so good about letting one explain things. "'A perfect character,' I heard one of those artist men say so." Jane shook her head dubiously. "Not what I'd call a 'perfect' character--not that I've got anything against Sister Todd; but she's too fond of finding out a body's faults." Patience went off then in search of empty tea-cups. She was having a beautiful time; at present only one cloud overshadowed her horizon. Already some tiresome folks were beginning to think about going. There was the talk of chores to be done, suppers to get, and with the breaking up, must come an end to her share in the party. For mother, though approached in the most delicate fashion, had proved obdurate regarding the further festivity to follow. Had mother been willing to consider the matter, Patience would have cheerfully undertaken to procure the necessary invitation. Shirley was a very obliging girl. "And really, my dears," she said, addressing the three P's collectively, "it does seem a pity to have to go home before the fun's all over. And I could manage it--Bob would take me out rowing--if I coaxed--he rows very slowly. I don't suppose, for one moment, that we would get back in time. I believe--" For fully three minutes, Patience sat quite still in one of the studio window seats, oblivious of the chatter going on all about her; then into her blue eyes came a look not seen there very often--"No," she said sternly, shaking her head at Phil, much to his surprise, for he wasn't doing anything. "No--it wouldn't be _square_--and there would be the most awful to-do afterwards." When a moment or two later, Mrs. Shaw called to her to come, that father was waiting, Patience responded with a very good grace. But Mr. Dayre caught the wistful look in the child's face. "Bless me," he said heartily. "You're not going to take Patience home with you, Mrs. Shaw? Let her stay for the tea--the young people won't keep late hours, I assure you." "But I think--" Mrs. Shaw began very soberly. "Sometimes, I find it quite as well not to think things over," Mr. Dayre suggested. "Why, dear me, I'd quite counted on Patience's being here. You see, I'm not a regular member, either; and I want someone to keep me in countenance." So presently, Hilary felt a hand slipped eagerly into hers. "I'm staying! I'm staying!" an excited little voice announced. "And oh, I just love Mr. Dayre!" Then Patience went back to her window seat to play the delightful game of "making believe" she hadn't stayed. She imagined that instead, she was sitting between father and mother in the gig, bubbling over with the desire to "hi-yi" at Fanny, picking her slow way along. The studio was empty, even the dogs were outside, speeding the parting guests with more zeal than discretion. But after awhile Harry Oram strolled in. "I'm staying!" Patience announced. She approved of Harry. "You're an artist, too, aren't you?" she remarked. "So kind of you to say so," Harry murmured. "I have heard grave doubts expressed on the subject by my too impartial friends." "I mean to be one when I grow up," Patience told him, "so's I can have a room like this--with just rugs on the floor; rugs slide so nicely--and window seats and things all cluttery." "May I come and have tea with you? I'd like it awfully." "It'll be really tea--not pretend kind," Patience said. "But I'll have that sort for any children who may come. Hilary takes pictures--she doesn't make them though. Made pictures are nicer, aren't they?" "Some of them." Harry glanced through the open doorway, to where Hilary sat resting. She was "making" a picture now, he thought to himself, in her white dress, under the big tree, her pretty hair forming a frame about her thoughtful face. Taking a portfolio from a table near by, he went out to where Hilary sat. "Your small sister says you take pictures," he said, drawing a chair up beside hers, "so I thought perhaps you'd let me show you these--they were taken by a friend of mine." "Oh, but mine aren't anything like these! These are beautiful!" Hilary bent over the photographs he handed her; marveling over their soft tones. They were mostly bits of landscape, with here and there a water view and one or two fleecy cloud effects. It hardly seemed as though they could be really photographs. "I've never done anything like these!" she said regretfully. "I wish I could--there are some beautiful views about here that would make charming pictures." "She didn't in the beginning," Harry said, "She's lame; it was an accident, but she can never be quite well again, so she took this up, as an amusement at first, but now it's going to be her profession." Hilary bent over the photographs again. "And you really think--anyone could learn to do it?" "No, not anyone; but I don't see why the right sort of person couldn't." "I wonder--if I could develop into the right sort." "May I come and see what you have done--and talk it over?" Harry asked. "Since this friend of mine took it up, I'm ever so interested in camera work." "Indeed you may," Hilary answered. She had never thought of her camera holding such possibilities within it, of its growing into something better and more satisfying than a mere playmate of the moment. "Rested?" Pauline asked, coming up. "Supper's nearly ready." "I wasn't very tired. Paul, come and look at these." Supper was served on the lawn; the pleasantest, most informal, of affairs, the presence of the older members of the party serving to turn the gay give and take of the young folks into deeper and wider channels, and Shirley's frequent though involuntary--"Do you remember, Senior?" calling out more than one vivid bit of travel, of description of places, known to most of them only through books. Later, down on the lower end of the lawn, with the moon making a path of silver along the water, and the soft hush of the summer night over everything, Shirley brought out her guitar, singing for them strange folk-songs, picked up in her rambles with her father. Afterwards, the whole party sang songs that they all knew, ending up at last with the club song. "'It's a habit to be happy,'" the fresh young voices chorused, sending the tune far out across the lake; and presently, from a boat on its further side, it was whistled back to them. "Who is it, I wonder?" Edna said, "Give it up," Tom answered. "Someone who's heard it--there've been plenty of opportunities for folks to hear it." "Well it isn't a bad gospel to scatter broadcast," Bob remarked. "And maybe it's someone who doesn't live about here, and he will go away taking our tune with him, for other people to catch up," Hilary suggested. "But if he only has the tune and not the words," Josie objected, "what use will that be?" "The spirit of the words is in the tune," Pauline said. "No one could whistle or sing it and stay grumpy." "They'd have to 'put the frown away awhile, and try a little sunny smile,' wouldn't they?" Patience observed. Patience had been a model of behavior all the evening. Mother would be sure to ask if she had been good, when they got home. That was one of those aggravating questions that only time could relieve her from. No one ever asked Paul, or Hilary, that--when they'd been anywhere. As Mr. Dayre had promised, the party broke up early, going off in the various rigs they had come in. Tom and Josie went in the trap with the Shaws. "It's been perfectly lovely--all of it," Josie said, looking back along the road they were leaving. "Every good time we have seems the best one yet." "You wait 'til my turn comes," Pauline told her. "I've such a scheme in my head." "Am I in it?" Patience begged. She was in front, between Tom, who was driving, and Hilary, then she leaned forward, they were nearly home, and the lights of the parsonage showed through the trees. "There's a light in the parlor--there's company!" Pauline looked, too. "And one up in our old room, Hilary. Goodness, it must be a visiting minister! I didn't know father was expecting anyone." "I bet you!" Patience jumped excitedly up and down. "I just bet it isn't any visiting minister--but a visiting--uncle! I feel it in my bones, as Miranda says." "Nonsense!" Pauline declared. "Maybe it isn't nonsense, Paul!" Hilary said. "I feel it in my bones," Patience repeated. "I just _knew_ Uncle Paul would come up--a story-book uncle would be sure to." "Well, here we are," Tom laughed. "You'll know for certain pretty quick." CHAPTER X THE END OF SUMMER It was Uncle Paul, and perhaps no one was more surprised at his unexpected coming, than he himself. That snap-shot of Hilary's had considerable to do with it; bringing home to him the sudden realization of the passing of the years. For the first time, he had allowed himself to face the fact that it was some time now since he had crossed the summit of the hill, and that under present conditions, his old age promised to be a lonely, cheerless affair. He had never had much to do with young people; but, all at once, it seemed to him that it might prove worth his while to cultivate the closer acquaintance of these nieces of his. Pauline, in particular, struck him as likely to improve upon a nearer acquaintance. And that afternoon, as he rode up Broadway, he found himself wondering how she would enjoy the ride; and all the sights and wonders of the great city. Later, over his solitary dinner, he suddenly decided to run up to Winton the next day. He would not wire them, he would rather like to take Phil by surprise. So he had arrived at the parsonage, driving up in Jed's solitary hack, and much plied with information, general and personal, on the way, just as the minister and his wife reached home from the manor. "And, oh, my! Doesn't father look tickled to death!" Patience declared, coming in to her sisters' room that night, ostensibly to have an obstinate knot untied, but inwardly determined to make a third at the usual bedtime talk for that once, at least. It wasn't often they all came up together. "He looks mighty glad," Pauline said. "And isn't it funny, bearing him called Phil?" Patience curled herself up in the cozy corner. "I never've thought of father as Phil." Hilary paused in the braiding of her long hair. "I'm glad we've got to know him--Uncle Paul, I mean--through his letters, and all the lovely things he's done for us; else, I think I'd have been very much afraid of him." "So am I," Pauline assented. "I see now what Mr. Oram meant--he doesn't look as if he believed much in fairy stories. But I like his looks--he's so nice and tall and straight." "He used to have red hair, before it turned gray," Hilary said, "so that must be a family trait; your chin's like his, Paul, too,--so square and determined." "Is mine?" Patience demanded. "You cut to bed, youngster," Pauline commanded. "You're losing all your beauty sleep; and really, you know--" Patience went to stand before the mirror. "Maybe I ain't--pretty--yet; but I'm going to be--some day. Mr. Dayre says he likes red hair, I asked him. He says for me not to worry; I'll have them all sitting up and taking notice yet." At which Pauline bore promptly down upon her, escorting her in person to the door of her own room. "And you'd better get to bed pretty quickly, too, Hilary," she advised, coming back. "You've had enough excitement for one day." Mr. Paul Shaw stayed a week; it was a busy week for the parsonage folk and for some other people besides. Before it was over, the story-book uncle had come to know his nieces and Winton fairly thoroughly; while they, on their side, had grown very well acquainted with the tall, rather silent man, who had a fashion of suggesting the most delightful things to do in the most matter-of-fact manner. There were one or two trips decidedly outside that ten-mile limit, including an all day sail up the lake, stopping for the night at a hotel on the New York shore and returning by the next day's boat. There was a visit to Vergennes, which took in a round of the shops, a concert, and another night away from home. "Was there ever such a week!" Hilary sighed blissfully one morning, as she and her uncle waited on the porch for Bedelia and the trap. Hilary was to drive him over to The Maples for dinner. "Or such a summer altogether," Pauline added, from just inside the study window. "Then Winton has possibilities?" Mr. Shaw asked. "I should think it has; we ought to be eternally grateful to you for making us find them out," Pauline declared. Mr. Shaw smiled, more as if to himself. "I daresay they're not all exhausted yet." "Perhaps," Hilary said slowly, "some places are like some people, the longer and better you know them, the more you keep finding out in them to like." "Father says," Pauline suggested, "that one finds, as a rule, what one is looking for." "Here we are," her uncle exclaimed, as Patience appeared, driving Bedelia. "Do you know," he said, as he and Hilary turned out into the wide village street, "I haven't seen the schoolhouse yet?" "We can go around that way. It isn't much of a building," Hilary answered. "I suppose it serves its purpose." "It is said to be a very good school for the size of the place." Hilary turned Bedelia up the little by-road, leading to the old weather-beaten schoolhouse, standing back from the road in an open space of bare ground. "You and Pauline are through here?" her uncle asked. "Paul is. I would've been this June, if I hadn't broken down last winter." "You will be able to go on this fall?" "Yes, indeed. Dr. Brice said so the other day. He says, if all his patients got on so well, by not following his advice, he'd have to shut up shop, but that, fortunately for him, they haven't all got a wise uncle down in New York, to offer counter-advice." "Each in his turn," Mr. Shaw remarked, adding, "and Pauline considers herself through school?" "I--I suppose so. I know she would like to go on--but we've no higher school here and--She read last winter, quite a little, with father. Pauline's ever so clever." "Supposing you both had an opportunity--for it must be both, or neither, I judge--and the powers that be consented--how about going away to school this winter?" Hilary dropped the reins. "Oh!" she cried, "you mean--" "I have a trick of meaning what I say," her uncle said, smiling at her. "I wish I could say--what I want to--and can't find words for--" Hilary said. "We haven't consulted the higher authorities yet, you know." "And--Oh, I don't see how mother could get on without us, even if--" "Mothers have a knack at getting along without a good many things--when it means helping their young folks on a bit," Mr. Shaw remarked. "I'll have a talk with her and your father to-night." That evening, pacing up and down the front veranda with his brother, Mr. Shaw said, with his customary abruptness, "You seem to have fitted in here, Phil,--perhaps, you were in the right of it, after all. I take it you haven't had such a hard time, in some ways." The minister did not answer immediately. Looking back nearly twenty years, he told himself, that he did not regret that early choice of his. He had fitted into the life here; he and his people had grown together. It had not always been smooth sailing and more than once, especially the past year or so, his narrow means had pressed him sorely, but on the whole, he had found his lines cast in a pleasant place, and was not disposed to rebel against his heritage. "Yes," he said, at last, "I have fitted in; too easily, perhaps. I never was ambitious, you know." "Except in the accumulating of books," his brother suggested. The minister smiled. "I have not been able to give unlimited rein even to that mild ambition. Fortunately, the rarer the opportunity, the greater the pleasure it brings with it--and the old books never lose their charm." Mr. Paul Shaw flicked the ashes from his cigar. "And the girls--you expect them to fit in, too?" "It is their home." A note the elder brother knew of old sounded in the younger man's voice. "Don't mount your high horse just yet, Phil," he said. "I'm not going to rub you up the wrong way--at least, I don't mean to; but you were always an uncommonly hard chap to handle--in some matters. I grant you, it is their home and not a had sort of home for a girl to grow up in." Mr. Shaw stood for a moment at the head of the steps, looking off down the peaceful, shadowy street. It had been a pleasant week; he had enjoyed it wonderfully. He meant to have many more such. But to live here always! Already the city was calling to him; he was homesick for its rush and bustle, the sense of life and movement. "You and I stand as far apart to-day, in some matters, Phil, as we did twenty--thirty years ago," he said presently, "and that eldest daughter of yours--I'm a fair hand at reading character or I shouldn't be where I am to-day, if I were not--is more like me than you." "So I have come to think--lately." "That second girl takes after you; she would never have written that letter to me last May." "No, Hilary would not have at the time--" "Oh, I can guess how you felt about it at the time. But, look here, Phil, you've got over that--surely? After all, I like to think now that Pauline only hurried on the inevitable." Mr. Paul Shaw laid his hand on the minister's shoulder. "Nearly twenty years is a pretty big piece out of a lifetime. I see now how much I have been losing all these years." "It has been a long time, Paul; and, perhaps, I have been to blame in not trying more persistently to heal the breach between us. I assure you that I have regretted it daily." "You always did have a lot more pride in your make-up than a man of your profession has any right to allow himself, Phil. But if you like, I'm prepared to point out to you right now how you can make it up to me. Here comes Lady Shaw and we won't waste time getting to business." That night, as Pauline and Hilary were in their own room, busily discussing, for by no means the first time that day, what Uncle Paul had said to Hilary that morning, and just how he had looked, when he said it, and was it at all possible that father would consent, and so on, _ad libitum_, their mother tapped at the door. Pauline ran to open it. "Good news, or not?" she demanded. "Yes, or no, Mother Shaw?" "That is how you take it," Mrs. Shaw answered. She was glad, very glad, that this unforeseen opportunity should be given her daughters; and yet--it meant the first break in the home circle, the first leaving home for them. Mr. Paul Shaw left the next morning. "I'll try and run up for a day or two, before the girls go to school," he promised his sister-in-law. "Let me know, as soon as you have decided _where_ to send them." Patience was divided in her opinion, as to this new plan. It would be lonesome without Paul and Hilary; but then, for the time being, she would be, to all intents and purposes, "Miss Shaw." Also, Bedelia was not going to boarding-school--on the whole, the arrangement had its advantages. Of course, later, she would have her turn at school--Patience meant to devote a good deal of her winter's reading to boarding-school stories. She told Sextoness Jane so, when that person appeared, just before supper time. Jane looked impressed. "A lot of things keep happening to you folks right along," she observed. "Nothing's ever happened to me, 'cept mumps--and things of that sort; you wouldn't call them interesting. The girls to home?" "They're 'round on the porch, looking at some photos Mr. Oram's brought over; and he's looking at Hilary's. Hilary's going in for some other kind of picture taking. I wish she'd leave her camera home, when she goes to school. Do you want to speak to them about anything particular?" "I'll wait a bit," Jane sat down on the garden-bench beside Patience. "There, he's gone!" the latter said, as the front gate clicked a few moments later. "O Paul!" she called, "You're wanted, Paul!" "You and Hilary going to be busy tonight?" Jane asked, as Pauline came across the lawn. "Not that I know of." "I ain't," Patience remarked. "Well," Jane said, "it ain't prayer-meeting night, and it ain't young peoples' night and it ain't choir practice night, so I thought maybe you'd like me to take my turn at showing you something. Not all the club--like's not they wouldn't care for it, but if you think they would, why, you can show it to them sometime." "Just we three then?" Pauline asked. "Hilary and I can go." "So can I--if you tell mother you want me to," Patience put in. "Is it far?" her sister questioned Jane. "A good two miles--we'd best walk--we can rest after we get there. Maybe, if you like, you'd better ask Tom and Josie. Your ma'll be better satisfied if he goes along, I reckon. I'll come for you at about half-past seven." "All right, thank you ever so much," Pauline said, and went to tell Hilary, closely pursued by Patience. However, Mrs. Shaw vetoed Pauline's proposition that Patience should make one of the party. "Not every time, my dear," she explained. Promptly at half-past seven Jane appeared. "All ready?" she said, as the four young people came to meet her. "You don't want to go expecting anything out of the common. Like's not, you've all seen it a heap of times, but maybe not to take particular notice of it." She led the way through the garden to the lane running past her cottage, where Tobias sat in solitary dignity on the doorstep, down the lane to where it merged in to what was nothing more than a field path. "Are we going to the lake?" Hilary asked. Jane nodded. "But not out on the water," Josie said. "You're taking us too far below the pier for that." Jane smiled quietly. "It'll be on the water--what you're going to see," she was getting a good deal of pleasure out of her small mystery, and when they reached the low shore, fringed with the tall sea-grass, she took her party a few steps along it to where an old log lay a little back from the water. "I reckon we'll have to wait a bit," she said, "but it'll be 'long directly." They sat down in a row, the young people rather mystified. Apparently the broad expanse of almost motionless water was quite deserted. There was a light breeze blowing and the soft swishing of the tiny waves against the bank was the only sound to break the stillness; the sky above the long irregular range of mountains on the New York side, still wore its sunset colors, the lake below sending hack a faint reflection of them. But presently these faded until only the afterglow was left, to merge in turn into the soft summer twilight, through which the stars began to glimpse, one by one. The little group had been mostly silent, each busy with his or her thoughts; so far as the young people were concerned, happy thoughts enough; for if the closing of each day brought their summer nearer to its ending, the fall would bring with it new experiences, an entering of new scenes. "There!" Sextoness Jane broke the silence, pointing up the lake, to where a tiny point of red showed like a low-hung star through the gathering darkness. Moment by moment, other lights came into view, silently, steadily, until it seemed like some long, gliding sea-serpent, creeping down towards them through the night. "A tow!" Josie cried under her breath. They had all seen it, times without number, before. The long line of canal boats being towed down the lake to the canal below; the red lanterns at either end of each boat showing as they came. But to-night, infected perhaps, by the pride, the evident delight, in Jane's voice, the old familiar sight held them with the new interest the past months had brought to bear upon so many old, familiar things. "It is--wonderful," Pauline said at last. "It might be a scene from--fairyland, almost." "Me--I love to see them come stealing long like that through the dark," Jane said slowly and a little hesitatingly. It was odd to be telling confidences to anyone except Tobias. "I don't know where they come from, nor where they're a-going to. Many's the night I walk over here just on the chance of seeing one. Mostly, this time of year, you're pretty likely to catch one. When I was younger, I used to sit and fancy myself going aboard on one of them and setting off for strange parts. I wasn't looking to settle down here in Winton all my days; but I reckon, maybe, it's just's well--anyhow, when I got the freedom to travel, I'd got out of the notion of it--and perhaps, there's no telling, I might have been terribly disappointed. And there ain't any hindrance 'gainst my setting off--in my own mind--every time I sits here and watches a tow go down the lake. I've seen a heap of big churches in my travels--it's mostly easier 'magining about them--churches are pretty much alike I reckon, though I ain't seen many, I'll admit." No one answered for a moment, but Jane, used to Tobias for a listener, did not mind. Then in the darkness, Hilary laid a hand softly over the work-worn ones clasped on Jane's lap. It was hard to imagine Jane young and full of youthful fancies and longings; yet years ago there had been a Jane--not Sextoness Jane then--who had found Winton dull and dreary and had longed to get away. But for her, there had been no one to wave the magic wand, that should transform the little Vermont village into a place filled with new and unexplored charms. Never in all Jane's many summers, had she known one like this summer of theirs; and for them--the wonder was by no means over--the years ahead were bright with untold possibilities. Hilary sighed for very happiness, wondering if she were the same girl who had rocked listlessly in the hammock that June morning, protesting that she didn't care for "half-way" things. "Tired?" Pauline asked. "I was thinking," her sister answered. "Well, the tow's gone." Jane got up to go. "I'm ever so glad we came, thank you so much, Jane," Pauline said heartily. "I wonder what'll have happened by the time we all see our next tow go down," Josie said, as they started towards home. "We may see a good many more than one before the general exodus," her brother answered. "But we won't have time to come watch for them. Oh, Paul, just think, only a little while now--" Tom slipped into step with Hilary, a little behind the others. "I never supposed the old soul had it in her," he said, glancing to where Jane trudged heavily on ahead. "Still, I suppose she was young--once; though I've never thought of her being so before." "Yes," Hilary said. "I wonder,--maybe, she's been better off, after all, right, here at home. She wouldn't have got to be Sextoness Jane anywhere else, probably." Tom glanced at her quickly. "Is there a hidden meaning--subject to be carefully avoided?" Hilary laughed. "As you like." "So you and Paul are off on your travels, too?" "Yes, though I can hardly believe it yet." "And just as glad to go as any of us." "Oh, but we're coming back--after we've been taught all manner of necessary things." "Edna'll be the only one of you girls left behind; it's rough on her." "It certainly is; we'll all have to write her heaps of letters." "Much time there'll be for letter-writing, outside of the home ones," Tom said. "Speaking of time," Josie turned towards them, "we're going to be busier than any bee ever dreamed of being, before or since Dr. Watts." They certainly were busy days that followed. So many of the young folks were going off that fall that a good many of the meetings of "The S. W. F. Club" resolved themselves into sewing-bees, for the girl members only. "If we'd known how jolly they were, we'd have tried them before," Bell declared one morning, dropping down on the rug Pauline had spread under the trees at one end of the parsonage lawn. Patience, pulling bastings with a business-like air, nodded her curly head wisely. "Miranda says, folks mostly get 'round to enjoying their blessings 'bout the time they come to lose them." "Has the all-important question been settled yet, Paul?" Edna asked, looking up from her work. She might not be going away to school, but even so, that did not debar one from new fall clothes at home. "They're coming to Vergennes with me," Bell said. "Then we can all come home together Friday nights." "They're coming to Boston with me," Josie corrected, "then we'll be back together for Thanksgiving." Shirley, meekly taking her first sewing lessons under Pauline's instructions, and frankly declaring that she didn't at all like them, dropped the hem she was turning. "They're coming to New York with me; and in the between-times we'll have such fun that they'll never want to come home." Pauline laughed. "It looks as though Hilary and I would have a busy winter between you all. It is a comfort to know where we are going." "Remember!" she warned, when later the party broke up. "Four o'clock Friday afternoon! Sharp!" "Are we going out in a blaze of glory?" Bell questioned. "You might tell us where we are going, now, Paul," Josie urged. Pauline shook her head. "You wait until Friday, like good little girls. Mind, you all bring wraps; it'll be chilly coming home." Pauline's turn was to be the final wind-up of the club's regular outings. No one outside the home folks, excepting Tom, had been taken into her confidence--it had been necessary to press him into service. And when, on Friday afternoon, the young people gathered at the parsonage, all but those named were still in the dark. Besides the regular members, Mrs. Shaw, Mr. Dayre, Mr. Allen, Harry Oram and Patience were there; the minister and Dr. Brice had promised to join the party later if possible. As a rule, the club picnics were cooperative affairs; but to-day the members, by special request, arrived empty-handed. Mr. Paul Shaw, learning that Pauline's turn was yet to come, had insisted on having a share in it. "I am greatly interested in this club," he had explained. "I like results, and I think," he glanced at Hilary's bright happy face, "that the 'S. W. F. Club' has achieved at least one very good result." And on the morning before the eventful Friday, a hamper had arrived from New York, the watching of the unpacking of which had again transformed Patience, for the time, from an interrogation to an exclamation point. "It's a beautiful hamper," she explained to Towser. "It truly is--because father says, it's the inner, not the outer, self that makes for real beauty, or ugliness; and it certainly was the inside of that hamper that counted. I wish you were going, Towser. See here, suppose you follow on kind of quietly to-morrow afternoon--don't show up too soon, and I guess I can manage it." Which piece of advice Towser must have understood. At any rate, he acted upon it to the best of his ability, following the party at a discreet distance through the garden and down the road towards the lake; and only when the halt at the pier came, did he venture near, the most insinuating of dogs. And so successfully did Patience manage it, that when the last boat-load pushed off from shore, Towser sat erect on the narrow bow seat, blandly surveying his fellow voyagers. "He does so love picnics," Patience explained to Mr. Dayre, "and this is the last particular one for the season. I kind of thought he'd go along and I slipped in a little paper of bones." From the boat ahead came the chorus. "We're out on the wide ocean sailing." "Not much!" Bob declared. "I wish we were--the water's quiet as a mill-pond this afternoon." For the great lake, appreciating perhaps the importance of the occasion, had of its many moods chosen to wear this afternoon its sweetest, most beguiling one, and lay, a broad stretch of sparkling, rippling water, between its curving shores. Beyond, the range of mountains rose dark and somber against the cloud-flecked sky, their tops softened by the light haze that told of coming autumn. And presently, from boat to boat, went the call, "We're going to Port Edward! Why didn't we guess?" "But that's not _in_ Winton," Edna protested. "Of it, if not in it," Jack Ward assured them. "Do you reckon you can show us anything new about that old fort, Paul Shaw?" Tracy demanded. "Why, I could go all over it blindfolded." "Not to show the new--to unfold the old," Pauline told him. "That sounds like a quotation." "It is--in substance," Pauline looked across her shoulder to where Mr. Allen sat, imparting information to Harry Oram. "So that's why you asked the old fellow," Tracy said. "Was that kind?" They were rounding the slender point on which the tall, white lighthouse stood, and entering the little cove where visitors to the fort usually beached their boats. A few rods farther inland, rose the tall, grass-covered, circular embankment, surrounding the crumbling, gray walls, the outer shells of the old barracks. At the entrance to the enclosure, Tom suddenly stepped ahead, barring the way. "No passing within this fort without the counter-sign," he declared. "Martial law, this afternoon." It was Bell who discovered it. "'It's a habit to be happy,'" she suggested, and Tom drew back for her to enter. But one by one, he exacted the password from each. Inside, within the shade of those old, gray walls, a camp-fire had been built and camp-kettle swung, hammocks had been hung under the trees and when cushions were scattered here and there the one-time fort bore anything but a martial air. But something of the spirit of the past must have been in the air that afternoon, or perhaps, the spirit of the coming changes; for this picnic--though by no means lacking in charm--was not as gay and filled with light-hearted chaff as usual. There was more talking in quiet groups, or really serious searching for some trace of those long-ago days of storm and stress. With the coming of evening, the fire was lighted and the cloth laid within range of its flickering shadows. The night breeze had sprung up and from outside the sloping embankment they caught the sound of the waves breaking on the beach. True to their promise, the minister and Dr. Brice appeared at the time appointed and were eagerly welcomed by the young people. Supper was a long, delightful affair that night, with much talk of the days when the fort had been devoted to far other purposes than the present; and the young people, listening to the tales Mr. Allen told in his quiet yet strangely vivid way, seemed to hear the slow creeping on of the boats outside and to be listening in the pauses of the wind for the approach of the enemy. "I'll take it back, Paul," Tracy told her, as they were repacking the baskets. "Even the old fort has developed new interests." "And next summer the 'S. W. F. Club' will continue its good work," Jack said. Going back, Pauline found herself sitting in the stern of one of the boats, beside her father. The club members were singing the club song. But Pauline's thoughts had suddenly gone back to that wet May afternoon. She could see the dreary, rain-swept garden, hear the beating of the drops on the window-panes. How long ago and remote it all seemed; how far from the hopeless discontent, the vague longings, the real anxiety of that time, she and Hilary had traveled. She looked up impulsively. "There's one thing," she said, "we've had one summer that I shall always feel would be worth reliving. And we're going to have more of them." "I am glad to hear that," Mr. Shaw said. Pauline looked about her--the lanterns at the ends of the boats threw dancing lights out across the water, no longer quiet; overhead, the sky was bright with stars. "Everything is so beautiful," the girl said slowly. "One seems to feel it more--every day." "'The hearing ear, and the seeing eye, the Lord hath made even both of them,'" her father quoted gravely. Pauline drew a quick breath. "The hearing ear and the seeing eye"--it was a good thought to take with them--out into the new life, among the new scenes. One would need them everywhere--out in the world, as well as in Winton. And then, from the boat just ahead, sounded Patience's clear treble,--"'There's a Good Time Coming.'" 
59316	----	The Internet Archive Transcribers Note Text emphasis denoted as _Italics_ and =Bold=. Computers on the Farm Farm Uses for Computers, How to Select Software and Hardware, and Online Information Sources in Agriculture [Illustration] [Illustration] United States Department of Agriculture Farmers' Bulletin Number 2277 Cover Photo: Fran and Brian Schnarre, a farm couple from Columbia, Missouri, working at their computer. _Photo by Duane Dailey, University of Missouri_. Prepared by Office of Information, Office of Governmental and Public Affairs =Issued March 1984= Contents Purpose of This Bulletin 5 What a Computer Can Do for You 5 Recordkeeping 6 Farm Management Analysis 6 Process Controllers 6 Telecommunications 7 Other Uses 7 Computers on the Farm 7 How to Choose a Microcomputer System 8 Strategies for Getting into Computers 9 Alternatives to Buying a Microcomputer 10 Information Available from Your County Extension Agent 10 How to Select Software 11 Checklist for Evaluating Software 11 Where to Look for Good Software 13 Compatibility Counts 13 How to Select Hardware 14 Checklist for Evaluating Hardware 14 Where to Look for Good Hardware 16 Types of Hardware 16 Components of a Microcomputer 17 Try It Out 18 Computers Need an Investment of Time and Money 19 Information Available Online from USDA, State, and Private Sources 20 Other Computer Development at USDA 30 Learning More about Computers on the Farm 32 Glossary of Computer Terms 34 =Computers on the Farm= =by Deborah Takiff Smith= =Purpose of This Bulletin= How can a computer help you operate your farm better? How do you select useful computer programs (software) and equipment (hardware)? If you have a computer or plan to get one, what information can you obtain with your computer that will be useful for your farm operation? This publication will help you answer such questions. It will help you evaluate and select a new system, or get more out of the one you already have. The key components of computer systems you may want to know about are: Hardware--the physical equipment itself. Software--the computer programs on tape or disk, and Online sources of information--such as current market and weather information and technical reports. This publication offers guidelines to help farmers select hardware, software, and online information. (See the glossary at the end of this publication for definitions of specialized computer terms.) =What a Computer Can Do for You= You can use a microcomputer to help you-- Determine the most economical feed ration for dairy cows and other farm animals. Schedule irrigation, Get quick access to records, Keep machinery inventories and depreciation schedules, Help with tax records and making out income tax returns, Keep livestock breeding and production records, Keep a record of loans and cash flow to meet interest and principal payments, Determine levels of earnings by working through a profit and loss statement and by calculating a percentage return to capital and a percentage return to equity, Decide the optimum production choice for a particular farm in a given year, and the optimum combination of inputs to grow the crops or livestock chosen, Store large amounts of data, and Get current market and weather information if the microprocessor is connected via the telephone to data bases (see section on online services). Software programs are also available in such areas as financial management, crop and field records, mailing lists for customers of certified seed and breeding stock, machinery purchase versus custom hiring, investment feasibility of building and livestock facilities, commodity price charts and tables, income taxation, marketing, soil conservation, and integrated pest management. The computer and its associated software packages can help you do four kinds of work: (1) store and manipulate records, (2) provide analyses for management decisions, (3) control machines or monitor production, and (4) communicate faster with other people through their computers and data bases. =Recordkeeping= Many experts recommend that you start on a small scale, computerize one thing at a time, and learn as you go along--rather than trying to put information on your entire farm operation into the computer all at once. A good place to start is with farm records. You can use microcomputers to keep track of financial records--such as cash flow, bank balances, accounts payable, accounts receivable, net worth statements, costs, and returns--as well as other records--such as livestock breeding and production reports, crop and field records, and mailing lists. =Farm Management Analysis= After computerizing the farm records, the next step would be to do simple analyses on the microprocessor. A good place to start is by analyzing data already stored in the computer or available in the files. For example, you could use the recordkeeping capabilities of the computer to record and depreciate equipment, and to decide whether it is cheaper to lease or buy farm equipment. General software is available to help you with accounting and bookkeeping, basic business functions. =Process Controllers= Besides analyzing farm management problems and storing data, computers have another key use--as process controllers. They can control such devices as pumps and gates, record milk output per cow, and control grain drying. To save water and energy, some farmers have switched to sophisticated irrigation scheduling by programing their computers to read the moisture in the soil, the weather, and the humidity, and to provide information on a plant's age and irrigation needs. The computer then tells the farmer when to water a crop and for how long--and can even turn the water on and off. =Telecommunications= You can also use a computer as an up-to-date source for communication, linking you to banks of information that are available almost instantaneously from public and private online information sources. With the computer hooked up to the telephone, you can get information quickly, receive it visually, and record it in detail if you wish. Some key information sources are listed on page 20 of this bulletin. =Other Uses= Farm families can use microcomputers the same way other families do--to plan the family budget, keep an inventory of household furnishings, keep track of recipes, keep mailing lists, turn lights and heat on and off, type homework and other documents, learn new skills, and play games. =Computers on the Farm= Most of the computers farmers are getting are microcomputers, also called home computers or personal computers. They are the basis of the "computer revolution" that has been occurring since the late 1970's and they are the focus of this publication. Many farmers, especially the owners of the larger farms, already have computers. But you don't have to be a large farmer to afford a microcomputer. Computers can be useful in almost all areas of a farming operation--helping you decide what, when, and how to plant; how to sell; and how to arrange the farm business to be more efficient and more profitable. The computer can supplement the calculator, typewriter, and file cabinet. And it can send and receive written or graphic messages by telephone (in most areas of the country) that might be too long or complex to do verbally. A computer can be very useful when repetitive analyses are needed or when data storage is important, as with financial records or daily milk output per cow. More and more, farming requires sophisticated management decisions and management of basic resources, including land, water, labor, production inputs, and capital. These are the kinds of decisions the computer can help you make faster and more cost-effectively. Although a computer program for your farm operation could make recordkeeping and analysis easier and improve your ability to manage, it might be hard to measure these improvements in dollars. But the dollars you save by having better information on when to sell a crop, how to monitor the business, and how to diagnose a problem before it gets out of control might pay for the computer. Farmers and ranchers with large feedlot or other livestock operations might find that a feed formulation program could cut costs enough to pay for the computer system within a few months. =How to Choose a Microcomputer System= Should you buy a microcomputer? How do you decide on a system that's best for you? Here are some factors to consider in making these decisions. The first step is to think about your needs. What would you do with your computer system? How would you actually use it to help you run your operation better? List your primary needs, the important things you want to do right away with your computer. Then, think of secondary needs--things you might do in the future once you have a computer. Once you've identified your needs, the next step is to shop around--to find some software that fulfills your needs and to see some systems in operation. Go to computer stores or get in touch with the salespeople in your area. You could decide to have custom programs written for your operation, but they will be significantly more expensive than programs that have already been developed. Talk to other farmers, ranchers, extension and university specialists, and business people who are using microcomputers. Find out what software they are using. Do some research (by reading books or magazines, taking a course or seminar, or visiting a trade show) so you'll be an informed customer when you shop seriously. Many computer experts strongly recommend against buying a computer first and then shopping for the software packages. So identify your needs and select the software packages or materials that will help you do what you want to with your computer. Then find the hardware to run the programs. =The Computer Revolution= "The advent of computers to farm management ... is already underway and seems likely to have a powerful influence," said USDA historian Wayne Rasmussen in 1982. "The computer should lead to more efficient management of machines and energy and should help in other farming operations such as cost accounting, mixing feed rations and applying fertilizers and other resources efficiently. Some farmers now have computers of their own, and many others have access to computer systems through their county agricultural agents," Rasmussen pointed out. The computer can be seen as the "third revolution" in American farming. The first revolution was the use of the horse, which added animal power to human power. The second was the switch from the horse to the tractor, which again expanded the power an individual could wield. But the computer is a different kind of technological advance because it adds to the farmer's power to manage. By 1990, the computer will probably be as important a part of a commercial farmer's operation as the pickup truck. Farmers may flip on their computers first thing in the morning--instead of their radios--to get the latest market prices. They can get a rundown on weather and growing conditions for major worldwide production areas; pertinent data on prices, market conditions, credit terms, transportation and storage rates, and related forecasts; and finally a list of priorities each day to take advantage of these conditions. Getting the right system--the combination of hardware (the physical equipment) and software (the computer programs)--is the problem farmers must solve before they can make the most of the computer revolution. =Strategies for Getting Into Computers= If you're interested in getting your farm's operations computerized, and you're just starting, you could choose various strategies for doing so. One way is to first buy the basic hardware and components you think you need, and then add memory and other components later. If you do that, be sure you can add additional disk drives, memory, and a printer to your computer, all at a reasonable cost. What can you do with a small computer once you outgrow it, and you want to get a bigger one? You might want to use your older computer in a small, specialized farm operation, or keep it to retrieve and analyze records that you stored on the old equipment. Other alternatives would be to trade it in on a larger computer, advertise to sell it through the local want-ads, trade or sell it to a friend or neighbor, keep the small computer for someone else in the family (perhaps a game-playing youngster), or donate it to a local school or religious or charitable group and take a tax write-off. The farm of the future may have many computers, some for specific functions such as irrigation scheduling or dairy operations, and one for financial records. Having several computers would help farmers deal with the problem of malfunctioning computers, so that the whole farm would not be shut down if one computer goes down. =Alternatives to Buying a Microcomputer= You might consider alternatives to buying a computer. You may be able to lease one to see what it will do for you, and use it until your needs make it worthwhile to buy one. Prices keep coming down. The best time to buy is when you find you can profitably make use of a computer. Even though it becomes technically obsolete, it will still do for you what you purchased it for. A programmable calculator may be an appropriate tool that is much less costly then a microcomputer. If you like what a computer can do for your operation but aren't ready to buy one or to use it yourself, you might hire a consultant to help you select an appropriate system. Or you might retain an accountant or computer consultant to run the financial analysis programs you need. This kind of service gives quick results, and relieves you of having to do it yourself. =Information available From Your County Extension Agent= State Cooperative Extension Services are helping States provide computers for county offices. Many State Extension Services already have computers in nearly every county Extension office. If you are considering buying or leasing a computer system, or want software or timesharing services to make the most of the system you have, a good place to go is to your State or county Extension office. In many States, county Extension offices have terminals connecting them to mainframe computers; some have microcomputers which give them access to information on crop management, animal production, and marketing. The county Extension staff can tell you what is available online in your area that is tailored to your kind of farming and your region. The Extension staff will also be able to tell you the software programs applicable in your State. Many State Extension offices have publications on computers, and others have or are developing online information networks linking farmers and other users to the State university mainframe computer and its data base. State Extension specialists are a logical place to start when looking for software that is appropriate to your needs. Many State Extension computer and agricultural experts have produced software materials that are available, and the county agent will know about them. In some cases the county Extension office can lend you software. If you don't have a computer, the Extension office may be able to run programs for you, choosing the appropriate software available and plugging in the precise conditions and problems on your farming or ranching operation. Or they may be able to use the computer to search for information you need, perhaps communicating with a large State, regional, or national data base. As lower cost computers with improved software have become available, an increasing number of people are turning to their State Cooperative Extension Services for training in computer fundamentals, equipment selection, and software evaluation. County agents can help people find what is available, but they probably will not be preparing software programs themselves. =How to Select Software= The key criteria for selecting good software are the following: Does it meet your needs? Does it do what it says it will do? And does it have good support documentation? =Checklist for Evaluating Software= Here are some factors to consider when evaluating and comparing software: =Documentation.= Look at the "documentation" or the written (paper) materials that come with your program. These should explain clearly what the program does and what you have to do to use it. =Ease of Use.= Is the program fairly easy to use? Does it guide you through the program? =Instructions.= Another factor you should consider in evaluating software is the instructions. Are there instructions in the program or in the written documentation? Are they readable? You should be sure you understand how to operate the program. =Help.= What help can you get if you run into problems? Does the program have a "help" function? When you don't know how to answer a question or need help, can you turn to a separate part of the computer program or to a part of the accompanying documentation to answer your question? Is there a company phone-in service you can call if you need help? Some software programs may come to you with bugs (errors) in them. Find out what backup services are available. Is there a hotline you can call for help if the program has a problem you can't solve? Does the company provide updated versions periodically? Are they free or at nominal cost? =Compatibility with Hardware.= Is the software compatible with hardware you already have, or does it run on an operating system you can use with your hardware? Some computers use tape cassettes, like audio tape you use on a tape recorder. The most standard storage medium for programs and data is the floppy diskette, which looks like a soft phonograph record. The diskette comes in several sizes--the most common are 8 inches and 5¼ inches. A newer possibility is the 8-inch hard disk. The hard disk may be used for storage, but you buy the software on a floppy disk and transfer it. =Memory.= Does your computer have enough memory to run the program? =Recommendation.= Does the program come from a reputable source, or does it come with a recommendation from someone you trust? =Effectiveness.= Does the program do what you want it to do correctly and consistently? =Where to Look for Good Software= Where do you find good software? Some farmers and ranchers write their own programs or pay a programmer to write a custom program. But most get existing programs either from State Extension sources or from commercial outlets. Many operations farmers need to perform on a computer can be done by using generalized software packages readily available through commercial sources. Check with your County Extension Agent. He or she may know of the programs that have been tailored for your operation. The Extension Service has published a directory of agricultural software programs produced by State Extension Services, entitled "Updated Inventory of Agricultural Computer Programs."[A] [Footnote A: To order a copy, send $3.50, payable to the University of Florida, to Administrative Services Institute of Food and Agricultural Sciences (IFAS) Bldg. 664 University of Florida Gainesville, FL ] There are also various private directories of software that is compatible for particular equipment. You can get these programs at computer stores or through mail-order sources. Many trade journals carry ads of agricultural software vendors. The land-grant university in your State may have computer programs available for farmers at nominal cost. Many States have produced extensive computer software. There are also many commercial software houses that produce computer programs in the field of agriculture. The best programs are written by people who combine strong expertise in the agricultural subject matter with the ability to write good computer programs that are relatively "friendly" or easy to use. The 1980's have seen a big jump in the number, quality, and friendliness of agricultural software. But you still need to evaluate carefully the programs you are considering. Remember that software selection and evaluation are important factors to consider when planning a computer system for your farm. =Compatibility Counts= Computers and marriages should share one thing in common: Compatibility. If it's not there, the system won't work. Not all hardware and software are compatible. In fact, hundreds of producers of computer equipment and computer programs are in the market, and there are few across-the-board standards. So it's important to get hardware and software that are compatible. Software, or the computer programs themselves, are not like records that can be played on any record player. They have to be compatible with the hardware in terms of the programing language used, operating system, size, format, and other factors. Try to find a store in your area where you will get the expertise you need to obtain the right combination of software and hardware to meet your needs. When you buy a computer, find out whether it comes with a standard operating language that will allow you to use a wide variety of programs written in different languages on your computer. Even then, you may find that a disk that supposedly works with that operating language will not work on your machine. =How to Select Hardware= =Checklist for Evaluating Hardware= Here are some factors to consider when evaluating and comparing hardware: =Software.= The first questions to ask are, "What software do you plan to use?" and "Which computer will run that program?" Does the computer come with a standard operating system so that it will be compatible with a range of software programs? =Memory.= How much memory, or information storage capacity, do you need? The computer's memory is measured in kilobytes (abbreviated K), and most computers come in sizes ranging from 2K up to 256K. (A kilobyte is equal to roughly 1,000 characters.) You need to know the software program you will use and your recordkeeping requirements to accurately estimate the capacity of the equipment you need. Some agricultural programs use 48K or 64K of memory. User friendly programs, which require little training to use and which guide you through the program, may be easier; but they may require more memory for the program itself, leaving you less storage space or memory for the data. =Computation.= What kind of computational ability do you want your computer to have? Will it serve the computing needs you have identified for now and later? =Input and Output Devices.= What kind of output do you need? What additional pieces of equipment or peripherals (such as separate screen, disk drive, modem, printer) will you need to buy to make this system do what you want it to? Most agricultural programs require a printer. A dot matrix printer (which produces characters made of small dots) may be sufficient. Another option is a letter quality printer, which is more expensive. How big a screen do you need? (Screens are measured in characters and in inches.) Do you need an 80-column or 40-column monitor? Do you need color and strong graphics capability? What quality screen image do you need? Can you add memory and other components later if you need to? =External Storage.= What kind of external storage does the system use, floppy disk, hard disk, or tape? Cassette tape storage costs less, but compared to disk storage, it has several disadvantages. If the hardware uses floppy disks, is the disk drive included as part of the computer package or does it come separately? Is a second disk drive included in the package or does it come separately? What kind of a disk drive(s) do you need, single or double density? Hard or floppy? =Training.= What training is available in the use of the new equipment? =Backup and Maintenance Services.= What backup and maintenance services are available from the vendor or other sources, once you've bought this computer? What happens when the computer is down (not working)? Does the company or store from which you plan to buy offer a service contract, and how much does it cost? Will you have to carry your computer to their site for servicing, and how long are you likely to be without it? How far away is your dealer and where will the computer actually be serviced? It's important to buy something that you can have fixed fairly quickly and cheaply, since elements of your system, especially the mechanical parts, may well need repair at some time. =Value.= What equipment and software programs come with the basic package, and are these items included in the base price? Compare prices carefully, considering the components and software you are getting for a particular price. Do not buy on the basis of price alone, but consider also the reliability of the equipment and the vendor, and the service you will be getting to set up, maintain, and support your system. =Where to Look for Good Hardware= Many buyers get their computers at specialty stores that handle computers and other electronics. Some handle only one brand of computer. It's worthwhile to shop around and see various systems. The big national department store chains sell computers, too. Talk to your neighbors about what they're using, and be sure to get hands-on practice with systems you are considering. Try to find a reputable dealer who can offer backup support. Consider the pros and cons of getting all equipment from a single vendor versus shopping around for peripherals from different manufacturers. A reliable dealer who handles several brands can help you make this decision. Check with your Extension office. It may have a State publication on computers or a checklist for buying one. =Types of Hardware= Farmers are using several different types of computers. Besides the microcomputer, which is the most widely used, other kinds of farm computers include interactive terminals, videotex terminals, handheld processors, and minicomputers. A microcomputer can be used as a stand-alone unit, working on its own with a software disk or tape. Or it can be connected to outside information sources if it is equipped with a device known as a modem, which allows the computer to communicate with other computers over the telephone. The modem turns the computer from an information processor and storage machine into a piece of communications equipment. An interactive terminal has no data storage capability but is linked to a central computer through the telephone. This is called a "dumb" terminal because it can receive, display, and send information, but it cannot process that information. Programs and data are stored in the central computer and the user pays a fee to access the system. A videotex keyboard terminal can be connected to a telephone jack and any television set. The user can request and receive any kind of information stored in the central computer. Some of the online services use this type of equipment (see section about online information systems on page 20). Many farmers are also using handheld programmable calculators. These are convenient to use in the field, and can record often repeated data, such as daily milk production. They have little memory (usually 2K) and their output can be printed on 2-inch paper tape. They are much cheaper than the microcomputer. Farmers use them to record daily milk production, formulate dairy and beef rations, estimate value of dairy forages, estimate cost of operating farm machinery, and calculate depreciation and investment tax credit. Some very large farm operations use minicomputers, which are larger, have more memory, can do more functions than the microcomputers, and can support multiple users. However, the newer microcomputers have more memory and more functions, and the difference between minicomputers and microcomputers has narrowed. =Computer System Components= [Illustration: Printer; Display Screen; Telephone/Modem; Disk Drive; Floppy Disk; and Central Processor with Keyboard] =Components of a Microcomputer= One way to understand how a microcomputer works is to see its key components. The =central processing unit= (CPU) is the silicon chip that is the "brain" of the computer. It does all the computation and controls all the other processing. The CPU stores =memory= of several kinds. Part of the memory is wired into the computer permanently by the manufacturer. This is called Read Only Memory (ROM). It contains such things as the operating system and program language. Random Access Memory (RAM) is the memory bank that includes the computer program or instructions, as well as the data. Your storage devices--tape cassettes, floppy disks, or hard disks--that store computer programs and data, are sometimes called external memory. The computer system also needs =input devices= and =output devices=. Your keyboard is an input device; disk drives and tape drives are also input devices. The output will probably be a cathode ray tube (CRT), which looks like a video monitor. The printer is the other output device you may choose to include in your computer system. Make sure the microcomputer has an adequate number of input and output ports for future needs. If you use your computer for communications, you'll need a telephone =modem=. Here is a possible shopping list of hardware for a farmer's starting microcomputer system: CPU (computer) with 48K or 64K of memory. CRT or monitor with adequate character width for the programs you plan to use. One or two disk drives, either 5¼ or 8 inches in diameter. Dot matrix printer (optional). Modem for communication with large computer (optional). =Try it Out= Be sure you try the system you plan to buy. Test run on a sample problem the hardware and software combination you are considering using. See if you think the solutions the computer puts out are what you need. If you insist on a thorough demonstration of the material you are considering buying, you can evaluate it in terms of its ease of use and the usefulness of its analysis. If you're thinking of buying a new software package for a computer you already have, ask to try it out first. Some software distributors in the public sector will give you a trial period to make sure the program is satisfactory and runs on your equipment. Or you may be able to obtain a demonstration disk. At least, try out new programs with the same microprocessor, printer, and screen you use to make sure they will work on your equipment. It's useful to have software evaluated by a reputable source--for example your local county Extension agent, State Extension specialist, or a neighbor who has had experience. "Let the buyer beware" is a good motto to remember as you shop around for a computer system. =Getting Comfortable with Computers= If you can use a typewriter, you can use a computer. Most agricultural program's do not require particular math or technical skills, just a knowledge of your farming operation and the ability to think in a logical, orderly way. Most new programs are user friendly; they ask you questions in plain English, and you type the answer on the keyboard. A good way to feel comfortable with computers is to try one out at your local computer store, or at fairs, conferences, or workshops at universities. =Computers Need an Investment in Time and Money= In addition to considering the cost of a computer system, consider the time and effort it takes to learn the equipment and the programs, and to keep records. Who will be operating the microcomputer? Does he or she have the patience and skills to learn to operate the computer, and to enter the large amounts of data that will be required initially? The computer may save time and money. Many farmers find that they don't save time but they accomplish more in the time they do spend. Don't underestimate the amount of time and effort it will require to collect data, make sure it's accurate, enter the data, and run the analyses. It's important to consider how user-friendly the computer is, and how much the computer's software will do to guide you through the analysis. A computer will do calculations very quickly, perhaps saving hours of laborious figuring. A computer will store information from one time period to the next, and recalculate alternatives quickly. By making the information available, it will help you identify strong and weak points in your operation. However, these functions will depend on your data. If the records you use in making a computation are incomplete, for example, the computer cannot fill in the gaps for you nor overcome inaccuracies in the data. =Information available Online From USDA, State, and Private Sources= You can transform your own microprocessor or other computer into a powerful communications device by adding a modem to it and communicating over the telephone. This will help you gather information on news, weather forecasts, emergencies or disasters, crop and livestock production, and marketing (including current and future prices). Online computer services also include buying and selling farm products; purchasing farm and home supplies, including teleshopping; banking services; business management advice; ordering theater tickets; information concerning farm and public policy; and personal education and entertainment. Many farmers who are computerizing their operations, as well as others in agriculture, can use some form of online information. There are more than 1,300 public and private information sources available on computer. New ones seem to come out every week. The following selected list of information you can receive on computer includes some of the major private online information services with agricultural applications, as well as the main ones available from USDA and the State land-grant institutions. Most of these information networks are paid for by the user based on the amount of use. Many charge an initial fee, and then most charge the user by the amount of time he or she spends on the system. No one computer system or online system may be adequate for everyone. There are many good systems, and different systems are good for different tasks. =1. AGNET= AGNET is a major online information and problem-solving service for farmers, ranchers, agribusinesses, and homes. It is sponsored jointly by five State Cooperative Extension Services--Nebraska, Montana, North Dakota, South Dakota, and Washington--and operated by the University of Nebraska. County Extension offices in several States participate, and farmers in nearly all the 50 States and Canada subscribe to AGNET. It helps people make marketing and production decisions and solve agricultural management problems, and it provides current information on market conditions and news items. It offers cash and futures market reports, international market reports from the U.S. Department of Agriculture (USDA) Foreign Agricultural Service (FAS), reports and report abstracts from the USDA's Economic Research Service and Statistical Reporting Service, and market comments by Extension Service economists. Also available are electronic mail service and electronic conferencing, which allows groups of users with similar interests to share ideas and information. Farmers and ranchers who have computer terminals with communication capability can access AGNET. Others can tap into AGNET through their county Extension services. AGNET subscribers are typically agricultural lenders and bankers. Extension specialists, farm managers, home economists, agricultural consulting firms, farmers and ranchers, and exporters of agricultural commodities. ADDRESS: AGNET University of Nebraska 105 Miller Hall University of Nebraska Lincoln, NE 68583 =2. AGRICOIA= AGRICOIA is an online information service produced by the National Agricultural Library (NAD of USDA), and is available commercially from a number of sources (including DIALOG and Bibliographic Retrieval Services). It provides comprehensive access to information on published literature pertaining to agriculture. AGRICOIA is the catalog and index for NAL and covers materials published since 1970. It includes about 1.5 million citations. AGRICOIA contains citations to worldwide published books, serial titles, and journal articles on agriculture and related subjects. In addition to bibliographic citations of published literature, the system offers information through several specialized subfiles; these subfiles include brucellosis (BRU), environmental impact statements covering 1977 and 1978 (ENV), and the Food and Nutrition Information Center, which emphasizes human nutrition research and education and food technology (FNC). Librarians are the main users of this system. ADDRESS: To find out more about AGRICOIA, contact: Educational Resources Staff National Agricultural Library Room 1402 Beltsville, MD 20705 =3. AgriData Network= AgriData is a private information and computing network specializing in agriculture. It offers immediate access to more than 10,000 pages of continuously updated business, financial, marketing, weather, and price information, as well as analyses and recommendations from its own and other reporters, analysts, economists, meteorologists, and researchers. It offers several different services, including an online computing service that allows users to access a library of microcomputer software programs that can be transferred to the user's microcomputer; an agricultural production technology service offering data bases from 40 land-grant universities and from agricultural, chemical, fertilizer, equipment, seed, and feed companies; an "electronic yellow pages," or product service directory for farmers; and electronic mail. ADDRESS: AgriData Resources, Inc. 205 West Highland Ave. Milwaukee, WI 53203 =4. Agri-Markets Data Service (AMDS)= Agri-Markets Data Service is an agricultural data base service offered by Capital Publications in Arlington, Va. The service provides market information, such as prices and shipments, as well as commentary and other information. It gives daily and weekly market commentary on local and national market activity in livestock, grain, fruits and vegetables, and poultry and dairy products. ADDRESS: Agri-Markets Data Service 1300 North 17th St., Suite 1600 Arlington, VA 22209 =5. AMS Market News Network= The USDA Agricultural Marketing Service (AMS) has a Market News Telecommunications System that reports up-to-the-minute information on commodity prices, demand, and movement. The system transmits between 700 and 900 different reports each day on more than 150 farm commodities. Each report is re-transmitted an average of 30 times. The initial use of this market news system is to transmit reports to the news media and among market news offices; firms and individuals may also subscribe at their own cost. In addition, AMS and the Public Broadcasting Service deliver market information directly to farmers via a television captioning system called Farm Market INFODATA, available in several cities around the country. By selecting a special channel on a closed captioning decoder, anyone within the broadcast coverage area of the participating public television station may receive the market information. Additional stations in a number of States have instituted this service on their own. For more information, contact: AMS Communications and Operations Branch Administrative Services Division, Room 0092 U.S. Department of Agriculture Washington, D.C. 20250 =6. AutEx Systems= AutEx Systems designs and operates computer-based communications systems which link buyers and sellers in specific industries. Two agricultural services are its Produce Network and its Floral Marketing Network. Subscribers to the networks use AutEx supplied terminals to access a nationwide communications network that includes buyer and seller offers. This online data communications system offers pretrading information. The terminal prints information needed to compare buying and selling opportunities in fresh fruits and vegetables, as well as floral products. The company is owned by Xerox. ADDRESS: AutEx Systems 55 William St. Wellesley, MA 02181 =7. Chase Econometrics= Chase Econometrics, a subsidiary of Chase Manhattan Bank, offers economic and financial information and analyses in the areas of industrial economics, energy, fertilizer, minerals, international economics, U.S. economics, and agriculture through its information system. Data and forecasting services on agribusiness cover international, national, regional, and statewide levels. Subscribers receive regular reports and analyses, and also have access to a number of historical and forecast data bases acquired through internal data collection activities or from other organizations. Many of its customers are large food and agribusiness firms. ADDRESS: Chase Econometrics 150 Monument Rd. Bala Cynwyd, PA 19004 =8. CMN (Computerized Management Network)= Developed by Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University as a national information system for use by State Extension Services, CMN helps Extension workers in solving problems, retrieving information, and evaluating programs. To date, many CMN programs have provided the foundation for several highly successful Extension programs. Two of the most popular are the Simplified Dairy Cattle Feeding Program, which has had a substantial impact on the economics of feeding dairy herds, and COIN, which provides low-cost user access to USDA reports on marketing, futures, and summary information on all major crops and livestock enterprises. The CMN system is designed to be used by people who have no special training with computers, and is available nationwide and in Canada. ADDRESS: CMN Virginia Cooperative Extension Service Plaza I, Bldg. D Blacksburg, VA 24061 =9. COIN (Computerized Outlook and Information Network)= COIN is a nationwide source of information from the Extension Service, which can be accessed by State and county extension staff, as well as by researchers, farmers, and agribusiness. It contains USDA outlook, market, and other information on a national computer network. Information from the USDA which is available through COIN includes Statistical Reporting Service (SRS) Crop Reporting Board reports. Economic Research Service (ERS) economic situation summaries. World Agricultural Outlook Board reports on world agriculture supply and demand. Foreign Agricultural Service (FAS) weekly roundup of world production and trade reports. Agricultural Marketing Service (AMS) summary of daily grain market prices, and USDA news releases. Some States use a multi-State computer network, or an in-State computer system, or both, to transfer agricultural outlook and production information to county offices and disseminate it to the general public. State Extension outlook specialists load their outlook analyses directly onto COIN (with a remote terminal) many times throughout the year. COIN is available on the Computerized Management Network (CMN) and through USDA ONLINE (see those entries on this list). =10. CompuServe= CompuServe Information Service offers access to more than 500 data bases. Some of the subjects of particular interest to farmers include agribusiness, agricultural news, finance and investment, news, weather, specific commodities including cotton futures prices and cattle prices, and the Commodity News Service data. It also offers electronic shopping and banking, electronic mail, hobby and special interest newsletters, and games. ADDRESS: CompuServe Incorporated 5000 Arlington Centre Blvd. Post Office Box 20212 Columbus, OH 43220 =11. CRIS--Current Research Information System= CRIS--Current Research Information System--is a computer based information storage and retrieval system. It covers most of the Nation's publicly supported agricultural and forestry research, and contains about 30,000 summaries of research projects. The data base is updated monthly. CRIS summaries provide information about ongoing research projects conducted or sponsored by USDA research agencies, 58 State agricultural experiment stations, 17 State forestry schools, 28 schools of veterinary medicine, 16 land-grant colleges of 1890, Tuskegee Institute, and other cooperating State institutions. It went online in 1977. Through this retrieval system, an individual can obtain a brief description of the research, along with the investigators' names, performing organization and location, current progress, and a list of the latest publications resulting from the research. CRIS inhouse search services are provided primarily to research scientists and research managers in USDA and State participating institutions. The public can directly access the CRIS data base through the DIALOG online retrieval system. Researchers in public and private institutions are the main users of CRIS. ADDRESS: Customer Service DIALOG Information Retrieval Services, Inc. 3460 Hillview Avenue Palo Alto, CA 94340 =12. DRI (Data Resources, Inc.)= DRI is a private forecasting service with regional models that forecast acreage planted and harvested, and yield for all commodities. This service does independent forecasts of production, prices, and demand for livestock, and has a separate program for fertilizer. DRI has software programs for potato producers. Some of its main clients are big agricultural supply companies and food processing firms. ADDRESS: Data Resources, Inc. 24 Hartwell Ave. Lexington, MA 02173 =13. ESTEL (Extension Service Telecommunication System)= ESTEL is a pilot project from the University of Maryland's Cooperative Extension Service. It provides farmers with information via a microprocessor or videotex equipment, which receives the information and displays it on a video screen. The videotex equipment may be cheaper to purchase than a microcomputer. ESTEL provides current information on market news, local weather conditions, pesticides, production information, and energy conservation tips, as well as home economics and 4-H programs. ADDRESS: ESTEL (Extension Service Telecommunication System) Maryland Cooperative Extension Service University of Maryland College Park, MD 20742 =14. Farm Bureau ACRES= The American Farm Bureau Federation has a program to provide marketing information and advice for its members. Known as Farm Bureau ACRES, this marketing information project involves several State farm bureaus. AFBF members can retrieve information from the host computers via telephone hookup and, at the same time, send messages to State computers, thereby providing a two-way daily contact between State coordinators and farmer-members. For more information, contact your county or State Farm Bureau. =15. Firsthand= Based on French videotex technology known as "Teletel," Firsthand is a transactional videotex system originally started by the First Bank System of Minneapolis and now available in other areas too. With this system, participants can access agribusiness bookkeeping systems; weather, commodity, and financial reports; and domestic and international news through a local telephone number. Clients can also do their shopping electronically from a catalog, and obtain commodity reports and other agribusiness information offered by other information providers. They can see their bank statements and balances, make transfers between accounts, and pay bills electronically. ADDRESS: Videotex 220 Soo Line Bldg. Minneapolis, MN 55402 =16. Grassroots= Grassroots is a Canadian videotex system that provides agribusiness with comprehensive, up-to-date information. It helps farmers make effective purchasing, operating, financing, and marketing decisions. It offers market information on current and future prices of all major agricultural commodities, and carries farm management programs as well. It also offers information from companies offering products and services of interest to agriculture, including material on chemicals, fertilizers, equipment, real estate, seed, feed, grain, and livestock. Material on financial services, banking, and insurance is updated daily. ADDRESS: Infomart 164 Merton St. Toronto, Ontario, CANADA M4S 3A8 =17. Instant Update= Instant Update is a timesharing information delivery system designed for the Professional Farmers of America. The system offers its users a variety of services and information, including electronic mail, agribusiness news and analyses, weather reports, and technical information. ADDRESS: Instant Update Professional Farmers of America 219 Parkade Cedar Falls, IA 50613 =18. Market Data Systems, Inc.= Market Data Systems carries information from 13 commodity exchanges for the benefit of customers. It leases terminals on which to receive the information. ADDRESS: Market Data Systems, Inc. 3835 lamar Ave. Memphis, TN 38118 =19. NEMA (National Electronic Marketing Association, Inc.)= NEMA offers marketing firms computerized marketing systems for many agricultural products. It is a way of linking buyers and sellers without having to first transport the products to market. Electronic marketing enables buyers and sellers to negotiate transactions in a public market while remaining in their own offices. NEMA is developing several marketing systems for agricultural markets. NEMA was developed by Virginia Tech Extension and Research staff in cooperation with the Virginia Department of Agriculture and Commerce and AMS. Through a telephone hookup to computer terminals in any location, buyers and sellers are brought together at a specific time to determine the price, on a competitive basis, for the products being offered for sale. Prospective buyers can obtain written descriptions of the products before sale time. One pricing technique is a computerized auction process, where the computer acts as the auctioneer. During the auction, the computer drops the asking price until a bid is received, then raises the price from that point until there is only one bidder left. At the end of a sale, the highest bidders receive summaries of their purchases. The products are shipped efficiently from seller to buyer. State Cooperative Extension Services, producers' organizations. State departments of agriculture, and other agencies have developed and implemented NEMA, as well as some other electronic marketing systems in the United States. Today computerized systems sell slaughter and feeder livestock, cotton, and shell eggs. This system is for market agents and buyers. ADDRESS: National Electronic Marketing Assn., Inc. P.O. Box 722 Christiansburg, VA 24073 =20. NPIRS (National Pesticide Information Retrieval System)= NPIRS is a nationally accessible online data base containing information about all pesticides registered with the Environmental Protection Agency, and indicating which are registered for use against specific pests on specific crops or sites. States can also insert information about State pesticide registrations. Purdue University is developing the system under a cooperative agreement with USDA and is managing the data base, which uses facilities provided by Martin-Marietta, Inc. ADDRESS: National Pesticide Information Retrieval System Entomology Hall Purdue University West Lafayette, IN 47907 =21. Rural Ventures= Rural Ventures offers courses and data, recommends solutions to problems of small farmers, and promotes economic efficiency in small-scale agriculture and food processing enterprises. It is a joint venture by Control Data Corporation and other groups, which started with a project in Princeton, Minnesota. A Rural Venture project gives farmers the capability to determine the optimum selection of crops, livestock, and equipment, and offers a full range of computer-based education and training programs. ADDRESS: Rural Ventures, Inc. 120 South LaGrande Ave. Princeton, MN 55371 =22. The Source= The Source, a subsidiary of Reader's Digest, provides access to more than 1,200 programs and services in a variety of subject areas, including agriculture. It carries the Commodity News Service general news reports and daily price activities for major commodities. The system also supplies news and commentary on current business trends along with updated listings of stocks, bonds, commodities, and futures. ADDRESS: The Source Source Telecomputing 1616 Anderson Road McLean, VA 22102 =23. Telplan= Telplan is a timesharing computer service with several interactive problem-solving packages. Its agricultural programs are in the areas of farm finance and animal nutrition, and it offers family finance and human nutrition programs as well. It is operated by Michigan State University and is available nationwide. ADDRESS: Telplan--Michigan State University Room 27 Agriculture Hall Department of Agricultural Economics Michigan State University East Lansing, Ml 48824-1039 =24. USDA Online= USDA Online delivers news and other current information from USDA's Office of Information. Services include the following reports as they are released: (1) USDA national news releases about policy and program announcements, (2) USDA regional and State news releases about program announcements, (3) outlook and situation report summaries, (4) Crop Reporting Board reports, report highlights, and summaries, (5) Foreign Agricultural Service reports and announcements on foreign crops, world production, and trade, (6) Economic Research Service report abstracts, (7) a daily agricultural news summary called "AG a.m.," and (8) a weekly "Farm Paper Letter" for farm magazine and newspaper editors and others interested in the summary and highlights of USDA reports for the week. Through USDA Online, users can also access COIN (see p. 24-25) and several other data bases. Another communications network available to users of USDA Online is an electronic mail service linking various offices at USDA and the State Extension Services, land-grant Universities, State Departments of Agriculture, other Federal and State agencies, and other organizations interested in agriculture. ADDRESS: News Division, Room 404-A Office of Information U.S. Department of Agriculture Washington, D.C. 20250 =Rural Telephone Lines= One question to consider when you are selecting a computer system to be used in a rural area is whether your telephone line is adequate for potential users in your area. You must have a private line. Line quality is also important; excessive line noise or dips and surges in power may cause the communications system to disconnect you. In the future, farmers will be able to get information by satellite rather than through the phone, which could eventually be a cost saver for those who are far from the information source. =Other Computer Developments at USDA= Besides online information services, there are several other computer developments available through USDA that are of use to farmers and ranchers. Many USDA agencies are using computers to disseminate information. Here is a partial list: Since 1981, the Foreign Agricultural Service (FAS) has been releasing information electronically that previously had been distributed as publications through the mail. The FAS electronic information system includes agricultural trade leads received from agricultural attaches relating to potential purchases of commodities by foreign buyers. The Federal Crop Insurance Corporation (FCIC), in cooperation with the Extension Service, has developed two software packages to help farmers make decisions about the kind and amount of crop insurance they will need. ARCIE (All Risk Crop Insurance Evaluation) comes in "mini" and "complete" versions. Mini-ARCIE takes individual farm data and calculates a projected cash flow under various yield conditions with and without crop insurance. It takes about 15 minutes to run. Complete-ARCIE, which takes about an hour, analyzes risk and loss probabilities over an extended period. It prompts farmers to enter expected prices and yields, and to include historical data. Both programs examine the insurance options available--both public and private--and show how these options compare and how they complement each other. Federal Crop Insurance is currently available on about 30 major crops nationwide. These programs are designed to run on most microcomputer models. Your State Extension Service, State Vocational Education Office, or your local crop insurance agent may already have the programs. For further information, including how to obtain a copy of the program, write to: The ARCIE Project Department of Agricultural Economics 107 Agricultural Building Texas A&M University College Station, TX 77840 The =Agricultural Stabilization and Conservation Service= (ASCS) is planning to put small computers into all its county offices starting in 1985. They will keep lists of farmers and their acreage allotments and bases, record set-aside histories, and record and maintain the other myriad facts necessary to make the USDA farm programs work. The system will keep farm records, addresses for mailings, election registers, and records of payments. Even checks to pay farmers will be produced by the decentralized county computer systems. The computers will also be tied into State systems and a central computer for some recordkeeping functions, and can be used for electronic mail and other communications. One function of the new system will be to mesh FAS trade opportunity leads into the ASCS data base. This will permit a farmer or local agribusiness person to go into the ASCS office and immediately learn about trade leads reported by agricultural attaches. This program will go into operation during the mid-1980's. The =Economic Research Service= (ERS) releases its Outlook and Situation reports through AGNET. Summaries of these are available through USDA Online. =Learning More About Computers on the Farm= The computer field is changing so fast that it is difficult to keep up with the changes. One way to keep current is to join a users group for your particular brand of computer, or an agricultural users group. Another way to get up-to-date information about new computer hardware and software products is to read a private newsletter. Some of these are: AgriComp 1001 East Walnut, Suite 201 Columbia, MO 65201 Agricultural Computing Doane-Western, Inc. 8900 Manchester Road St. Louis, MO 63144 Agricultural Microcomputing Ridgetown College of Agricultural Technology Ridgetown, Ontario CANADA NOP 2CO Compu-Farm Alberta Agricultural Box 2000 Olds, Alberta CANADA TOM 1PO Computer Farming Newsletter Lloyd Dinkins P.O. Box 22642 Memphis, TN 38122 Farm Computer News Successful Farming 1716 Locust Street Des Moines, IA 50336 Friendly Farm Computer Newsletter FBS Systems, Inc. P.O. Box 201 Aledo, IL 61231 =Glossary of Computer Terms= Listed below are some of the shorthand or jargon terms in the computer field. Understanding these terms will help you discuss hardware and software systems and their operation. =ADDRESS:= A number specifying a particular location in the computer's memory. =BASIC (Beginner's All-purpose Symbolic Instruction Code):= A relatively easy-to-use computer language that comes with most small and personal computer systems. =BAUD RATE:= The speed at which information is exchanged over communications lines, generally expressed in characters per second. 300 baud is the most common rate. It is equivalent to 30 characters per second. =BINARY:= A two-digit numbering system based on the digits 0 and 1. It is the basis for calculations on all computers, and the basis for storing and retrieving information, including alphabet characters. =BIT:= The smallest unit of information the computer recognizes. A bit is represented by the presence or absence of an electronic pulse, 0 or 1. =BUG:= A fault or error in a computer program. =BYTE:= A byte is composed of several bits, and is used to represent one character--such as a letter, number, or punctuation mark. The older microcomputer systems used 8 bits per byte, but the newer ones are based on 16 or 32 bits per byte. =CHIP:= A thin silicon wafer on which electronic components are deposited lithographically in the form of integrated circuits. =COBOL (Common Business-Oriented Language):= A high-level programing language widely used in business applications. =COMPUTER NETWORK:= Two or more computers that are connected so they can exchange information. =COMPUTER PROGRAM:= A collection of instructions that together direct the computer to perform a particular function. =CP/M (Control Program for Microprocessors):= A popular operating system for small computers. =CPU (Central Processing Unit):= The part of the computer that controls and organizes the operations of the other parts of the computer and does the calculations. =CRT (Cathode Ray Tube):= A video screen that can be used for viewing output. =DATA:= The information, such as numbers or letters, that are put into the computer system. =DEBUG:= To remove the errors in a computer program. =DIAGNOSTIC:= A program for detecting and isolating a problem or mistake in the computer system; features that allow systems or equipment to self-test for flaws. =DISK:= A revolving plate on which data and programs are stored. Also called DISKETTE. =DISK DRIVE:= A part of the computer system that reads and writes material on the disk. It can be part of the main hardware or a peripheral attached to the system. =DOCUMENTATION:= 1. The instruction manual for a program (software) or piece of hardware. 2. The process of describing a computer program so others using the program can see how it works. =DOWNTIME:= Any time a computer is not available or not working because of a machine fault or failure. Downtime includes repair delay time, repair time, and machine-spoiled work time. =EDIT:= To change or add data to an existing document or program. =FLOPPY DISK:= A small, flexible storage device made of magnetic material. It looks like a soft phonograph record and is usually 5¼ inches or 8 inches in diameter. =FORTRAN (FORmula TRANslation):= A computer language widely used to solve scientific and engineering problems, mainly for large commercial systems. =GARBAGE:= Meaningless information. =HARD COPY:= A printout on paper of information from the computer. =HARDWARE:= All the physical parts of the computer system, including the computer itself, the input and output equipment and peripherals, and the physical disk or tape equipment. (The computer programs are software.) =INPUT:= The data that are put into the computer, or the process of putting it in. =INSTRUCTION:= A group of bits that designates a specific computer operation. =INTEGRATED CIRCUIT:= An electronic circuit or combination of circuits contained on semiconductor material, or chip. =INTERACTIVE:= A computer system that allows two-way communication between the user and the computer. =INTERFACE:= A piece of equipment used to connect two parts of a computer system that cannot interact directly with each other. =K (kilobyte):= A measure of computer memory capacity. Each K of information is 1,024 bytes. =LOAD:= To put data or programs into a computer. =MAGNETIC TAPE:= A recording device used to store programs and data. It resembles audio tape used in tape recorders. =MEMORY:= That part of the computer that stores information. Also, the external material, such as floppy disks, hard disks, or cassette tapes that store information. =MICROCOMPUTER:= A small computer in which the CPU is an integrated circuit deposited on a silicon chip. =MICROPROCESSOR:= A silicon chip that is the central, controlling part of the computer. =MINICOMPUTER:= A computer that is usually larger, more powerful, and more expensive than a microcomputer, but is smaller than a mainframe in memory and functions. =MODEM (MODulator/ DEModulator):= A device used to attach a computer or one of its devices to a communication line, often a telephone. =OPERATING SYSTEM:= A special group of programs which controls the overall operation of a computer system. It mediates between the hardware and the particular software program. =OUTPUT:= The information generated by a computer. =PERIPHERAL:= A device, such as a CRT, disk drive, or printer, used for entering or storing data into, or retrieving it from, the computer system. =PRINTER:= An output device to print the information from a computer. =PROGRAM:= A set of coded instructions directing a computer to perform a particular function. =PROGRAMING LANGUAGE:= A special language of words and rules that is used to write programs so the computer can understand them. =RAM (Random Access Memory):= The portion of the computer's memory in which data, instructions, and other information are stored temporarily. Also called read-write memory. =ROM (Read Only Memory):= The portion of the computer's memory that contains information and instructions that are stored permanently. This memory cannot be altered or added to. =SEMICONDUCTOR:= A material such as silicon with a conductivity between that of a metal and an insulator. It is used in the manufacture of solid-state devices such as diodes, transistors, and the complex integrated circuits that comprise computer logic circuits. =SOFTWARE:= A general term for computer programs, procedural rules, and sometimes the documentation involved in the operation of a computer. =SYSTEM:= The computer and all its related components, including hardware and software, that work together. =TERMINAL:= A peripheral device through which information is entered into or extracted from the computer, usually with a keyboard and an output device such as a CRT or printer. =TIMESHARING:= A method by which more than one person can use a computer at the same time at separate terminals. =TURNKEY SYSTEM:= A computer system that has all hardware and software installed. Supposedly, all you have to do is turn it on. =WORD PROCESSING:= Typing, editing, storing, and printing text with a computer. * * * * * The mention of commercial products, services, or companies does not constitute endorsement by the U.S. Department of Agriculture. If additional computer services of interest to the agricultural community are available, we would be glad to consider them for inclusion in possible revisions of this bulletin. * * * * * Transcribers Note The title "Computor System Components" (p. 17) was changed to "Computer ...". Under COIN (p. 25) the reference to "Computer Management Network" was corrected to "Computerized ...". 
26624	----	[Illustration: BOOK END] [Illustration: BOOK COVER] [Illustration: THIS BOOK BELONGS TO] [Illustration: THE ROAD TO OZ] [Illustration: CALLING ON JACK PUMPKINHEAD See Chapter 16] THE ROAD TO OZ BY L. FRANK BAUM AUTHOR OF THE LAND OF OZ, OZMA OF OZ, DOROTHY AND THE WIZARD IN OZ, ETC. [Illustration] ILLUSTRATED BY JOHN R. NEILL CHICAGO THE REILLY & BRITTON CO. PUBLISHERS [Illustration: COPYRIGHT 1909 BY L FRANK BAUM ALL RIGHTS RESERVED] [Illustration: _L'istesso tempo_ TO MY FIRST GRANDSON Joslyn Stanton Baum] To my readers: Well, my dears, here is what you have asked for: another "Oz Book" about Dorothy's strange adventures. Toto is in this story, because you wanted him to be there, and many other characters which you will recognize are in the story, too. Indeed, the wishes of my little correspondents have been considered as carefully as possible, and if the story is not exactly as you would have written it yourselves, you must remember that a story has to be a story before it can be written down, and the writer cannot change it much without spoiling it. In the preface to "Dorothy and the Wizard in Oz" I said I would like to write some stories that were not "Oz" stories, because I thought I had written about Oz long enough; but since that volume was published I have been fairly deluged with letters from children imploring me to "write more about Dorothy," and "more about Oz," and since I write only to please the children I shall try to respect their wishes. There are some new characters in this book that ought to win your love. I'm very fond of the shaggy man myself, and I think you will like him, too. As for Polychrome--the Rainbow's Daughter--and stupid little Button-Bright, they seem to have brought a new element of fun into these Oz stories, and I am glad I discovered them. Yet I am anxious to have you write and tell me how you like them. Since this book was written I have received some very remarkable news from The Land of Oz, which has greatly astonished me. I believe it will astonish you, too, my dears, when you hear it. But it is such a long and exciting story that it must be saved for another book--and perhaps that book will be the last story that will ever be told about the Land of Oz. L FRANK BAUM. _Coronado, 1909._ [Illustration] LIST OF CHAPTERS 1 THE WAY TO BUTTERFIELD 2 DOROTHY MEETS BUTTON-BRIGHT 3 A QUEER VILLAGE 4 KING DOX 5 THE RAINBOW'S DAUGHTER 6 THE CITY OF BEASTS 7 THE SHAGGY MAN'S TRANSFORMATION 8 THE MUSICKER 9 FACING THE SCOODLERS 10 ESCAPING THE SOUP-KETTLE 11 JOHNNY DOIT DOES IT 12 THE DEADLY DESERT CROSSED 13 THE TRUTH POND 14 TIK-TOK AND BILLINA 15 THE EMPEROR'S TIN CASTLE 16 VISITING THE PUMPKIN FIELD 17 THE ROYAL CHARIOT ARRIVES 18 THE EMERALD CITY 19 THE SHAGGY MAN'S WELCOME 20 PRINCESS OZMA OF OZ 21 DOROTHY RECEIVES THE GUESTS 22 IMPORTANT ARRIVALS 23 THE GRAND BANQUET 24 THE BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION [Illustration] The Way to Butterfield [Illustration] "Please, miss," said the shaggy man, "can you tell me the road to Butterfield?" Dorothy looked him over. Yes, he was shaggy, all right; but there was a twinkle in his eye that seemed pleasant. "Oh, yes," she replied; "I can tell you. But it isn't this road at all." "No?" "You cross the ten-acre lot, follow the lane to the highway, go north to the five branches, and take--let me see--" "To be sure, miss; see as far as Butterfield, if you like," said the shaggy man. "You take the branch next the willow stump, I b'lieve; or else the branch by the gopher holes; or else----" "Won't any of 'em do, miss?" "'Course not, Shaggy Man. You must take the right road to get to Butterfield." "And is that the one by the gopher stump, or----" "Dear me!" cried Dorothy; "I shall have to show you the way; you're so stupid. Wait a minute till I run in the house and get my sunbonnet." The shaggy man waited. He had an oat-straw in his mouth, which he chewed slowly as if it tasted good; but it didn't. There was an apple-tree beside the house, and some apples had fallen to the ground. The shaggy man thought they would taste better than the oat-straw, so he walked over to get some. A little black dog with bright brown eyes dashed out of the farm-house and ran madly toward the shaggy man, who had already picked up three apples and put them in one of the big wide pockets of his shaggy coat. The little dog barked, and made a dive for the shaggy man's leg; but he grabbed the dog by the neck and put it in his big pocket along with the apples. He took more apples, afterward, for many were on the ground; and each one that he tossed into his pocket hit the little dog somewhere upon the head or back, and made him growl. The little dog's name was Toto, and he was sorry he had been put in the shaggy man's pocket. [Illustration] Pretty soon Dorothy came out of the house with her sunbonnet, and she called out: "Come on, Shaggy Man, if you want me to show you the road to Butterfield." She climbed the fence into the ten-acre lot and he followed her, walking slowly and stumbling over the little hillocks in the pasture as if he was thinking of something else and did not notice them. "My, but you're clumsy!" said the little girl. "Are your feet tired?" "No, miss; it's my whiskers; they tire very easily this warm weather," said he. "I wish it would snow; don't you?" "'Course not, Shaggy Man," replied Dorothy, giving him a severe look. "If it snowed in August it would spoil the corn and the oats and the wheat; and then Uncle Henry wouldn't have any crops; and that would make him poor; and----" "Never mind," said the shaggy man. "It won't snow, I guess. Is this the lane?" "Yes," replied Dorothy, climbing another fence; "I'll go as far as the highway with you." "Thankee, miss; you're very kind for your size, I'm sure," said he gratefully. "It isn't everyone who knows the road to Butterfield," Dorothy remarked as she tripped along the lane; "but I've driven there many a time with Uncle Henry, and so I b'lieve I could find it blindfolded." "Don't do that, miss," said the shaggy man, earnestly; "you might make a mistake." "I won't," she answered, laughing. "Here's the highway. Now, it's the second--no, the third turn to the left--or else it's the fourth. Let's see. The first one is by the elm tree; and the second is by the gopher holes; and then----" "Then what?" he inquired, putting his hands in his coat pockets. Toto grabbed a finger and bit it; the shaggy man took his hand out of that pocket quickly, and said "Oh!" Dorothy did not notice. She was shading her eyes from the sun with her arm, looking anxiously down the road. "Come on," she commanded. "It's only a little way farther, so I may as well show you." After a while they came to the place where five roads branched in different directions; Dorothy pointed to one, and said: "That's it, Shaggy Man." "I'm much obliged, miss," he said, and started along another road. "Not that one!" she cried; "you're going wrong." He stopped. "I thought you said that other was the road to Butterfield," said he, running his fingers through his shaggy whiskers in a puzzled way. "So it is." "But I don't want to go to Butterfield, miss." "You don't?" "Of course not. I wanted you to show me the road, so I shouldn't go there by mistake." "Oh! Where _do_ you want to go to, then?" "I'm not particular, miss." This answer astonished the little girl; and it made her provoked, too, to think she had taken all this trouble for nothing. "There are a good many roads here," observed the shaggy man, turning slowly around, like a human windmill. "Seems to me a person could go 'most anywhere, from this place." Dorothy turned around too, and gazed in surprise. There _were_ a good many roads; more than she had ever seen before. She tried to count them, knowing there ought to be five; but when she had counted seventeen she grew bewildered and stopped, for the roads were as many as the spokes of a wheel and ran in every direction from the place where they stood; so if she kept on counting she was likely to count some of the roads twice. "Dear me!" she exclaimed. "There used to be only five roads, highway and all. And now--why, where's the highway, Shaggy Man?" "Can't say, miss," he responded, sitting down upon the ground as if tired with standing. "Wasn't it here a minute ago?" "I thought so," she answered, greatly perplexed. "And I saw the gopher holes, too, and the dead stump; but they're not here now. These roads are all strange--and what a lot of them there are! Where do you suppose they all go to?" "Roads," observed the shaggy man, "don't go anywhere. They stay in one place, so folks can walk on them." He put his hand in his side-pocket and drew out an apple--quick, before Toto could bite him again. The little dog got his head out this time and said "Bow-wow!" so loudly that it made Dorothy jump. "O Toto!" she cried; "where did you come from?" "I brought him along," said the shaggy man. "What for?" she asked. "To guard these apples in my pocket, miss, so no one would steal them." With one hand the shaggy man held the apple, which he began eating, while with the other hand he pulled Toto out of his pocket and dropped him to the ground. Of course Toto made for Dorothy at once, barking joyfully at his release from the dark pocket. When the child had patted his head lovingly, he sat down before her, his red tongue hanging out one side of his mouth, and looked up into her face with his bright brown eyes, as if asking her what they should do next. Dorothy didn't know. She looked around her anxiously for some familiar landmark; but everything was strange. Between the branches of the many roads were green meadows and a few shrubs and trees, but she couldn't see anywhere the farm-house from which she had just come, or anything she had ever seen before--except the shaggy man and Toto. Besides this, she had turned around and around so many times, trying to find out where she was, that now she couldn't even tell which direction the farm-house ought to be in; and this began to worry her and make her feel anxious. "I'm 'fraid, Shaggy Man," she said, with a sigh, "that we're lost!" "That's nothing to be afraid of," he replied, throwing away the core of his apple and beginning to eat another one. "Each of these roads must lead somewhere, or it wouldn't be here. So what does it matter?" "I want to go home again," she said. "Well, why don't you?" said he. "I don't know which road to take." "That is too bad," he said, shaking his shaggy head gravely. "I wish I could help you; but I can't. I'm a stranger in these parts." "Seems as if I were, too," she said, sitting down beside him. "It's funny. A few minutes ago I was home, and I just came to show you the way to Butterfield----" "So I shouldn't make a mistake and go there----" "And now I'm lost myself and don't now how to get home!" "Have an apple," suggested the shaggy man, handing her one with pretty red cheeks. "I'm not hungry," said Dorothy, pushing it away. "But you may be, to-morrow; then you'll be sorry you didn't eat the apple," said he. "If I am, I'll eat the apple then," promised Dorothy. "Perhaps there won't be any apple then," he returned, beginning to eat the red-cheeked one himself. "Dogs sometimes can find their way home better than people," he went on; "perhaps your dog can lead you back to the farm." "Will you, Toto?" asked Dorothy. Toto wagged his tail vigorously. "All right," said the girl; "let's go home." Toto looked around a minute, and dashed up one of the roads. "Good-bye, Shaggy Man," called Dorothy, and ran after Toto. The little dog pranced briskly along for some distance; when he turned around and looked at his mistress questioningly. "Oh, don't 'spect _me_ to tell you anything; I don't know the way," she said. "You'll have to find it yourself." But Toto couldn't. He wagged his tail, and sneezed, and shook his ears, and trotted back where they had left the shaggy man. From here he started along another road; then came back and tried another; but each time he found the way strange and decided it would not take them to the farm house. Finally, when Dorothy had begun to tire with chasing after him, Toto sat down panting beside the shaggy man and gave up. Dorothy sat down, too, very thoughtful. The little girl had encountered some queer adventures since she came to live at the farm; but this was the queerest of them all. To get lost in fifteen minutes, so near to her home and in the unromantic State of Kansas, was an experience that fairly bewildered her. "Will your folks worry?" asked the shaggy man, his eyes twinkling in a pleasant way. "I s'pose so," answered Dorothy, with a sigh. "Uncle Henry says there's _always_ something happening to me; but I've always come home safe at the last. So perhaps he'll take comfort and think I'll come home safe this time." "I'm sure you will," said the shaggy man, smilingly nodding at her. "Good little girls never come to any harm, you know. For my part, I'm good, too; so nothing ever hurts me." Dorothy looked at him curiously. His clothes were shaggy, his boots were shaggy and full of holes, and his hair and whiskers were shaggy. But his smile was sweet and his eyes were kind. "Why didn't you want to go to Butterfield?" she asked. "Because a man lives there who owes me fifteen cents, and if I went to Butterfield and he saw me he'd want to pay me the money. I don't want money, my dear." "Why not?" she inquired. "Money," declared the shaggy man, "makes people proud and haughty; I don't want to be proud and haughty. All I want is to have people love me; and as long as I own the Love Magnet everyone I meet is sure to love me dearly." [Illustration: "THIS, MY DEAR, IS THE WONDERFUL LOVE MAGNET."] "The Love Magnet! Why, what's that?" "I'll show you, if you won't tell anyone," he answered, in a low, mysterious voice. "There isn't any one to tell, 'cept Toto," said the girl. The shaggy man searched in one pocket, carefully; and in another pocket; and in a third. At last he drew out a small parcel wrapped in crumpled paper and tied with a cotton string. He unwound the string, opened the parcel, and took out a bit of metal shaped like a horseshoe. It was dull and brown, and not very pretty. "This, my dear," said he, impressively, "is the wonderful Love Magnet. It was given me by an Eskimo in the Sandwich Islands--where there are no sandwiches at all--and as long as I carry it every living thing I meet will love me dearly." "Why didn't the Eskimo keep it?" she asked, looking at the Magnet with interest. "He got tired being loved and longed for some one to hate him. So he gave me the Magnet and the very next day a grizzly bear ate him." "Wasn't he sorry then?" she inquired. "He didn't say," replied the shaggy man, wrapping and tying the Love Magnet with great care and putting it away in another pocket. "But the bear didn't seem sorry a bit," he added. "Did you know the bear?" asked Dorothy. [Illustration] "Yes; we used to play ball together in the Caviar Islands. The bear loved me because I had the Love Magnet. I couldn't blame him for eating the Eskimo, because it was his nature to do so." "Once," said Dorothy, "I knew a Hungry Tiger who longed to eat fat babies, because it was his nature to; but he never ate any because he had a Conscience." "This bear," replied the shaggy man, with a sigh, "had no Conscience, you see." The shaggy man sat silent for several minutes, apparently considering the cases of the bear and the tiger, while Toto watched him with an air of great interest. The little dog was doubtless thinking of his ride in the shaggy man's pocket and planning to keep out of reach in the future. At last the shaggy man turned and inquired, "What's your name, little girl?" "My name's Dorothy," said she, jumping up again, "but what are we going to do? We can't stay here forever, you know." "Let's take the seventh road," he suggested. "Seven is a lucky number for little girls named Dorothy." "The seventh from where?" "From where you begin to count." So she counted seven roads, and the seventh looked just like all the others; but the shaggy man got up from the ground where he had been sitting and started down this road as if sure it was the best way to go; and Dorothy and Toto followed him. Dorothy Meets Button-bright [Illustration] The seventh road was a good road, and curved this way and that--winding through green meadows and fields covered with daisies and buttercups and past groups of shady trees. There were no houses of any sort to be seen, and for some distance they met with no living creature at all. Dorothy began to fear they were getting a good way from the _farm-house_, since here everything was strange to her; but it would do no good at all to go back where the other roads all met, because the next one they chose might lead her just as far from home. She kept on beside the shaggy man, who whistled cheerful tunes to beguile the journey, until by-and-by they followed a turn in the road and saw before them a big chestnut tree making a shady spot over the highway. In the shade sat a little boy dressed in sailor clothes, who was digging a hole in the earth with a bit of wood. He must have been digging some time, because the hole was already big enough to drop a foot-ball into. Dorothy and Toto and the shaggy man came to a halt before the little boy, who kept on digging in a sober and persistent fashion. "Who are you?" asked the girl. He looked up at her calmly. His face was round and chubby and his eyes were big, blue, and earnest. "I'm Button-Bright," said he. "But what's you real name?" she inquired. "Button-Bright." "That isn't a really-truly name!" she exclaimed. "Isn't it?" he asked, still digging. "'Course not. It's just a--a thing to call you by. You must have a name." "Must I?" "To be sure. What does your mamma call you?" He paused in his digging and tried to think. "Papa always said I was bright as a button; so mamma always called me Button-Bright," he said. "What is your papa's name?" "Just Papa." "What else?" "Don't know." "Never mind," said the shaggy man, smiling. "We'll call the boy Button-Bright, as his mamma does. That name is as good as any, and better than some." Dorothy watched the boy dig. "Where do you live?" she asked. "Don't know," was the reply. "How did you come here?" "Don't know," he said again. "Don't you know where you came from?" "No," said he. "Why, he must be lost," she said to the shaggy man. She turned to the boy once more. "What are you going to do?" she inquired. "Dig," said he. "But you can't dig forever; and what are you going to do then?" she persisted. "Don't know," said the boy. "But you _must_ know _something_," declared Dorothy, getting provoked. "Must I?" he asked, looking up in surprise. "Of course you must." "What must I know?" "What's going to become of you, for one thing," she answered. "Do _you_ know what's going to become of me?" he asked. "Not--not 'zactly," she admitted. "Do you know what's going to become of _you_?" he continued, earnestly. [Illustration] "I can't say I do," replied Dorothy, remembering her present difficulties. The shaggy man laughed. "No one knows everything, Dorothy," he said. "But Button-Bright doesn't seem to know _anything_," she declared. "Do you, Button-Bright?" He shook his head, which had pretty curls all over it, and replied with perfect calmness: "Don't know." Never before had Dorothy met with any one who could give her so little information. The boy was evidently lost, and his people would be sure to worry about him. He seemed two or three years younger than Dorothy, and was prettily dressed, as if some one loved him dearly and took much pains to make him look well. How, then, did he come to be in this lonely road? she wondered. Near Button-Bright, on the ground, lay a sailor hat with a gilt anchor on the band. His sailor trousers were long and wide at the bottom, and the broad collar of his blouse had gold anchors sewed on its corners. The boy was still digging at his hole. "Have you ever been to sea?" asked Dorothy. "To see what?" answered Button-Bright. "I mean have you ever been where there's water?" "Yes," said Button-Bright; "there's a well in our back yard." "You don't understand," cried Dorothy. "I mean, have you ever been on a big ship floating on a big ocean?" "Don't know," said he. "Then why do you wear sailor clothes?" "Don't know," he answered, again. Dorothy was in despair. "You're just _awful_ stupid, Button-Bright," she said. "Am I?" he asked. "Yes, you are." "Why?" looking up at her with big eyes. She was going to say: "Don't know," but stopped herself in time. "That's for you to answer," she replied. "It's no use asking Button-Bright questions," said the shaggy man, who had been eating another apple; "but some one ought to take care of the poor little chap, don't you think? So he'd better come along with us." Toto had been looking with great curiosity into the hole which the boy was digging, and growing more and more excited every minute, perhaps thinking that Button-Bright was after some wild animal. The little dog began barking loudly and jumped into the hole himself, where he began to dig with his tiny paws, making the earth fly in all directions. It spattered over the boy. Dorothy seized him and raised him to his feet, brushing his clothes with her hand. "Stop that, Toto!" she called. "There aren't any mice or woodchucks in that hole, so don't be foolish." Toto stopped, sniffed at the hole suspiciously, and jumped out of it, wagging his tail as if he had done something important. "Well," said the shaggy man, "let's start on, or we won't get anywhere before night comes." "Where do you expect to get to?" asked Dorothy. "I'm like Button-Bright; I don't know," answered the shaggy man, with a laugh. "But I've learned from long experience that every road leads somewhere, or there wouldn't be any road; so it's likely that if we travel long enough, my dear, we will come to some place or another in the end. What place it will be we can't even guess at this moment, but we're sure to find out when we get there." "Why, yes," said Dorothy; "that seems reas'n'ble, Shaggy Man." [Illustration] A Queer Village [Illustration] Button-bright took the shaggy man's hand willingly; for the shaggy man had the Love Magnet, you know, which was the reason Button-Bright had loved him at once. They started on, with Dorothy on one side, and Toto on the other, the little party trudging along more cheerfully than you might have supposed. The girl was getting used to queer adventures, which interested her very much. Wherever Dorothy went Toto was sure to go, like Mary's little lamb. Button-Bright didn't seem a bit afraid or worried because he was lost, and the shaggy man had no home, perhaps, and was as happy in one place as in another. Before long they saw ahead of them a fine big arch spanning the road, and when they came nearer they found that the arch was beautifully carved and decorated with rich colors. A row of peacocks with spread tails ran along the top of it, and all the feathers were gorgeously painted. In the center was a large fox's head, and the fox wore a shrewd and knowing expression and had large spectacles over its eyes and a small golden crown with shiny points on top of its head. While the travellers were looking with curiosity at this beautiful arch there suddenly marched out of it a company of soldiers--only the soldiers were all foxes dressed in uniforms. They wore green jackets and yellow pantaloons, and their little round caps and their high boots were a bright red color. Also there was a big red bow tied about the middle of each long, bushy tail. Each soldier was armed with a wooden sword having an edge of sharp teeth set in a row, and the sight of these teeth at first caused Dorothy to shudder. A captain marched in front of the company of fox-soldiers, his uniform embroidered with gold braid to make it handsomer than the others. Almost before our friends realized it the soldiers had surrounded them on all sides, and the captain was calling out in a harsh voice: "Surrender! You are our prisoners." "What's a pris'ner?" asked Button-Bright. "A prisoner is a captive," replied the fox-captain, strutting up and down with much dignity. "What's a captive?" asked Button-Bright. "You're one," said the captain. That made the shaggy man laugh. "Good afternoon, captain," he said, bowing politely to all the foxes and very low to their commander. "I trust you are in good health, and that your families are all well?" The fox-captain looked at the shaggy man, and his sharp features grew pleasant and smiling. "We're pretty well, thank you, Shaggy Man," said he; and Dorothy knew that the Love Magnet was working and that all the foxes now loved the shaggy man because of it. But Toto didn't know this, for he began barking angrily and tried to bite the captain's hairy leg where it showed between his red boots and his yellow pantaloons. "Stop, Toto!" cried the little girl, seizing the dog in her arms. "These are our friends." "Why, so we are!" remarked the captain in tones of astonishment. "I thought at first we were enemies, but it seems you are friends, instead. You must come with me to see King Dox." "Who's he?" asked Button-Bright, with earnest eyes. "King Dox of Foxville; the great and wise sovereign who rules over our community." [Illustration] "What's sov'rin, and what's c'u'nity?" inquired Button-Bright. "Don't ask so many questions, little boy." "Why?" "Ah, why, indeed?" exclaimed the captain, looking at Button-Bright admiringly. "If you don't ask questions you will learn nothing. True enough. I was wrong. You're a very clever little boy, come to think of it--very clever indeed. But now, friends, please come with me, for it is my duty to escort you at once to the royal palace." The soldiers marched back through the arch again, and with them marched the shaggy man, Dorothy, Toto, and Button-Bright. Once through the opening they found a fine, big city spread out before them, all the houses of carved marble in beautiful colors. The decorations were mostly birds and other fowl, such as peacocks, pheasants, turkeys, prairie-chickens, ducks, and geese. Over each doorway was carved a head representing the fox who lived in that house, this effect being quite pretty and unusual. As our friends marched along, some of the foxes came out on the porches and balconies to get a view of the strangers. These foxes were all handsomely dressed, the girl-foxes and women-foxes wearing gowns of feathers woven together effectively and colored in bright hues which Dorothy thought were quite artistic and decidedly attractive. Button-Bright stared until his eyes were big and round, and he would have stumbled and fallen more than once had not the shaggy man grasped his hand tightly. They were all interested, and Toto was so excited he wanted to bark every minute and to chase and fight every fox he caught sight of; but Dorothy held his little wiggling body fast in her arms and commanded him to be good and behave himself. So he finally quieted down, like a wise doggy, deciding there were too many foxes in Foxville to fight at one time. By-and-bye they came to a big square, and in the center of the square stood the royal palace. Dorothy knew it at once because it had over its great door the carved head of a fox just like the one she had seen on the arch, and this fox was the only one who wore a golden crown. There were many fox-soldiers guarding the door, but they bowed to the captain and admitted him without question. The captain led them through many rooms, where richly dressed foxes were sitting on beautiful chairs or sipping tea, which was being passed around by fox-servants in white aprons. They came to a big doorway covered with heavy curtains of cloth of gold. Beside this doorway stood a huge drum. The fox-captain went to this drum and knocked his knees against it--first one knee and then the other--so that the drum said; "Boom-boom." "You must all do exactly what I do," ordered the captain; so the shaggy man pounded the drum with his knees, and so did Dorothy and so did Button-Bright. The boy wanted to keep on pounding it with his little fat knees, because he liked the sound of it; but the captain stopped him. Toto couldn't pound the drum with his knees and he didn't know enough to wag his tail against it, so Dorothy pounded the drum for him and that made him bark, and when the little dog barked the fox-captain scowled. The golden curtains drew back far enough to make an opening, through which marched the captain with the others. The broad, long room they entered was decorated in gold with stained-glass windows of splendid colors. In the center of the room, upon a richly carved golden throne, sat the fox-king, surrounded by a group of other foxes, all of whom wore great spectacles over their eyes, making them look solemn and important. [Illustration] Dorothy knew the King at once, because she had seen his head carved on the arch and over the doorway of the palace. Having met with several other kings in her travels she knew what to do, and at once made a low bow before the throne. The shaggy man bowed, too, and Button-Bright bobbed his head and said "Hello." "Most wise and noble Potentate of Foxville," said the captain, addressing the King in a pompous voice, "I humbly beg to report that I found these strangers on the road leading to your Foxy Majesty's dominions, and have therefore brought them before you, as is my duty." "So--so," said the King, looking at them keenly. "What brought you here, strangers?" "Our legs, may it please your Royal Hairiness," replied the shaggy man. "What is your business here?" was the next question. "To get away as soon as possible," said the shaggy man. The King didn't know about the Magnet, of course; but it made him love the shaggy man at once. "Do just as you please about going away," he said; "but I'd like to _show you_ the sights of my city and to entertain your party while you are here. We feel highly honored to have little Dorothy with us, I assure you, and we appreciate her kindness in making us a visit. For whatever country Dorothy visits is sure to become famous." This speech greatly surprised the little girl, who asked: "How did your Majesty know my name?" "Why, everybody knows you, my dear," said the Fox-King. "Don't you realize that? You are quite an important personage since Princess Ozma of Oz made you her friend." "Do you know Ozma?" she asked, wondering. "I regret to say that I do not," he answered, sadly; "but I hope to meet her soon. You know the Princess Ozma is to celebrate her birthday on the twenty-first of this month." "Is she?" said Dorothy. "I didn't know that." "Yes; it is to be the most brilliant royal ceremony ever held in any city in Fairyland, and I hope you will try to get me an invitation." Dorothy thought a moment. "I'm sure Ozma would invite you if I asked her," she said; "but how could you get to the Land of Oz and the Emerald City? It's a good way from Kansas." "Kansas!" he exclaimed, surprised. "Why, yes; we are in Kansas now, aren't we?" she returned. [Illustration] "What a queer notion!" cried the Fox-King, beginning to laugh. "Whatever made you think this is Kansas?" "I left Uncle Henry's farm only about two hours ago; that's the reason," she said, rather perplexed. "But, tell me, my dear, did you ever see so wonderful a city as Foxville in Kansas?" he questioned. "No, your Majesty." "And haven't you traveled from Oz to Kansas in less than half a jiffy, by means of the Silver Shoes and the Magic Belt?" "Yes, your Majesty," she acknowledged. "Then why do you wonder that an hour or two could bring you to Foxville, which is nearer to Oz than it is to Kansas?" "Dear me!" exclaimed Dorothy; "is this another fairy adventure?" "It seems to be," said the Fox-King, smiling. Dorothy turned to the shaggy man, and her face was grave and reproachful. "Are you a magician? or a fairy in disguise?" she asked. "Did you enchant me when you asked the way to Butterfield?" The shaggy man shook his head. "Who ever heard of a shaggy fairy?" he replied. "No, Dorothy, my dear; I'm not to blame for this journey in any way, I assure you. There's been something strange about me ever since I owned the Love Magnet; but I don't know what it is any more than you do. I didn't try to get you away from home, at all. If you want to find your way back to the farm I'll go with you willingly, and do my best to help you." "Never mind," said the little girl, thoughtfully. "There isn't so much to see in Kansas as there is here, and I guess Aunt Em won't be _very_ much worried; that is, if I don't stay away too long." [Illustration: HIS ROYAL FOXINESS] "That's right," declared the Fox-King, nodding approval. "Be contented with your lot, whatever it happens to be, if you are wise. Which reminds me that you have a new companion on this adventure--he looks very clever and bright." "He is," said Dorothy; and the shaggy man added: "That's his name, your Royal Foxiness--Button Bright." King Dox [Illustration] It was amusing to note the expression on the face of King Dox as he looked the boy over, from his sailor hat to his stubby shoes; and it was equally diverting to watch Button-Bright stare at the King in return. No fox ever beheld a fresher, fairer child's face, and no child had ever before heard a fox talk, or met with one who dressed so handsomely and ruled so big a city. I am sorry to say that no one had ever told the little boy much about fairies of any kind; this being the case, it is easy to understand how much this strange experience startled and astonished him. "How do you like us?" asked the King. "Don't know," said Button-Bright. "Of course you don't. It's too short an acquaintance," returned his Majesty. "What do you suppose my name is?" "Don't know," said Button-Bright. "How should you? Well, I'll tell you. My private name is Dox, but a King can't be called by his private name; he has to take one that is official. Therefore my official name is King Renard the Fourth. Ren-ard with the accent on the 'Ren'." "What's 'ren'?" asked Button-Bright. "How clever!" exclaimed the King, turning a pleased face toward his counselors. "This boy is indeed remarkably bright. 'What's 'ren''? he asks; and of course 'ren' is nothing at all, all by itself. Yes; he's very bright indeed." "That question is what your Majesty might call foxy," said one of the counselors, an old grey fox. "So it is," declared the King. Turning again to Button-Bright, he asked: "Having told you my name, what would you call me?" "King Dox," said the boy. "Why?" "'Cause 'ren''s nothing at all," was the reply. "Good! Very good indeed! You certainly have a brilliant mind. Do you know why two and two make four?" "No," said Button-Bright. "Clever! clever indeed. Of course you don't know. Nobody knows why; we only know it's so, and can't tell why it's so. Button-Bright, those curls and blue eyes do not go well with so much wisdom. They make you look too youthful, and hide your real cleverness. Therefore, I will do you a great favor. I will confer upon you the head of a fox, so that you may hereafter look as bright as you really are." [Illustration] As he spoke the King waved his paw toward the boy, and at once the pretty curls and fresh round face and big blue eyes were gone, while in their place a fox's head appeared upon Button-Bright's shoulders--a hairy head with a sharp nose, pointed ears, and keen little eyes. "Oh, don't do that!" cried Dorothy, shrinking back from her transformed companion with a shocked and dismayed face. "Too late, my dear; it's done. But you also shall have a fox's head if you can prove you're as clever as Button-Bright." "I don't want it; it's dreadful!" she exclaimed; and, hearing this verdict, Button-Bright began to boo-hoo just as if he were still a little boy. "How can you call that lovely head dreadful?" asked the King. "It's a much prettier face than he had before, to my notion, and my wife says I'm a good judge of beauty. Don't cry, little fox-boy. Laugh and be proud, because you are so highly favored. How do you like the new head, Button-Bright?" "D-d-don't n-n-n-know!" sobbed the child. "Please, _please_ change him back again, your Majesty!" begged Dorothy. King Renard IV shook his head. "I can't do that," he said; "I haven't the power, even if I wanted to. No, Button-Bright must wear his fox head, and he'll be sure to love it dearly as soon as he gets used to it." Both the shaggy man and Dorothy looked grave and anxious, for they were sorrowful that such a misfortune had overtaken their little companion. Toto barked at the fox-boy once or twice, not realizing it was his former friend who now wore the animal head; but Dorothy cuffed the dog and made him stop. As for the foxes, they all seemed to think Button-Bright's new head very becoming and that their King had conferred a great honor on this little stranger. It was funny to see the boy reach up to feel of his sharp nose and wide mouth, and wail afresh with grief. He wagged his ears in a comical manner and tears were in his little black eyes. But Dorothy couldn't laugh at her friend just yet, because she felt so sorry. Just then three little fox-princesses, daughters of the King, entered the room, and when they saw Button-Bright one exclaimed: "How lovely he is!" and the next one cried in delight: "How sweet he is!" and the third princess clapped her hands with pleasure and said, "How beautiful he is!" Button-Bright stopped crying and asked timidly: "Am I?" "In all the world there is not another face so pretty," declared the biggest fox-princess. "You must live with us always, and be our brother," said the next. "We shall all love you dearly," the third said. This praise did much to comfort the boy, and he looked around and tried to smile. It was a pitiful attempt, because the fox face was new and stiff, and Dorothy thought his expression more stupid than before the transformation. "I think we ought to be going now," said the shaggy man, uneasily, for he didn't know what the King might take into his head to do next. "Don't leave us yet, I beg of you," pleaded King Renard. "I intend to have several days of feasting and merrymaking, in honor of your visit." "Have it after we're gone, for we can't wait," said Dorothy, decidedly. But seeing this displeased the King, she added: "If I'm going to get Ozma to invite you to her party I'll have to find her as soon as poss'ble, you know." In spite of all the beauty of Foxville and the gorgeous dresses of its inhabitants, both the girl and the shaggy man felt they were not quite safe there, and would be glad to see the last of it. "But it is now evening," the King reminded them, "and you must stay with us until morning, anyhow. Therefore I invite you to be my guests at dinner, and to attend the theater afterward and sit in the royal box. To-morrow morning, if you really insist upon it, you may resume your journey." They consented to this, and some of the fox-servants led them to a suite of lovely rooms in the big palace. Button-Bright was afraid to be left alone, so Dorothy took him into her own room. While a maid-fox dressed the little girl's hair--which was a bit tangled--and put some bright, fresh ribbons in it, another maid-fox combed the hair on poor Button-Bright's face and head and brushed it carefully, tying a pink bow to each of his pointed ears. The maids wanted to dress the children in fine costumes of woven feathers, such as all the foxes wore; but neither of them consented to that. [Illustration] "A sailor suit and a fox head do not go well together," said one of the maids; "for no fox was ever a sailor that I can remember." "I'm not a fox!" cried Button-Bright. "Alas, no," agreed the maid. "But you've got a lovely fox head on your skinny shoulders, and that's _almost_ as good as being a fox." The boy, reminded of his misfortune, began to cry again. Dorothy petted and comforted him and promised to find some way to restore him his own head. "If we can manage to get to Ozma," she said, "the Princess will change you back to yourself in half a second; so you just wear that fox head as comf't'bly as you can, dear, and don't worry about it at all. It isn't nearly as pretty as your own head, no matter what the foxes say; but you can get along with it for a little while longer, can't you?" "Don't know," said Button-Bright, doubtfully; but he didn't cry any more after that. Dorothy let the maids pin ribbons to her shoulders, after which they were ready for the King's dinner. When they met the shaggy man in the splendid drawing-room of the palace they found him just the same as before. He had refused to give up his shaggy clothes for new ones, because if he did that he would no longer be the shaggy man, he said, and he might have to get acquainted with himself all over again. He told Dorothy he had brushed his shaggy hair and whiskers; but she thought he must have brushed them the wrong way, for they were quite as shaggy as before. As for the company of foxes assembled to dine with the strangers, they were most beautifully costumed, and their rich dresses made Dorothy's simple gown and Button-Bright's sailor suit and the shaggy man's shaggy clothes look commonplace. But they treated their guests with great respect and the King's dinner was a very good dinner indeed. Foxes, as you know, are fond of chicken and other fowl; so they served chicken soup and roasted turkey and stewed duck and fried grouse and broiled quail and goose pie, and as the cooking was excellent the King's guests enjoyed the meal and ate heartily of the various dishes. The party went to the theater, where they saw a play acted by foxes dressed in costumes of brilliantly colored feathers. The play was about a fox-girl who was stolen by some wicked wolves and carried to their cave; and just as they were about to kill her and eat her a company of fox-soldiers marched up, saved the girl, and put all the wicked wolves to death. "How do you like it?" the King asked Dorothy. "Pretty well," she answered. "It reminds me of one of Mr. Aesop's fables." "Don't mention Aesop to me, I beg of you!" exclaimed King Dox. "I hate that man's name. He wrote a good deal about foxes, but always made them out cruel and wicked, whereas we are gentle and kind, as you may see." "But his fables showed you to be wise and clever, and more shrewd than other animals," said the shaggy man, thoughtfully. [Illustration] "So we are. There is no question about our knowing more than men do," replied the King, proudly. "But we employ our wisdom to do good, instead of harm; so that horrid Aesop did not know what he was talking about." They did not like to contradict him, because they felt he ought to know the nature of foxes better than men did; so they sat still and watched the play, and Button-Bright became so interested that for the time he forgot he wore a fox head. Afterward they went back to the palace and slept in soft beds stuffed with feathers; for the foxes raised many fowl for food, and used their feathers for clothing and to sleep upon. Dorothy wondered why the animals living in Foxville did not wear just their own hairy skins, as wild foxes do; when she mentioned it to King Dox he said they clothed themselves because they were civilized. "But you were born without clothes," she observed, "and you don't seem to me to need them." "So were human beings born without clothes," he replied; "and until they became civilized they wore only their natural skins. But to become civilized means to dress as elaborately and prettily as possible, and to make a show of your clothes so your neighbors will envy you, and for that reason both civilized foxes and civilized humans spend most of their time dressing themselves." "I don't," declared the shaggy man. "That is true," said the King, looking at him carefully: "but perhaps you are not civilized." After a sound sleep and a good night's rest they had their breakfast with the King and then bade his Majesty good-bye. "You've been kind to us--'cept poor Button-Bright," said Dorothy, "and we've had a nice time in Foxville." "Then," said King Dox, "perhaps you'll be good enough to get me an invitation to Princess Ozma's birthday celebration." "I'll try," she promised; "if I see her in time." "It's on the twenty-first, remember," he continued; "and if you'll just see that I'm invited I'll find a way to cross the Dreadful Desert into the marvelous Land of Oz. I've always wanted to visit the Emerald City, so I'm sure it was fortunate you arrived here just when you did, you being Princess Ozma's friend and able to assist me in getting the invitation." "If I see Ozma I'll ask her to invite you," she replied. The Fox-King had a delightful luncheon put up for them, which the shaggy man shoved in his pocket, and the fox-captain escorted them to an arch at the side of the village opposite the one by which they had entered. Here they found more soldiers guarding the road. "Are you afraid of enemies?" asked Dorothy. "No; because we are watchful and able to protect ourselves," answered the captain. "But this road leads to another village peopled by big, stupid beasts who might cause us trouble if they thought we were afraid of them." "What beasts are they?" asked the shaggy man. The captain hesitated to answer. Finally he said: "You will learn all about them when you arrive at their city. But do not be afraid of them. Button-Bright is so wonderfully clever and has now such an intelligent face that I'm sure he will manage to find a way to protect you." This made Dorothy and the shaggy man rather uneasy, for they had not so much confidence in the fox-boy's wisdom as the captain seemed to have. But as their escort would say no more about the beasts, they bade him good-bye and proceeded on their journey. [Illustration] The Rainbow's Daughter [Illustration] Toto, now allowed to run about as he pleased, was glad to be free again and able to bark at the birds and chase the butterflies. The country around them was charming, yet in the pretty fields of wild-flowers and groves of leafy trees were no houses whatever, or sign of any inhabitants. Birds flew through the air and cunning white rabbits darted amongst the tall grasses and green bushes; Dorothy noticed even the ants toiling busily along the roadway, bearing gigantic loads of clover seed; but of people there were none at all. They walked briskly on for an hour or two, for even little Button-Bright was a good walker and did not tire easily. At length as they turned a curve in the road they beheld just before them a curious sight. A little girl, radiant and beautiful, shapely as a fairy and exquisitely dressed, was dancing gracefully in the middle of the lonely road, whirling slowly this way and that, her dainty feet twinkling in sprightly fashion. She was clad in flowing, fluffy robes of soft material that reminded Dorothy of woven cobwebs, only it was colored in soft tintings of violet, rose, topaz, olive, azure, and white, mingled together most harmoniously in stripes which melted one into the other with soft blendings. Her hair was like spun gold and floated around her in a cloud, no strand being fastened or confined by either pin or ornament or ribbon. Filled with wonder and admiration our friends approached and stood watching this fascinating dance. The girl was no taller than Dorothy, although more slender; nor did she seem any older than our little heroine. Suddenly she paused and abandoned the dance, as if for the first time observing the presence of strangers. As she faced them, shy as a frightened fawn, poised upon one foot as if to fly the next instant, Dorothy was astonished to see tears flowing from her violet eyes and trickling down her lovely rose-hued cheeks. That the dainty maiden should dance and weep at the same time was indeed surprising; so Dorothy asked in a soft, sympathetic voice: [Illustration: POLYCHROME--THE RAINBOW'S DAUGHTER] "Are you unhappy, little girl?" "Very!" was the reply; "I am lost." "Why, so are we," said Dorothy, smiling; "but we don't cry about it." "Don't you? Why not?" "'Cause I've been lost before, and always got found again," answered Dorothy, simply. "But I've never been lost before," murmured the dainty maiden, "and I'm worried and afraid." "You were dancing," remarked Dorothy, in a puzzled tone of voice. "Oh, that was just to keep warm," explained the maiden, quickly. "It was not because I felt happy or gay, I assure you." Dorothy looked at her closely. Her gauzy flowing robes might not be very warm, yet the weather wasn't at all chilly, but rather mild and balmy, like a spring day. "Who are you, dear?" she asked, gently. "I'm Polychrome," was the reply. "Polly whom?" "Polychrome. I'm the Daughter of the Rainbow." "Oh!" said Dorothy, with a gasp; "I didn't know the Rainbow had children. But I _might_ have known it, before you spoke. You couldn't really be anything else." "Why not?" inquired Polychrome, as if surprised. "Because you're so lovely and sweet." The little maiden smiled through her tears, came up to Dorothy, and placed her slender fingers in the Kansas girl's chubby hand. "You'll be my friend--won't you?" she said, pleadingly. [Illustration] "Of course." "And what is your name?" "I'm Dorothy; and this is my friend Shaggy Man, who owns the Love Magnet; and this is Button-Bright--only you don't see him as he really is because the Fox-King carelessly changed his head into a fox head. But the real Button-Bright is good to look at, and I hope to get him changed back to himself, some time." The Rainbow's Daughter nodded cheerfully, no longer afraid of her new companions. "But who is this?" she asked, pointing to Toto, who was sitting before her wagging his tail in the most friendly manner and admiring the pretty maid with his bright eyes. "Is this, also, some enchanted person?" "Oh no, Polly--I may call you Polly, mayn't I? Your whole name's awful hard to say." "Call me Polly if you wish, Dorothy." "Well, Polly, Toto's just a dog; but he has more sense than Button-Bright, to tell the truth; and I'm very fond of him." "So am I," said Polychrome, bending gracefully to pat Toto's head. "But how did the Rainbow's Daughter ever get on this lonely road, and become lost?" asked the shaggy man, who had listened wonderingly to all this. "Why, my father stretched his rainbow over here this morning, so that one end of it touched this road," was the reply; "and I was dancing upon the pretty rays, as I love to do, and never noticed I was getting too far over the bend in the circle. Suddenly I began to slide, and I went faster and faster until at last I bumped on the ground, at the very end. Just then father lifted the rainbow again, without noticing me at all, and though I tried to seize the end of it and hold fast, it melted away entirely and I was left alone and helpless on the cold, hard earth!" "It doesn't seem cold to me, Polly," said Dorothy; "but perhaps you're not warmly dressed." "I'm so used to living nearer the sun," replied the Rainbow's Daughter, "that at first I feared I would freeze down here. But my dance has warmed me some, and now I wonder how I am ever to get home again." "Won't your father miss you, and look for you, and let down another rainbow for you?" [Illustration] "Perhaps so; but he's busy just now because it rains in so many parts of the world at this season, and he has to set his rainbow in a lot of different places. What would you advise me to do, Dorothy?" "Come with us," was the answer. "I'm going to try to find my way to the Emerald City, which is in the fairy Land of Oz. The Emerald City is ruled by a friend of mine, the Princess Ozma, and if we can manage to get there I'm sure she will know a way to send you home to your father again." "Do you really think so?" asked Polychrome, anxiously. "I'm pretty sure." "Then I'll go with you," said the little maid; "for travel will help keep me warm, and father can find me in one part of the world as well as another--if he gets time to look for me." "Come along, then," said the shaggy man, cheerfully; and they started on once more. Polly walked beside Dorothy a while, holding her new friend's hand as if she feared to let it go; but her nature seemed as light and buoyant as her fleecy robes, for suddenly she darted ahead and whirled round in a giddy dance. Then she tripped back to them with sparkling eyes and smiling cheeks, having regained her usual happy mood and forgotten all her worry about being lost. They found her a charming companion, and her dancing and laughter--for she laughed at times like the tinkling of a silver bell--did much to enliven their journey and keep them contented. The City of Beasts [Illustration] When noon came they opened the Fox-King's basket of luncheon, and found a nice roasted turkey with cranberry sauce and some slices of bread and butter. As they sat on the grass by the roadside the shaggy man cut up the turkey with his pocket-knife and passed slices of it around. "Haven't you any dewdrops, or mist-cakes, or cloud-buns?" asked Polychrome, longingly. "'Course not," replied Dorothy. "We eat solid things, down here on the earth. But there's a bottle of cold tea. Try some, won't you?" The Rainbow's Daughter watched Button-Bright devour one leg of the turkey. "Is it good?" she asked. He nodded. "Do you think I could eat it?" "Not this," said Button-Bright. "But I mean another piece?" "Don't know," he replied. "Well, I'm going to try, for I'm very hungry," she decided, and took a thin slice of the white breast of turkey which the shaggy man cut for her, as well as a bit of bread and butter. When she tasted it Polychrome thought the turkey was good--better even than mist-cakes; but a little satisfied her hunger and she finished with a tiny sip of cold tea. "That's about as much as a fly would eat," said Dorothy, who was making a good meal herself. "But I know some people in Oz who eat nothing at all." "Who are they?" inquired the shaggy man. "One is a scarecrow who's stuffed with straw, and the other a woodman made out of tin. They haven't any appetites inside of 'em, you see; so they never eat anything at all." "Are they alive?" asked Button-Bright. "Oh yes," replied Dorothy; "and they're very clever and very nice, too. If we get to Oz I'll introduce them to you." "Do you really expect to get to Oz?" inquired the shaggy man, taking a drink of cold tea. [Illustration: POLLY SIPPED A LITTLE COLD TEA] "I don't know just what to 'spect," answered the child, seriously; "but I've noticed if I happen to get lost I'm almost sure to come to the Land of Oz in the end, somehow 'r other; so I may get there this time. But I can't promise, you know; all I can do is wait and see." "Will the Scarecrow scare me?" asked Button-Bright. "No; 'cause you're not a crow," she returned. "He has the loveliest smile you ever saw--only it's painted on and he can't help it." Luncheon being over they started again upon their journey, the shaggy man, Dorothy and Button-Bright walking soberly along, side by side, and the Rainbow's Daughter dancing merrily before them. Sometimes she darted along the road so swiftly that she was nearly out of sight, then she came tripping back to greet them with her silvery laughter. But once she came back more sedately, to say: "There's a city a little way off." "I 'spected that," returned Dorothy; "for the fox-people warned us there was one on this road. It's filled with stupid beasts of some sort, but we mustn't be afraid of 'em 'cause they won't hurt us." "All right," said Button-Bright; but Polychrome didn't know whether it was all right or not. "It's a big city," she said, "and the road runs straight through it." "Never mind," said the shaggy man; "as long as I carry the Love Magnet every living thing will love me, and you may be sure I shan't allow any of my friends to be harmed in any way." This comforted them somewhat, and they moved on again. Pretty soon they came to a sign-post that read: "HAF A MYLE TO DUNKITON." "Oh," said the shaggy man, "if they're donkeys we've nothing to fear at all." "They may kick," said Dorothy, doubtfully. "Then we will cut some switches, and make them behave," he replied. At the first tree he cut himself a long, slender switch from one of the branches, and shorter switches for the others. "Don't be afraid to order the beasts around," he said; "they're used to it." Before long the road brought them to the gates of the city. There was a high wall all around, which had been whitewashed, and the gate just before our travelers was a mere opening in the wall, with no bars across it. No towers or steeples or domes showed above the enclosure, nor was any living thing to be seen as our friends drew near. Suddenly, as they were about to boldly enter through the opening, there arose a harsh clamor of sound that swelled and echoed on every side, until they were nearly deafened by the racket and had to put their fingers to their ears to keep the noise out. It was like the firing of many cannon, only there were no cannon-balls or other missiles to be seen; it was like the rolling of mighty thunder, only not a cloud was in the sky; it was like the roar of countless breakers on a rugged seashore, only there was no sea or other water anywhere about. They hesitated to advance; but, as the noise did no harm, they entered through the whitewashed wall and quickly discovered the cause of the turmoil. Inside were suspended many sheets of tin or thin iron, and against these metal sheets a row of donkeys were pounding their heels with vicious kicks. [Illustration] The shaggy man ran up to the nearest donkey and gave the beast a sharp blow with his switch. "Stop that noise!" he shouted; and the donkey stopped kicking the metal sheet and turned its head to look with surprise at the shaggy man. He switched the next donkey, and made him stop, and then the next, so that gradually the rattling of heels ceased and the awful noise subsided. The donkeys stood in a group and eyed the strangers with fear and trembling. "What do you mean by making such a racket?" asked the shaggy man, sternly. "We were scaring away the foxes," said one of the donkeys, meekly. "Usually they run fast enough when they hear the noise, which makes them afraid." "There are no foxes here," said the shaggy man. "I beg to differ with you. There's one, anyhow," replied the donkey, sitting upright on its haunches and waving a hoof toward Button-Bright. "We saw him coming and thought the whole army of foxes was marching to attack us." "Button-Bright isn't a fox," explained the shaggy man. "He's only wearing a fox head for a time, until he can get his own head back." "Oh, I see," remarked the donkey, waving its left ear reflectively. "I'm sorry we made such a mistake, and had all our work and worry for nothing." The other donkeys by this time were sitting up and examining the strangers with big, glassy eyes. They made a queer picture, indeed; for they wore wide, white collars around their necks and the collars had many scallops and points. The gentlemen-donkeys wore high pointed caps set between their great ears, and the lady-donkeys wore sunbonnets with holes cut in the top for the ears to stick through. But they had no other clothing except their hairy skins, although many wore gold and silver bangles on their front wrists and bands of different metals on their rear ankles. When they were kicking they had braced themselves with their front legs, but now they all stood or sat upright on their hind legs and used their front ones as arms. Having no fingers or hands the beasts were rather clumsy, as you may guess; but Dorothy was surprised to observe how many things they could do with their stiff, heavy hoofs. Some of the donkeys were white, some were brown, or gray, or black, or spotted; but their hair was sleek and smooth and their broad collars and caps gave them a neat, if whimsical, appearance. "This is a nice way to welcome visitors, I must say!" remarked the shaggy man, in a reproachful tone. "Oh, we did not mean to be impolite," replied a grey donkey which had not spoken before. "But you were not expected, nor did you send in your visiting cards, as it is proper to do." "There is some truth in that," admitted the shaggy man; "but, now you are informed that we are important and distinguished travelers, I trust you will accord us proper consideration." These big words delighted the donkeys, and made them bow to the shaggy man with great respect. Said the grey one: "You shall be taken before his great and glorious Majesty King Kik-a-bray, who will greet you as becomes your exalted stations." "That's right," answered Dorothy. "Take us to some one who knows something." [Illustration] "Oh, we all know something, my child, or we shouldn't be donkeys," asserted the grey one, with dignity. "The word 'donkey' means 'clever,' you know." "I didn't know it," she replied. "I thought it meant 'stupid'." "Not at all, my child. If you will look in the Encyclopedia Donkaniara you will find I'm correct. But come; I will myself lead you before our splendid, exalted, and most intellectual ruler." All donkeys love big words, so it is no wonder the grey one used so many of them. The Shaggy Man's Transformation [Illustration] They found the houses of the town all low and square and built of bricks, neatly whitewashed inside and out. The houses were not set in rows, forming regular streets, but placed here and there in a haphazard manner which made it puzzling for a stranger to find his way. "Stupid people must have streets and numbered houses in their cities, to guide them where to go," observed the grey donkey, as he walked before the visitors on his hind legs, in an awkward but comical manner; "but clever donkeys know their way about without such absurd marks. Moreover, a mixed city is much prettier than one with straight streets." Dorothy did not agree with this, but she said nothing to contradict it. Presently she saw a sign on a house that read: "Madam de Fayke, Hoofist," and she asked their conductor: "What's a 'hoofist,' please?" "One who reads your fortune in your hoofs," replied the grey donkey. "Oh, I see," said the little girl. "You are quite civilized here." "Dunkiton," he replied, "is the center of the world's highest civilization." They came to a house where two youthful donkeys were whitewashing the wall, and Dorothy stopped a moment to watch them. They dipped the ends of their tails, which were much like paint-brushes, into a pail of whitewash, backed up against the house, and wagged their tails right and left until the whitewash was rubbed on the wall, after which they dipped these funny brushes in the pail again and repeated the performance. "That must be fun," said Button-Bright. "No; it's work," replied the old donkey; "but we make our youngsters do all the whitewashing, to keep them out of mischief." "Don't they go to school?" asked Dorothy. "All donkeys are born wise," was the reply, "so the only school we need is the school of experience. Books are only fit for those who know nothing, and so are obliged to learn things from other people." [Illustration] "In other words, the more stupid one is the more he thinks he knows," observed the shaggy man. The grey donkey paid no attention to this speech because he had just stopped before a house which had painted over the doorway a pair of hoofs, with a donkey tail between them and a rude crown and sceptre above. "I'll see if his magnificent Majesty King Kik-a-bray is at home," said he. He lifted his head and called "Whee-haw! whee-haw! whee-haw!" three times, in a shocking voice, turning about and kicking with his heels against the panel of the door. For a time there was no reply; then the door opened far enough to permit a donkey's head to stick out and look at them. It was a white head, with big, awful ears and round, solemn eyes. "Have the foxes gone?" it asked, in a trembling voice. "They haven't been here, most stupendous Majesty," replied the grey one. "The new arrivals prove to be travelers of distinction." "Oh," said the King, in a relieved tone of voice. "Let them come in." He opened the door wide, and the party marched into a big room, which, Dorothy thought, looked quite unlike a king's palace. There were mats of woven grasses on the floor and the place was clean and neat; but his Majesty had no other furniture at all--perhaps because he didn't need it. He squatted down in the center of the room and a little brown donkey ran and brought a big gold crown which it placed on the monarch's head, and a golden staff with a jeweled ball at the end of it, which the King held between his front hoofs as he sat upright. "Now, then," said his Majesty, waving his long ears gently to and fro, "tell me why you are here, and what you expect me to do for you." He eyed Button-Bright rather sharply, as if afraid of the little boy's queer head, though it was the shaggy man who undertook to reply. [Illustration] "Most noble and supreme ruler of Dunkiton," he said, trying not to laugh in the solemn King's face, "we are strangers traveling through your dominions, and have entered your magnificent city because the road led through it, and there was no way to go around. All we desire is to pay our respects to your Majesty--the cleverest king in all the world, I'm sure--and then to continue on our way." This polite speech pleased the King very much; indeed, it pleased him so much that it proved an unlucky speech for the shaggy man. Perhaps the Love Magnet helped to win his Majesty's affection as well as the flattery, but however this may be the white donkey looked kindly upon the speaker and said: "Only a donkey should be able to use such fine, big words, and you are too wise and admirable in all ways to be a mere man. Also I feel that I love you as well as I do my own favored people, so I will bestow upon you the greatest gift within my power--a donkey's head." As he spoke he waved his jeweled staff. Although the shaggy man cried out and tried to leap backward and escape, it proved of no use. Suddenly his own head was gone and a donkey head appeared in its place--a brown, shaggy head so absurd and droll that Dorothy and Polly both broke into merry laughter, and even Button-Bright's fox face wore a smile. "Dear me! dear me!" cried the shaggy man, feeling of his shaggy new head and his long ears. "What a misfortune--what a great misfortune! Give me back my own head, you stupid king--if you love me at all!" "Don't you like it?" asked the King, surprised. "Hee-haw! I hate it! Take it away--quick!" said the shaggy man. [Illustration: KING KICK-A-BRAY WORKS MAGIC ON THE SHAGGY MAN] "But I can't do that," was the reply. '"My magic works only one way. I can _do_ things, but I can't _un_ do them. You'll have to find the Truth Pond, and bathe in its water, in order to get back your own head. But I advise you not to do that. This head is much more beautiful than the old one." "That's a matter of taste," said Dorothy. "Where is the Truth Pond?" asked the shaggy man, earnestly. "Somewhere in the Land of Oz; but just the exact location of it I can not tell," was the answer. "Don't worry, Shaggy Man," said Dorothy, smiling because her friend wagged his new ears so comically. "If the Truth Pond is in Oz we'll be sure to find it when we get there." "Oh! Are you going to the Land of Oz?" asked King Kik-a-bray. "I don't know," she replied; "but we've been told we are nearer the Land of Oz than to Kansas, and if that's so the quickest way for me to get home is to find Ozma." "Haw-haw! Do you know the mighty Princess Ozma?" asked the King, his tone both surprised and eager. "'Course I do; she's my friend," said Dorothy. "Then perhaps you'll do me a favor," continued the white donkey, much excited. "What is it?" she asked. "Perhaps you can get me an invitation to Princess Ozma's birthday celebration, which will be the grandest royal function ever held in Fairyland. I'd love to go." "Hee-haw! You deserve punishment, rather than reward, for giving me this dreadful head," said the shaggy man, sorrowfully. "I wish you wouldn't say 'hee-haw' so much," Polychrome begged him; "it makes cold chills run down my back." "But I can't help it, my dear; my donkey head wants to bray continually," he replied. "Doesn't your fox head want to yelp every minute?" he asked Button-Bright. "Don't know," said the boy, still staring at the shaggy man's ears. These seemed to interest him greatly, and the sight also made him forget his own fox head, which was a comfort. "What do you think, Polly? shall I promise the donkey king an invitation to Ozma's party?" asked Dorothy of the Rainbow's Daughter, who was flitting about the room like a sunbeam because she could never keep still. "Do as you please, dear," answered Polychrome. "He might help to amuse the guests of the Princess." "Then, if you will give us some supper and a place to sleep to-night, and let us get started on our journey early tomorrow morning," said Dorothy to the King, "I'll ask Ozma to invite you--if I happen to get to Oz." "Good! Hee-haw! Excellent!" cried Kik-a-bray, much pleased. "You shall all have fine suppers and good beds. What food would you prefer, a bran mash or ripe oats in the shell?" [Illustration] "Neither one," replied Dorothy, promptly. "Perhaps plain hay, or some sweet juicy grass would suit you better," suggested Kik-a-bray, musingly. "Is that all you have to eat?" asked the girl. "What more do you desire?" "Well, you see we're not donkeys," she explained, "and so we're used to other food. The foxes gave us a nice supper in Foxville." "We'd like some dewdrops and mist-cakes," said Polychrome. "I'd prefer apples and a ham sandwich," declared the shaggy man; "for although I've a donkey head I still have my own particular stomach." "I want pie," said Button-Bright. "I think some beefsteak and chocolate layer-cake would taste best," said Dorothy. "Hee-haw! I declare!" exclaimed the King. "It seems each one of you wants a different food. How queer all living creatures are, except donkeys!" "And donkeys like you are queerest of all," laughed Polychrome. "Well," decided the King, "I suppose my Magic Staff will produce the things you crave; if you are lacking in good taste it is not my fault." With this he waved his staff with the jeweled ball, and before them instantly appeared a tea-table, set with linen and pretty dishes, and on the table were the very things each had wished for. Dorothy's beefsteak was smoking hot, and the shaggy man's apples were plump and rosy-cheeked. The King had not thought to provide chairs, so they all stood in their places around the table and ate with good appetite, being hungry. The Rainbow's Daughter found three tiny dewdrops on a crystal plate, and Button-Bright had a big slice of apple-pie, which he devoured eagerly. Afterward the King called the brown donkey, which was his favorite servant, and bade it lead his guests to the vacant house where they were to pass the night. It had only one room and no furniture except beds of clean straw and a few mats of woven grasses; but our travelers were contented with these simple things because they realized it was the best the Donkey-King had to offer them. As soon as it was dark they lay down on the mats and slept comfortably until morning. At daybreak there was a dreadful noise throughout the city. Every donkey in the place brayed. When he heard this the shaggy man woke up and called out "Hee-haw!" as loud as he could. [Illustration] "Stop that!" said Button-Bright, in a cross voice. Both Dorothy and Polly looked at the shaggy man reproachfully. "I couldn't help it, my dears," he said, as if ashamed of his bray; "but I'll try not to do it again." Of course they forgave him, for as he still had the Love Magnet in his pocket they were all obliged to love him as much as ever. They did not see the King again, but Kik-a-bray remembered them; for a table appeared again in their room with the same food upon it as on the night before. "Don't want pie for breakfus'," said Button-Bright. "I'll give you some of my beefsteak," proposed Dorothy; "there's plenty for us all." That suited the boy better, but the shaggy man said he was content with his apples and sandwiches, although he ended the meal by eating Button-Bright's pie. Polly liked her dewdrops and mist-cakes better than any other food, so they all enjoyed an excellent breakfast. Toto had the scraps left from the beefsteak, and he stood up nicely on his hind legs while Dorothy fed them to him. Breakfast ended, they passed through the village to the side opposite that by which they had entered, the brown servant-donkey guiding them through the maze of scattered houses. There was the road again, leading far away into the unknown country beyond. "King Kik-a-bray says you must not forget his invitation," said the brown donkey, as they passed through the opening in the wall. "I shan't," promised Dorothy. [Illustration] Perhaps no one ever beheld a more strangely assorted group than the one which now walked along the road, through pretty green fields and past groves of feathery pepper-trees and fragrant mimosa. Polychrome, her beautiful gauzy robes floating around her like a rainbow cloud, went first, dancing back and forth and darting now here to pluck a wild-flower or there to watch a beetle crawl across the path. Toto ran after her at times, barking joyously the while, only to become sober again and trot along at Dorothy's heels. The little Kansas girl walked holding Button-Bright's hand clasped in her own, and the wee boy with his fox head covered by the sailor hat presented an odd appearance. Strangest of all, perhaps, was the shaggy man, with his shaggy donkey head, who shuffled along in the rear with his hands thrust deep in his big pockets. None of the party was really unhappy. All were straying in an unknown land and had suffered more or less annoyance and discomfort; but they realized they were having a fairy adventure in a fairy country, and were much interested in finding out what would happen next. The Musicker [Illustration] About the middle of the forenoon they began to go up a long hill. By-and-by this hill suddenly dropped down into a pretty valley, where the travelers saw to their surprise, a small house standing by the roadside. It was the first house they had seen, and they hastened into the valley to discover who lived there. No one was in sight as they approached, but when they began to get nearer the house they heard queer sounds coming from it. They could not make these out at first, but as they became louder our friends thought they heard a sort of music like that made by a wheezy hand-organ; the music fell upon their ears in this way: _Tiddle-widdle-iddle, oom pom-pom!_ _Oom, pom-pom! oom, pom-pom!_ _Tiddle-tiddle-tiddle, oom pom-pom!_ _Oom, pom-pom--pah!_ "What is it, a band or a mouth-organ?" asked Dorothy. "Don't know," said Button-Bright. "Sounds to me like a played-out phonograph," said the shaggy man, lifting his enormous ears to listen. "Oh, there just _couldn't_ be a funnygraf in Fairyland!" cried Dorothy. "It's rather pretty, isn't it?" asked Polychrome, trying to dance to the strains. _Tiddle-widdle-iddle, oom pom-pom,_ _Oom pom-pom; oom pom-pom!_ came the music to their ears, more distinctly as they drew nearer the house. Presently they saw a little fat man sitting on a bench before the door. He wore a red, braided jacket that reached to his waist, a blue waistcoat, and white trousers with gold stripes down the sides. On his bald head was perched a little, round, red cap held in place by a rubber elastic underneath his chin. His face was round, his eyes a faded blue, and he wore white cotton gloves. The man leaned on a stout gold-headed cane, bending forward on his seat to watch his visitors approach. [Illustration] Singularly enough, the musical sounds they had heard seemed to come from the inside of the fat man himself; for he was playing no instrument nor was any to be seen near him. They came up and stood in a row, staring at him, and he stared back while the queer sounds came from him as before: _Tiddle-iddle-iddle, oom pom-pom,_ _Oom, pom-pom; oom pom-pom!_ _Tiddle-widdle-iddle, oom pom-pom,_ _Oom, pom-pom--pah!_ "Why, he's a reg'lar musicker!" said Button-Bright. "What's a musicker?" asked Dorothy. "Him!" said the boy. Hearing this the fat man sat up a little stiffer than before, as if he had received a compliment, and still came the sounds: _Tiddle-widdle-iddle, oom pom-pom,_ _Oom pom-pom, oom---- _ "Stop it!" cried the shaggy man, earnestly. "Stop that dreadful noise!" The fat man looked at him sadly and began his reply. When he spoke the music changed and the words seemed to accompany the notes. He said--or rather sang: _It isn't a noise that you hear,_ _But Music, harmonic and clear._ _My breath makes me play_ _Like an organ, all day--_ _That bass note is in my left ear._ "How funny!" exclaimed Dorothy; "he says his breath makes the music." "That's all nonsense," declared the shaggy man; but now the music began again, and they all listened carefully. _My lungs are full of reeds like those_ _In organs, therefore I suppose,_ _If I breathe in or out my nose,_ _The reeds are bound to play._ _So, as I breathe to live, you know,_ _I squeeze out music as I go;_ _I'm very sorry this is so---- _ _Forgive my piping, pray!_ [Illustration] "Poor man," said Polychrome; "he can't help it. What a great misfortune it is!" "Yes," replied the shaggy man; "we are only obliged to hear this music a short time, until we leave him and go away; but the poor fellow must listen to himself as long as he lives, and that is enough to drive him crazy. Don't you think so?" "Don't know," said Button-Bright. Toto said "Bow-wow!" and the others laughed. "Perhaps that's why he lives all alone," suggested Dorothy. "Yes; if he had neighbors they might do him an injury," responded the shaggy man. All this while the little fat musicker was breathing the notes: _Tiddle-tiddle-iddle, oom, pom-pom,_ and they had to speak loud in order to hear themselves. The shaggy man said: "Who are you, sir?" The reply came in the shape of this sing-song: _I'm Allegro da Capo, a very famous man;_ _Just find another, high or low, to match me if you can._ _Some people try, but can't, to play_ _And have to practice every day;_ _But I've been musical alway, since first my life began._ "Why, I b'lieve he's proud of it," exclaimed Dorothy, "and seems to me I've heard worse music than he makes." "Where?" asked Button-Bright. "I've forgotten, just now. But Mr. Da Capo is certainly a strange person--isn't he?--and p'r'aps he's the only one of his kind in all the world." This praise seemed to please the little fat musicker, for he swelled out his chest, looked important and sang as follows: _I wear no band around me,_ _And yet I am a band!_ _I do not strain to make my strains_ _But, on the other hand,_ _My toot is always destitute_ _Of flats or other errors;_ _To see sharp and be natural are_ _For me but minor terrors._ "I don't quite understand that," said Polychrome, with a puzzled look; "but perhaps it's because I'm accustomed only to the music of the spheres." "What's that?" asked Button-Bright. "Oh, Polly means the atmosphere and hemisphere, I s'pose," explained Dorothy. "Oh," said Button-Bright. "Bow-wow!" said Toto. [Illustration] But the musicker was still breathing his constant _Oom, pom-pom; oom, pom-pom---- _ and it seemed to jar on the shaggy man's nerves. "Stop it, can't you?" he cried, angrily; "or breathe in a whisper; or put a clothes-pin on your nose. Do something, anyhow!" But the fat one, with a sad look, sang this answer: _"Music hath charms, and it may_ _Soothe even the savage, they say;_ _So if savage you feel_ _Just list to my reel,_ _For sooth to say that's the real way."_ The shaggy man had to laugh at this, and when he laughed he stretched his donkey mouth wide open. Said Dorothy: "I don't know how good his poetry is, but it seems to fit the notes, so that's all that can be 'xpected." "I like it," said Button-Bright, who was staring hard at the musicker, his little legs spread wide apart. To the surprise of his companions, the boy asked this long question: "If I swallowed a mouth-organ, what would I be?" "An organette," said the shaggy man. "But come, my dears; I think the best thing we can do is to continue on our journey before Button-Bright swallows anything. We must try to find that Land of Oz, you know." Hearing this speech the musicker sang, quickly: _If you go to the hand of Oz_ _Please take me along, because_ _On Ozma's birthday_ _I'm anxious to play_ _The loveliest song ever was._ "No, thank you," said Dorothy; "we prefer to travel alone. But if I see Ozma I'll tell her you want to come to her birthday party." "Let's be going," urged the shaggy man, anxiously. Polly was already dancing along the road, far in advance, and the others turned to follow her. Toto did not like the fat musicker and made a grab for his chubby leg. Dorothy quickly caught up the growling little dog and hurried after her companions, who were walking faster than usual in order to get out of hearing. They had to climb a hill, and until they got to the top they could not escape the musicker's monotonous piping: _"Oom, pom-pom; oom, pom-pom;_ _Tiddle-iddle-widdle, oom, pom-pom;_ _Oom, pom-pom--pah!"_ As they passed the brow of the hill, however, and descended on the other side, the sounds gradually died away, whereat they all felt much relieved. [Illustration] "I'm glad I don't have to live with the organ-man; aren't you, Polly?" said Dorothy. "Yes, indeed," answered the Rainbow's Daughter. "He's nice," declared Button-Bright, soberly. "I hope your Princess Ozma won't invite him to her birthday celebration," remarked the shaggy man; "for the fellow's music would drive her guests all crazy. You've given me an idea, Button-Bright; I believe the musicker must have swallowed an accordeon in his youth." "What's 'cordeon?" asked the boy. "It's a kind of pleating," explained Dorothy, putting down the dog. "Bow-wow!" said Toto, and ran away at a mad gallop to chase a bumble-bee. Facing the Scoodlers [Illustration] The country wasn't so pretty now. Before the travelers appeared a rocky plain covered with hills on which grew nothing green. They were nearing some low mountains, too, and the road, which before had been smooth and pleasant to walk upon, grew rough and uneven. Button-Bright's little feet stumbled more than once, and Polychrome ceased her dancing because the walking was now so difficult that she had no trouble to keep warm. It had become afternoon, yet there wasn't a thing for their luncheon except two apples which the shaggy man had taken from the breakfast table. He divided these into four pieces and gave a portion to each of his companions. Dorothy and Button-Bright were glad to get theirs; but Polly was satisfied with a small bite, and Toto did not like apples. "Do you know," asked the Rainbow's Daughter, "if this is the right road to the Emerald City?" "No, I don't," replied Dorothy; "but it's the only road in this part of the country, so we may as well go to the end of it." "It looks now as if it might end pretty soon," remarked the shaggy man; "and what shall we do if it does?" "Don't know," said Button-Bright. "If I had my Magic Belt," replied Dorothy, thoughtfully, "it could do us a lot of good just now." "What is your Magic Belt?" asked Polychrome. "It's a thing I captured from the Nome King one day, and it can do 'most any wonderful thing. But I left it with Ozma, you know; 'cause magic won't work in Kansas, but only in fairy countries." "Is this a fairy country?" asked Button-Bright. "I should think you'd know," said the little girl, gravely. "If it wasn't a fairy country you couldn't have a fox head and the shaggy man couldn't have a donkey head, and the Rainbow's Daughter would be invis'ble." "What's that?" asked the boy. "You don't seem to know anything, Button-Bright. Invis'ble is a thing you can't see." "Then Toto's invisible," declared the boy, and Dorothy found he was right. Toto had disappeared from view, but they could hear him barking furiously among the heaps of grey rock ahead of them. [Illustration] They moved forward a little faster to see what the dog was barking at, and found perched upon a point of rock by the roadside a curious creature. It had the form of a man, middle-sized and rather slender and graceful; but as it sat silent and motionless upon the peak they could see that its face was black as ink, and it wore a black cloth costume made like a union suit and fitting tight to its skin. Its hands were black, too, and its toes curled down, like a bird's. The creature was black all over except its hair, which was fine, and yellow, banged in front across the black forehead and cut close at the sides. The eyes, which were fixed steadily upon the barking dog, were small and sparkling and looked like the eyes of a weasel. "What in the world do you s'pose that is?" asked Dorothy in a hushed voice, as the little group of travelers stood watching the strange creature. "Don't know," said Button-Bright. The thing gave a jump and turned half around, sitting in the same place but with the other side of its body facing them. Instead of being black, it was now pure white, with a face like that of a clown in a circus and hair of a brilliant purple. The creature could bend either way, and its white toes now curled the same way the black ones on the other side had done. "It has a face both front and back," whispered Dorothy, wonderingly; "only there's no back at all, but two fronts." Having made the turn, the being sat motionless as before, while Toto barked louder at the white man than he had done at the black one. "Once," said the shaggy man, "I had a jumping-jack like that, with two faces." "Was it alive?" asked Button-Bright. "No," replied the shaggy man; "it worked on strings, and was made of wood." "Wonder if this works with strings," said Dorothy; but Polychrome cried "Look!" for another creature just like the first had suddenly appeared sitting on another rock, its black side toward them. The two twisted their heads around and showed a black face on the white side of one and a white face on the black side of the other. [Illustration] "How curious," said Polychrome; "and how loose their heads seem to be! Are they friendly to us, do you think?" "Can't tell, Polly," replied Dorothy. "Let's ask 'em." The creatures flopped first one way and then the other, showing black or white by turns; and now another joined them, appearing on another rock. Our friends had come to a little hollow in the hills, and the place where they now stood was surrounded by jagged peaks of rock, except where the road ran through. "Now there are four of them," said the shaggy man. "Five," declared Polychrome. "Six," said Dorothy. "Lots of 'em!" cried Button-Bright; and so there were--quite a row of the two-sided black and white creatures sitting on the rocks all around. Toto stopped barking and ran between Dorothy's feet, where he crouched down as if afraid. The creatures did not look pleasant or friendly, to be sure, and the shaggy man's donkey face became solemn, indeed. "Ask 'em who they are, and what they want," whispered Dorothy; so the shaggy man called out in a loud voice: "Who are you?" "Scoodlers!" they yelled in chorus, their voices sharp and shrill. "What do you want?" called the shaggy man. "You!" they yelled, pointing their thin fingers at the group; and they all flopped around, so they were white, and then all flopped back again, so they were black. "But what do you want us for?" asked the shaggy man, uneasily. "Soup!" they all shouted, as if with one voice. [Illustration: "YOU!" THEY YELLED] "Goodness me!" said Dorothy, trembling a little; "the Scoodlers must be reg'lar cannibals." "Don't want to be soup," protested Button-Bright, beginning to cry. "Hush, dear," said the little girl, trying to comfort him; "we don't any of us want to be soup. But don't worry; the shaggy man will take care of us." "Will he?" asked Polychrome, who did not like the Scoodlers at all, and kept close to Dorothy. "I'll try," promised the shaggy man; but he looked worried. Happening just then to feel the Love Magnet in his pocket, he said to the creatures, with more confidence: "Don't you love me?" "Yes!" they shouted, all together. "Then you mustn't harm me, or my friends," said the shaggy man, firmly. "We love you in soup!" they yelled, and in a flash turned their white sides to the front. "How dreadful!" said Dorothy. "This is a time, Shaggy Man, when you get loved too much." "Don't want to be soup!" wailed Button-Bright again; and Toto began to whine dismally, as if he didn't want to be soup, either. "The only thing to do," said the shaggy man to his friends, in a low tone, "is to get out of this pocket in the rocks as soon as we can, and leave the Scoodlers behind us. Follow me, my dears, and don't pay any attention to what they do or say." With this he began to march along the road to the opening in the rocks ahead, and the others kept close behind him. But the Scoodlers closed up in front, as if to bar their way, and so the shaggy man stooped down and picked up a loose stone, which he threw at the creatures to scare them from the path. At this the Scoodlers raised a howl. Two of them picked their heads from their shoulders and hurled them at the shaggy man with such force that he fell over in a heap, greatly astonished. The two now ran forward with swift leaps, caught up their heads, and put them on again, after which they sprang back to their positions on the rocks. [Illustration] Escaping the Soup-kettle [Illustration] The shaggy man got up and felt of himself to see if he was hurt; but he was not. One of the heads had struck his breast and the other his left shoulder; yet though they had knocked him down the heads were not hard enough to bruise him. "Come on," he said, firmly; "we've got to get out of here some way," and forward he started again. The Scoodlers began yelling and throwing their heads in great numbers at our frightened friends. The shaggy man was knocked over again, and so was Button-Bright, who kicked his heels against the ground and howled as loud as he could, although he was not hurt a bit. One head struck Toto, who first yelped and then grabbed the head by an ear and started running away with it. The Scoodlers who had thrown their heads began to scramble down and run to pick them up, with wonderful quickness; but the one whose head Toto had stolen found it hard to get it back again. The head couldn't see the body with either pair of its eyes, because the dog was in the way, so the headless Scoodler stumbled around over the rocks and tripped on them more than once in its effort to regain its top. Toto was trying to get outside the rocks and roll the head down the hill; but some of the other Scoodlers came to the rescue of their unfortunate comrade and pelted the dog with their own heads until he was obliged to drop his burden and hurry back to Dorothy. The little girl and the Rainbow's Daughter had both escaped the shower of heads, but they saw now that it would be useless to try to run away from the dreadful Scoodlers. "We may as well submit," declared the shaggy man, in a rueful voice, as he got upon his feet again. He turned toward their foes and asked: "What do you want us to do?" "Come!" they cried, in a triumphant chorus, and at once sprang from the rocks and surrounded their captives on all sides. One funny thing about the Scoodlers was they could walk in either direction, coming or going, without turning around; because they had two faces and, as Dorothy said, "two front sides," and their feet were shaped like the letter T upside down (_|_). They moved with great rapidity and there was something about their glittering eyes and contrasting colors and removable heads that inspired the poor prisoners with horror, and made them long to escape. [Illustration] But the creatures led their captives away from the rocks and the road, down the hill by a side path until they came before a low mountain of rock that looked like a huge bowl turned upside down. At the edge of this mountain was a deep gulf--so deep that when you looked into it there was nothing but blackness below. Across the gulf was a narrow bridge of rock, and at the other end of the bridge was an arched opening that led into the mountain. Over this bridge the Scoodlers led their prisoners, through the opening into the mountain, which they found to be an immense hollow dome lighted by several holes in the roof. All around the circular space were built rock houses, set close together, each with a door in the front wall. None of these houses was more than six feet wide, but the Scoodlers were thin people sidewise and did not need much room. So vast was the dome that there was a large space in the middle of the cave, in front of all these houses, where the creatures might congregate as in a great hall. It made Dorothy shudder to see a huge iron kettle suspended by a stout chain in the middle of the place, and underneath the kettle a great heap of kindling wood and shavings, ready to light. "What's that?" asked the shaggy man, drawing back as they approached this place, so that they were forced to push him forward. "The Soup Kettle!" yelled the Scoodlers; and then they shouted in the next breath: "We're hungry!" Button-Bright, holding Dorothy's hand in one chubby fist and Polly's hand in the other, was so affected by this shout that he began to cry again, repeating the protest: "Don't want to be soup, I don't!" "Never mind," said the shaggy man, consolingly; "I ought to make enough soup to feed them all, I'm so big; so I'll ask them to put me in the kettle first." "All right," said Button-Bright, more cheerfully. But the Scoodlers were not ready to make soup yet. They led the captives into a house at the farthest side of the cave--a house somewhat wider than the others. "Who lives here?" asked the Rainbow's Daughter. The Scoodlers nearest her replied: "The Queen." It made Dorothy hopeful to learn that a woman ruled over these fierce creatures, but a moment later they were ushered by two or three of the escort into a gloomy, bare room--and her hope died away. For the Queen of the Scoodlers proved to be much more dreadful in appearance than any of her people. One side of her was fiery red, with jet-black hair and green eyes and the other side of her was bright yellow, with crimson hair and black eyes. She wore a short skirt of red and yellow and her hair, instead of being banged, was a tangle of short curls upon which rested a circular crown of silver--much dented and twisted because the Queen had thrown her head at so many things so many times. Her form was lean and bony and both her faces were deeply wrinkled. "What have we here?" asked the Queen, sharply, as our friends were made to stand before her. "Soup!" cried the guard of Scoodlers, speaking together. "We're not!" said Dorothy, indignantly; "we're nothing of the sort." [Illustration] "Ah, but you will be soon," retorted the Queen, a grim smile making her look more dreadful than before. "Pardon me, most beautiful vision," said the shaggy man, bowing before the queen politely. "I must request your Serene Highness to let us go our way without being made into soup. For I own the Love Magnet, and whoever meets me must love me and all my friends." "True," replied the Queen. "We love you very much; so much that we intend to eat your broth with real pleasure. But tell me, do you think I am so beautiful?" "You won't be at all beautiful if you eat me," he said, shaking his head sadly. "Handsome is as handsome does, you know." The Queen turned to Button-Bright. "Do _you_ think I'm beautiful?" she asked. "No," said the boy; "you're ugly." "_I_ think you're a fright," said Dorothy. "If you could see yourself you'd be terribly scared," added Polly. The Queen scowled at them and flopped from her red side to her yellow side. "Take them away," she commanded the guard, "and at six o'clock run them through the meat chopper and start the soup kettle boiling. And put plenty of salt in the broth this time, or I'll punish the cooks severely." "Any onions, your Majesty?" asked one of the guard. "Plenty of onions and garlic and a dash of red pepper. Now, go!" The Scoodlers led the captives away and shut them up in one of the houses, leaving only a single Scoodler to keep guard. The place was a sort of store-house; containing bags of potatoes and baskets of carrots, onions, and turnips. "These," said their guard, pointing to the vegetables, "we use to flavor our soups with." The prisoners were rather disheartened by this time, for they saw no way to escape and did not know how soon it would be six o'clock and time for the meat-chopper to begin work. But the shaggy man was brave and did not intend to submit to such a horrid fate without a struggle. "I'm going to fight for our lives," he whispered to the children, "for if I fail we will be no worse off than before, and to sit here quietly until we are made into soup would be foolish and cowardly." [Illustration] The Scoodler on guard stood near the doorway, turning first his white side toward them and then his black side, as if he wanted to show to all of his greedy four eyes the sight of so many fat prisoners. The captives sat in a sorrowful group at the other end of the room--except Polychrome, who danced back and forth in the little place to keep herself warm, for she felt the chill of the cave. Whenever she approached the shaggy man he would whisper something in her ear, and Polly would nod her pretty head as if she understood. The shaggy man told Dorothy and Button-Bright to stand before him while he emptied the potatoes out of one of the sacks. When this had been secretly done little Polychrome, dancing near to the guard, suddenly reached out her hand and slapped his face, the next instant whirling away from him quickly to rejoin her friends. The angry Scoodler at once picked off his head and hurled it at the Rainbow's Daughter; but the shaggy man was expecting that, and caught the head very neatly, putting it in the sack, which he tied at the mouth. The body of the guard, not having the eyes of its head to guide it, ran here and there in an aimless manner, and the shaggy man easily dodged it and opened the door. Fortunately there was no one in the big cave at that moment, so he told Dorothy and Polly to run as fast as they could for the entrance, and out across the narrow bridge. [Illustration: THE SHAGGY MAN CAUGHT THE HEADS AND TOSSED THEM INTO THE GULF BELOW] "I'll carry Button-Bright," he said, for he knew the little boy's legs were too short to run fast. Dorothy picked up Toto, and then seized Polly's hand and ran swiftly toward the entrance to the cave. The shaggy man perched Button-Bright on his shoulders and ran after them. They moved so quickly and their escape was so wholly unexpected that they had almost reached the bridge when one of the Scoodlers looked out of his house and saw them. The creature raised a shrill cry that brought all its fellows bounding out of the numerous doors, and at once they started in chase. Dorothy and Polly had reached the bridge and crossed it when the Scoodlers began throwing their heads. One of the queer missiles struck the shaggy man on his back and nearly knocked him over; but he was at the mouth of the cave now, so he set down Button-Bright and told the boy to run across the bridge to Dorothy. Then the shaggy man turned around and faced his enemies, standing just outside the opening, and as fast as they threw their heads at him he caught them and tossed them into the black gulf below. The headless bodies of the foremost Scoodlers kept the others from running close up, but they also threw their heads in an effort to stop the escaping prisoners. The shaggy man caught them all and sent them whirling down into the black gulf. Among them he noticed the crimson and yellow head of the Queen, and this he tossed after the others with right good will. Presently every Scoodler of the lot had thrown its head, and every head was down in the deep gulf, and now the helpless bodies of the creatures were mixed together in the cave and wriggling around in a vain attempt to discover what had become of their heads. The shaggy man laughed and walked across the bridge to rejoin his companions. [Illustration] "It's lucky I learned to play base-ball when I was young," he remarked, "for I caught all those heads easily, and never missed one. But come along, little ones; the Scoodlers will never bother us or anyone else any more." Button-Bright was still frightened and kept insisting, "I don't want to be soup!" for the victory had been gained so suddenly that the boy could not realize they were free and safe. But the shaggy man assured him that all danger of their being made into soup was now past, as the Scoodlers would be unable to eat soup for some time to come. So now, anxious to get away from the horrid gloomy cave as soon as possible, they hastened up the hillside and regained the road just beyond the place where they had first met the Scoodlers; and you may be sure they were glad to find their feet on the old familiar path again. Johnny Dooit Does It [Illustration] "It's getting awful rough walking," said Dorothy, as they trudged along. Button-Bright gave a deep sigh and said he was hungry. Indeed, all were hungry, and thirsty, too; for they had eaten nothing but the apples since breakfast; so their steps lagged and they grew silent and weary. At last they slowly passed over the crest of a barren hill and saw before them a line of green trees with a strip of grass at their feet. An agreeable fragrance was wafted toward them. Our travelers, hot and tired, ran forward on beholding this refreshing sight and were not long in coming to the trees. Here they found a spring of pure bubbling water, around which the grass was full of wild strawberry plants, their pretty red berries ripe and ready to eat. Some of the trees bore yellow oranges and some russet pears, so the hungry adventurers suddenly found themselves provided with plenty to eat and to drink. They lost no time in picking the biggest strawberries and ripest oranges and soon had feasted to their hearts' content. Walking beyond the line of trees they saw before them a fearful, dismal desert, everywhere grey sand. At the edge of this awful waste was a large white sign with black letters neatly painted upon it; and the letters made these words: ALL PERSONS ARE WARNED NOT TO VENTURE UPON THIS DESERT For the Deadly Sands will Turn Any Living Flesh to Dust in an Instant. Beyond This Barrier is the LAND OF OZ But no one can Reach that Beautiful Country because of these Destroying Sands "Oh," said Dorothy, when the shaggy man had read this sign aloud; "I've seen this desert before, and it's true no one can live who tries to walk upon the sands." "Then we mustn't try it," answered the shaggy man, thoughtfully. "But as we can't go ahead and there's no use going back, what shall we do next?" [Illustration] "Don't know," said Button-Bright. "I'm sure I don't know, either," added Dorothy, despondently. "I wish father would come for me," sighed the pretty Rainbow's Daughter, "I would take you all to live upon the rainbow, where you could dance along its rays from morning till night, without a care or worry of any sort. But I suppose father's too busy just now to search the world for me." "Don't want to dance," said Button-Bright, sitting down wearily upon the soft grass. "It's very good of you, Polly," said Dorothy; "but there are other things that would suit me better than dancing on rainbows. I'm 'fraid they'd be kind of soft an' squnshy under foot, anyhow, although they're so pretty to look at." This didn't help to solve the problem, and they all fell silent and looked at one another questioningly. "Really, I don't know what to do," muttered the shaggy man, gazing hard at Toto; and the little dog wagged his tail and said "Bow-wow!" just as if he could not tell, either, what to do. Button-Bright got a stick and began to dig in the earth, and the others watched him for a while in deep thought. Finally the shaggy man said: "It's nearly evening, now; so we may well sleep in this pretty place and get rested; perhaps by morning we can decide what is best to be done." There was little chance to make beds for the children, but the leaves of the trees grew thickly and would serve to keep off the night dews, so the shaggy man piled soft grasses in the thickest shade and when it was dark they lay down and slept peacefully until morning. Long after the others were asleep, however, the shaggy man sat in the starlight by the spring, gazing thoughtfully into its bubbling waters. Suddenly he smiled and nodded to himself as if he had found a good thought, after which he, too, laid himself down under a tree and was soon lost in slumber. [Illustration] In the bright morning sunshine, as they ate of the strawberries and sweet juicy pears, Dorothy said: "Polly, can you do any magic?" "No, dear," answered Polychrome, shaking her dainty head. "You ought to know _some_ magic, being the Rainbow's Daughter," continued Dorothy, earnestly. "But we who live on the rainbow among the fleecy clouds have no use for magic," replied Polychrome. "What I'd like," said Dorothy, "is to find some way to cross the desert to the Land of Oz and its Emerald City. I've crossed it already, you know, more than once. First a cyclone carried my house over, and some Silver Shoes brought me back again--in half a second. Then Ozma took me over on her Magic Carpet, and the Nome King's Magic Belt took me home that time. You see it was magic that did it every time 'cept the first, and we can't 'spect a cyclone to happen along and take us to the Emerald City now." "No, indeed," returned Polly, with a shudder; "I hate cyclones, anyway." "That's why I wanted to find out if you could do any magic," said the little Kansas girl. "I'm sure I can't; and I'm sure Button-Bright can't; and the only magic the shaggy man has is the Love Magnet, which won't help us much." "Don't be too sure of that, my dear," spoke the shaggy man, a smile on his donkey face. "I may not be able to do magic myself, but I can call to us a powerful friend who loves me because I own the Love Magnet, and this friend surely will be able to help us." "Who is your friend?" asked Dorothy. "Johnny Dooit." "What can Johnny do?" "Anything," answered the shaggy man, with confidence. "Ask him to come," she exclaimed, eagerly. The shaggy man took the Love Magnet from his pocket and unwrapped the paper that surrounded it. Holding the charm in the palm of his hand he looked at it steadily and said these words: _"Dear Johnny Dooit, come to me._ _I need you bad as bad can be."_ "Well, here I am," said a cheery little voice; "but you shouldn't say you need me bad, 'cause I'm always, _always_ good." At this they quickly whirled around to find a funny little man sitting on a big copper chest, puffing smoke from a long pipe. His hair was grey, his whiskers were grey; and these whiskers were so long that he had wound the ends of them around his waist and tied them in a hard knot underneath the leather apron that reached from his chin nearly to his feet, and which was soiled and scratched as if it had been used a long time. His nose was broad, and stuck up a little; but his eyes were twinkling and merry. The little man's hands and arms were as hard and tough as the leather in his apron, and Dorothy thought Johnny Dooit looked as if he had done a lot of hard work in his lifetime. [Illustration] "Good morning, Johnny," said the shaggy man. "Thank you for coming to me so quickly." "I never waste time," said the newcomer, promptly. "But what's happened to you? Where did you get that donkey head? Really, I wouldn't have known you at all, Shaggy Man, if I hadn't looked at your feet." The shaggy man introduced Johnny Dooit to Dorothy and Toto and Button-Bright and the Rainbow's Daughter, and told him the story of their adventures, adding that they were anxious now to reach the Emerald City in the Land of Oz, where Dorothy had friends who would take care of them and send them safe home again. "But," said he, "we find that we can't cross this desert, which turns all living flesh that touches it into dust; so I have asked you to come and help us." Johnny Dooit puffed his pipe and looked carefully at the dreadful desert in front of them--stretching so far away they could not see its end. "You must ride," he said, briskly. "What in?" asked the shaggy man. "In a sand-boat, which has runners like a sled and sails like a ship. The wind will blow you swiftly across the desert and the sand cannot touch your flesh to turn it into dust." "Good!" cried Dorothy, clapping her hands delightedly. "That was the way the Magic Carpet took us across. We didn't have to touch the horrid sand at all." "But where is the sand-boat?" asked the shaggy man, looking all around him. "I'll make you one," said Johnny Dooit. As he spoke he knocked the ashes from his pipe and put it in his pocket. Then he unlocked the copper chest and lifted the lid, and Dorothy saw it was full of shining tools of all sorts and shapes. Johnny Dooit moved quickly now--so quickly that they were astonished at the work he was able to accomplish. He had in his chest a tool for everything he wanted to do, and these must have been magic tools because they did their work so fast and so well. The man hummed a little song as he worked, and Dorothy tried to listen to it. She thought the words were something like these: _The only way to do a thing Is do it when you can, And do it cheerfully, and sing And work and think and plan. The only real unhappy one Is he who dares to shirk; The only really happy one Is he who cares to work._ Whatever Johnny Dooit was singing he was certainly doing things, and they all stood by and watched him in amazement. He seized an axe and in a couple of chops felled a tree. Next he took a saw and in a few minutes sawed the tree-trunk into broad long boards. He then nailed the boards together into the shape of a boat, about twelve feet long and four feet wide. He cut from another tree a long, slender pole which, when trimmed of its branches and fastened upright in the center of the boat, served as a mast. From the chest he drew a coil of rope and a big bundle of canvas, and with these--still humming his song--he rigged up a sail, arranging it so it could be raised or lowered upon the mast. Dorothy fairly gasped with wonder to see the thing grow so speedily before her eyes, and both Button-Bright and Polly looked on with the same absorbed interest. [Illustration] "It ought to be painted," said Johnny Dooit, tossing his tools back into the chest, "for that would make it look prettier. But 'though I can paint it for you in three seconds it would take an hour to dry, and that's a waste of time." "We don't care how it looks," said the shaggy man, "if only it will take us across the desert." "It will do that," declared Johnny Dooit. "All you need worry about is tipping over. Did you ever sail a ship?" "I've seen one sailed," said the shaggy man. "Good. Sail this boat the way you've seen a ship sailed, and you'll be across the sands before you know it." With this he slammed down the lid of the chest, and the noise made them all wink. While they were winking the workman disappeared, tools and all. The Deadly Desert Crossed [Illustration] "Oh, that's too bad!" cried Dorothy; "I wanted to thank Johnny Dooit for all his kindness to us." "He hasn't time to listen to thanks," replied the shaggy man; "but I'm sure he knows we are grateful. I suppose he is already at work in some other part of the world." They now looked more carefully at the sand-boat, and saw that the bottom was modelled with two sharp runners which would glide through the sand. The front of the sand-boat was pointed like the bow of a ship, and there was a rudder at the stern to steer by. It had been built just at the edge of the desert, so that all its length lay upon the grey sand except the after part, which still rested on the strip of grass. "Get in, my dears," said the shaggy man; "I'm sure I can manage this boat as well as any sailor. All you need do is sit still in your places." [Illustration] Dorothy got in, Toto in her arms, and sat on the bottom of the boat just in front of the mast. Button-Bright sat in front of Dorothy, while Polly leaned over the bow. The shaggy man knelt behind the mast. When all were ready he raised the sail half way. The wind caught it. At once the sand-boat started forward--slowly at first, then with added speed. The shaggy man pulled the sail way up, and they flew so fast over the Deadly Desert that every one held fast to the sides of the boat and scarcely dared to breathe. The sand lay in billows, and was in places very uneven, so that the boat rocked dangerously from side to side; but it never quite tipped over, and the speed was so great that the shaggy man himself became frightened and began to wonder how he could make the ship go slower. "If we're spilled in this sand, in the middle of the desert," Dorothy thought to herself, "we'll be nothing but dust in a few minutes, and that will be the end of us." But they were not spilled, and by-and-bye Polychrome, who was clinging to the bow and looking straight ahead, saw a dark line before them and wondered what it was. It grew plainer every second, until she discovered it to be a row of jagged rocks at the end of the desert, while high above these rocks she could see a tableland of green grass and beautiful trees. "Look out!" she screamed to the shaggy man. "Go slowly, or we shall smash into the rocks." He heard her, and tried to pull down the sail; but the wind would not let go of the broad canvas and the ropes had become tangled. Nearer and nearer they drew to the great rocks, and the shaggy man was in despair because he could do nothing to stop the wild rush of the sand-boat. [Illustration: "LOOK OUT!" SCREAMED POLYCHROME] They reached the edge of the desert and bumped squarely into the rocks. There was a crash as Dorothy, Button-Bright, Toto and Polly flew up in the air in a curve like a skyrocket's, one after another landing high upon the grass, where they rolled and tumbled for a time before they could stop themselves. The shaggy man flew after them, head first, and lighted in a heap beside Toto, who, being much excited at the time, seized one of the donkey ears between his teeth and shook and worried it as hard as he could, growling angrily. The shaggy man made the little dog let go, and sat up to look around him. Dorothy was feeling one of her front teeth, which was loosened by knocking against her knee as she fell. Polly was looking sorrowfully at a rent in her pretty gauze gown, and Button-Bright's fox head had stuck fast in a gopher hole and he was wiggling his little fat legs frantically in an effort to get free. Otherwise they were unhurt by the adventure; so the shaggy man stood up and pulled Button-Bright out of the hole and went to the edge of the desert to look at the sand-boat. It was a mere mass of splinters now, crushed out of shape against the rocks. The wind had torn away the sail and carried it to the top of a tall tree, where the fragments of it fluttered like a white flag. "Well," he said, cheerfully, "we're here; but where the here is I don't know." "It must be some part of the Land of Oz," observed Dorothy, coming to his side. "Must it?" "'Course it must. We're across the desert, aren't we? And somewhere in the middle of Oz is the Emerald City." "To be sure," said the shaggy man, nodding. "Let's go there." "But I don't see any people about, to show us the way," she continued. "Let's hunt for them," he suggested. "There must be people somewhere; but perhaps they did not expect us, and so are not at hand to give us a welcome." [Illustration] The Truth Pond [Illustration] They now made a more careful examination of the country around them. All was fresh and beautiful after the sultriness of the desert, and the sunshine and sweet, crisp air were delightful to the wanderers. Little mounds of yellowish green were away at the right, while on the left waved a group of tall leafy trees bearing yellow blossoms that looked like tassels and pompoms. Among the grasses carpeting the ground were pretty buttercups and cowslips and marigolds. After looking at these a moment Dorothy said reflectively: "We must be in the Country of the Winkies, for the color of that country is yellow, and you will notice that 'most everything here is yellow that has any color at all." "But I thought this was the Land of Oz," replied the shaggy man, as if greatly disappointed. "So it is," she declared; "but there are four parts to the Land of Oz. The North Country is purple, and it's the Country of the Gillikins. The East country is blue, and that's the Country of the Munchkins. Down at the South is the red Country of the Quadlings, and here, in the West, the yellow Country of the Winkies. This is the part that is ruled by the Tin Woodman, you know." "Who's he?" asked Button-Bright. "Why, he's the tin man I told you about. His name is Nick Chopper, and he has a lovely heart given him by the wonderful Wizard." "Where does _he_ live?" asked the boy. "The Wizard? Oh, he lives in the Emerald City, which is just in the middle of Oz, where the corners of the four countries meet." "Oh," said Button-Bright, puzzled by this explanation. "We must be some distance from the Emerald City," remarked the shaggy man. "That's true," she replied; "so we'd better start on and see if we can find any of the Winkies. They're nice people," she continued, as the little party began walking toward the group of trees, "and I came here once with my friends the Scarecrow, and the Tin Woodman, and the Cowardly Lion, to fight a wicked witch who had made all the Winkies her slaves." [Illustration] "Did you conquer her?" asked Polly. "Why, I melted her with a bucket of water, and that was the end of her," replied Dorothy. "After that the people were free, you know, and they made Nick Chopper--that's the Tin Woodman--their Emp'ror." "What's that?" asked Button-Bright. "Emp'ror? Oh, it's something like an alderman, I guess." "Oh," said the boy. "But I thought Princess Ozma ruled Oz," said the shaggy man. "So she does; she rules the Emerald City and all the four countries of Oz; but each country has another little ruler, not so big as Ozma. It's like the officers of an army, you see; the little rulers are all captains, and Ozma's the general." By this time they had reached the trees, which stood in a perfect circle and just far enough apart so that their thick branches touched--or "shook hands," as Button-Bright remarked. Under the shade of the trees they found, in the center of the circle, a crystal pool, its water as still as glass. It must have been deep, too, for when Polychrome bent over it she gave a little sigh of pleasure. "Why, it's a mirror!" she cried; for she could see all her pretty face and fluffy, rainbow-tinted gown reflected in the pool, as natural as life. Dorothy bent over, too, and began to arrange her hair, blown by the desert wind into straggling tangles. Button-Bright leaned over the edge next, and then began to cry, for the sight of his fox head frightened the poor little fellow. "I guess I won't look," remarked the shaggy man, sadly, for he didn't like his donkey head, either. While Polly and Dorothy tried to comfort Button-Bright, the shaggy man sat down near the edge of the pool, where his image could not be reflected, and stared at the water thoughtfully. As he did this he noticed a silver plate fastened to a rock just under the surface of the water, and on the silver plate was engraved these words: [Illustration: THE TRUTH POND] "Ah!" cried the shaggy man, springing to his feet with eager joy; "we've found it at last." "Found what?" asked Dorothy, running to him. "The Truth Pond. Now, at last, I may get rid of this frightful head; for we were told, you remember, that only the Truth Pond could restore to me my proper face." "Me, too!" shouted Button-Bright, trotting up to them. "Of course," said Dorothy. "It will cure you both of your bad heads, I guess. Isn't it lucky we found it?" [Illustration] "It is, indeed," replied the shaggy man. "I hated dreadfully to go to Princess Ozma looking like this; and she's to have a birthday celebration, too." Just then a splash startled them, for Button-Bright, in his anxiety to see the pool that would "cure" him, had stepped too near the edge and tumbled heels over head into the water. Down he went, out of sight entirely, so that only his sailor hat floated on the top of the Truth Pond. He soon bobbed up, and the shaggy man seized him by his sailor collar and dragged him to the shore, dripping and gasping for breath. They all looked upon the boy wonderingly, for the fox head with its sharp nose and pointed ears was gone, and in its place appeared the chubby round face and blue eyes and pretty curls that had belonged to Button-Bright before King Dox of Foxville transformed him. "Oh, what a darling!" cried Polly, and would have hugged the little one had he not been so wet. Their joyful exclamations made the child rub the water out of his eyes and look at his friends questioningly. "You're all right now, dear," said Dorothy. "Come and look at yourself." She led him to the pool, and although there were still a few ripples on the surface of the water he could see his reflection plainly. "It's me!" he said, in a pleased yet awed whisper. [Illustration: THE SHAGGY MAN'S OWN HEAD RESTORED] "'Course it is," replied the girl; "and we're all as glad as you are, Button-Bright." "Well," announced the shaggy man, "it's my turn next." He took off his shaggy coat and laid it on the grass and dived head first into the Truth Pond. [Illustration] When he came up the donkey head had disappeared, and the shaggy man's own shaggy head was in its place, with the water dripping in little streams from his shaggy whiskers. He scrambled ashore and shook himself to get off some of the wet, and then leaned over the pool to look admiringly at his reflected face. "I may not be strictly beautiful, even now," he said to his companions, who watched him with smiling faces; "but I'm so much handsomer than any donkey that I feel as proud as I can be." "You're all right, Shaggy Man," declared Dorothy. "And Button-Bright is all right, too. So let's thank the Truth Pond for being so nice, and start on our journey to the Emerald City." "I hate to leave it," murmured the shaggy man, with a sigh. "A truth pond wouldn't be a bad thing to carry around with us." But he put on his coat and started with the others in search of some one to direct them on their way. Tik-Tok and Billina [Illustration] They had not walked far across the flower-strewn meadows when they came upon a fine road leading toward the northwest and winding gracefully among the pretty yellow hills. "That way," said Dorothy, "must be the direction of the Emerald City. We'd better follow the road until we meet some one or come to a house." The sun soon dried Button-Bright's sailor suit and the shaggy man's shaggy clothes, and so pleased were they at regaining their own heads that they did not mind at all the brief discomfort of getting wet. "It's good to be able to whistle again," remarked the shaggy man, "for those donkey lips were so thick I could not whistle a note with them." He warbled a tune as merrily as any bird. "You'll look more natural at the birthday celebration, too," said Dorothy, happy in seeing her friends so happy. Polychrome was dancing ahead in her usual sprightly manner, whirling gaily along the smooth, level road, until she passed from sight around the curve of one of the mounds. Suddenly they heard her exclaim "Oh!" and she appeared again, running toward them at full speed. "What's the matter, Polly?" asked Dorothy, perplexed. There was no need for the Rainbow's Daughter to answer, for turning the bend in the road there came advancing slowly toward them a funny round man made of burnished copper, gleaming brightly in the sun. Perched on the copper man's shoulder sat a yellow hen, with fluffy feathers and a pearl necklace around her throat. "Oh, Tik-tok!" cried Dorothy, running forward. When she came to him the copper man lifted the little girl in his copper arms and kissed her cheek with his copper lips. "Oh, Billina!" cried Dorothy, in a glad voice, and the yellow hen flew to her arms, to be hugged and petted by turns. The others were curiously crowding around the group, and the girl said to them: "It's Tik-tok and Billina; and oh! I'm so glad to see them again." "Wel-come to Oz," said the copper man, in a monotonous voice. [Illustration] Dorothy sat right down in the road, the yellow hen in her arms, and began to stroke Billina's back. Said the hen: "Dorothy, dear, I've some wonderful news to tell you." "Tell it quick, Billina!" said the girl. Just then Toto, who had been growling to himself in a cross way gave a sharp bark and flew at the yellow hen, who ruffled her feathers and let out such an angry screech that Dorothy was startled. "Stop, Toto! Stop that this minute!" she commanded. "Can't you see that Billina is my friend?" In spite of this warning had she not grabbed Toto quickly by the neck the little dog would have done the yellow hen a mischief, and even now he struggled madly to escape Dorothy's grasp. She slapped his cars once or twice and told him to behave, and the yellow hen flew to Tik-tok's shoulder again, where she was safe. "What a brute!" croaked Billina, glaring down at the little dog. "Toto isn't a brute," replied Dorothy; "but at home Uncle Henry has to whip him sometimes for chasing the chickens. Now, look here, Toto," she added, holding up her finger and speaking sternly to him, "you've got to understand that Billina is one of my dearest friends, and mustn't be hurt--now or ever." Toto wagged his tail as if he understood. "The miserable thing can't talk," said Billina, with a sneer. "Yes, he can," replied Dorothy; "he talks with his tail, and I know everything he says. If you could wag your tail, Billina, you wouldn't need words to talk with." "Nonsense!" said Billina. "It isn't nonsense at all. Just now Toto says he's sorry, and that he'll try to love you for my sake. Don't you, Toto?" "Bow-wow!" said Toto, wagging his tail again. "But I've such wonderful news for you; Dorothy," cried the yellow hen; "I've----" "Wait a minute, dear," interrupted the little girl; "I've got to introduce you all, first. That's manners, Billina. This," turning to her traveling companions, "is Mr. Tik-tok, who works by machinery, 'cause his thoughts wind up, and his talk winds up, and his action winds up--like a clock." "Do they all wind up together?" asked the shaggy man. "No; each one separate. But he works just lovely, and Tik-tok was a good friend to me once, and saved my life--and Billina's life, too." "Is he alive?" asked Button-Bright, looking hard at the copper man. "Oh, no, but his machinery makes him just as good as alive." She turned to the copper man and said politely: "Mr. Tik-tok, these are my new friends: the shaggy man, and Polly the Rainbow's Daughter, and Button-Bright, and Toto. Only Toto isn't a new friend, 'cause he's been to Oz before." The copper man bowed low, removing his copper hat as he did so. "I'm ve-ry pleased to meet Dor-o-thy's fr-r-r-r-r----" Here he stopped short. "Oh, I guess his speech needs winding!" said the little girl, running behind the copper man to get the key off a hook at his back. She wound him up at a place under his right arm and he went on to say: "Par-don me for run-ning down. I was a-bout to say I am pleased to meet Dor-o-thy's friends, who must be my friends." The words were somewhat jerky, but plain to understand. "And this is Billina," continued Dorothy, introducing the yellow hen, and they all bowed to her in turn. "I've such wonderful news," said the hen, turning her head so that one bright eye looked full at Dorothy. "What is it, dear?" asked the girl. "I've hatched out ten of the loveliest chicks you ever saw." "Oh, how nice! And where are they, Billina?" "I left them at home. But they're beauties, I assure you, and all wonderfully clever. I've named them Dorothy." "Which one?" asked the girl. "All of them," replied Billina. "That's funny. Why did you name them all with the same name?" "It was so hard to tell them apart," explained the hen. "Now, when I call 'Dorothy,' they all come running to me in a bunch; it's much easier, after all, than having a separate name for each." "I'm just dying to see 'em, Billina," said Dorothy, eagerly. "But tell me, my friends, how did you happen to be here, in the Country of the Winkies, the first of all to meet us?" "I'll tell you," answered Tik-tok, in his monotonous voice, all the sounds of his words being on one level--"Prin-cess Oz-ma saw you in her mag-ic pic-ture, and knew you were com-ing here; so she sent Bil-lin-a and me to wel-come you, as she could not come her-self; so that--fiz-i-dig-le cum-so-lut-ing hy-ber-gobble in-tu-zib-ick----" "Good gracious! Whatever's the matter now?" cried Dorothy, as the copper man continued to babble these unmeaning words, which no one could understand at all because they had no sense. "Don't know," said Button-Bright, who was half scared. Polly whirled away to a distance and turned to look at the copper man in a fright. [Illustration] "His thoughts have run down, this time," remarked Billina composedly, as she sat on Tik-tok's shoulder and pruned her sleek feathers. "When he can't think he can't talk properly, any more than you can. You'll have to wind up his thoughts, Dorothy, or else I'll have to finish his story myself." Dorothy ran around and got the key again and wound up Tik-tok under his left arm, after which he could speak plainly again. "Par-don me," he said, "but when my thoughts run down my speech has no mean-ing, for words are formed on-ly by thought. I was a-bout to say that Oz-ma sent us to wel-come you and in-vite you to come straight to the Em-er-ald Ci-ty. She was too bus-y to come her-self, for she is pre-par-ing for her birth-day cel-e-bra-tion, which is to be a grand af-fair." "I've heard of it," said Dorothy, "and I'm glad we've come in time to attend. Is it far from here to the Emerald City?" "Not ve-ry far," answered Tik-tok, "and we have plen-ty of time. To-night we will stop at the pal-ace of the Tin Wood-man, and to-mor-row night we will ar-rive at the Em-er-ald Ci-ty." "Goody!" cried Dorothy. "I'd like to see dear Nick Chopper again. How's his heart?" "It's fine," said Billina; "the Tin Woodman says it gets softer and kindlier every day. He's waiting at his castle to welcome you, Dorothy; but he couldn't come with us because he 'is getting polished as bright as possible for Ozma's party." "Well, then," said Dorothy, "let's start on, and we can talk more as we go." They proceeded on their journey in a friendly group, for Polychrome had discovered that the copper man was harmless and was no longer afraid of him. Button-Bright was also reassured, and took quite a fancy to Tik-tok. He wanted the clockwork man to open himself, so that he might see the wheels go round; but that was a thing Tik-tok could not do. Button-Bright then wanted to wind up the copper man, and Dorothy promised he should do so as soon as any part of the machinery ran down. This pleased Button-Bright, who held fast to one of Tik-tok's copper hands as he trudged along the road, while Dorothy walked on the other side of her old friend and Billina perched by turns upon his shoulder or his copper hat. Polly once more joyously danced ahead and Toto ran after her, barking with glee. The shaggy man was left to walk behind; but he didn't seem to mind that a bit, and whistled merrily or looked curiously upon the pretty scenes they passed. At last they came to a hilltop from which the tin castle of Nick Chopper could plainly be seen, its towers glistening magnificently under the rays of the declining sun. "How pretty!" exclaimed Dorothy. "I've never seen the Emp'ror's new house before." "He built it because the old castle was damp, and likely to rust his tin body," said Billina. "All those towers and steeples and domes and gables took a lot of tin, as you can see." "Is it a toy?" asked Button-Bright, softly. "No, dear," answered Dorothy; "it's better than that. It's the fairy dwelling of a fairy prince." [Illustration] The Emperor's Tin Castle [Illustration] The grounds around Nick Chopper's new house were laid out in pretty flower-beds, with fountains of crystal water and statues of tin representing the Emperor's personal friends. Dorothy was astonished and delighted to find a tin statue of herself standing on a tin pedestal at a bend in the avenue leading up to the entrance. It was life-size and showed her in her sunbonnet with her basket on her arm, just as she had first appeared in the Land of Oz. "Oh, Toto--you're there too!" she exclaimed; and sure enough there was the tin figure of Toto lying at the tin Dorothy's feet. Also Dorothy saw figures of the Scarecrow, and the Wizard, and Ozma, and of many others, including Tik-tok. They reached the grand tin entrance to the tin castle, and the Tin Woodman himself came running out of the door to embrace little Dorothy and give her a glad welcome. He welcomed her friends as well, and the Rainbow's Daughter he declared to be the loveliest vision his tin eyes had ever beheld. He patted Button-Bright's curly head tenderly, for he was fond of children, and turned to the shaggy man and shook both his hands at the same time. [Illustration] Nick Chopper, the Emperor of the Winkies, who was also known throughout the Land of Oz as the Tin Woodman, was certainly a remarkable person. He was neatly made, all of tin, nicely soldered at the joints, and his various limbs were cleverly hinged to his body so that he could use them nearly as well as if they had been common flesh. Once, he told the shaggy man, he had been made all of flesh and bones, as others people are, and then he chopped wood in the forests to earn his living. But the axe slipped so often and cut off parts of him--which he had replaced with tin--that finally there was no flesh left, nothing but tin; so he became a real tin woodman. The wonderful Wizard of Oz had given him an excellent heart to replace his old one, and he didn't at all mind being tin. Every one loved him, he loved every one; and he was therefore as happy as the day was long. The Emperor was proud of his new tin castle, and showed his visitors through all the rooms. Every bit of the furniture was made of brightly polished tin--the tables, chairs, beds, and all--even the floors and walls were of tin. "I suppose," said he, "that there are no cleverer tinsmiths in all the world than the Winkies. It would be hard to match this castle in Kansas; wouldn't it, little Dorothy?" "Very hard," replied the child, gravely. "It must have cost a lot of money," remarked the shaggy man. "Money! Money in Oz!" cried the Tin Woodman. "What a queer idea! Did you suppose we are so vulgar as to use money here?" "Why not?" asked the shaggy man. "If we used money to buy things with, instead of love and kindness and the desire to please one another, then we should be no better than the rest of the world," declared the Tin Woodman. "Fortunately money is not known in the Land of Oz at all. We have no rich, and no poor; for what one wishes the others all try to give him, in order to make him happy, and no one in all Oz cares to have more than he can use." "Good!" cried the shaggy man, greatly pleased to hear this. "I also despise money--a man in Butterfield owes me fifteen cents, and I will not take it from him. The Land of Oz is surely the most favored land in all the world, and its people the happiest. I should like to live here always." The Tin Woodman listened with respectful attention. Already he loved the shaggy man, although he did not yet know of the Love Magnet. So he said: "If you can prove to the Princess Ozma that you are honest and true and worthy of our friendship, you may indeed live here all your days, and be as happy as we are." "I'll try to prove that," said the shaggy man, earnestly. "And now," continued the Emperor, "you must all go to your rooms and prepare for dinner, which will presently be served in the grand tin dining-hall. I am sorry, Shaggy Man, that I can not offer you a change of clothing; but I dress only in tin, myself, and I suppose that would not suit you." "I care little about dress," said the shaggy man, indifferently. "So I should imagine," replied the Emperor, with true politeness. They were shown to their rooms and permitted to make such toilets as they could, and soon they assembled again in the grand tin dining-hall, even Toto being present. For the Emperor was fond of Dorothy's little dog, and the girl explained to her friends that in Oz all animals were treated with as much consideration as the people--"if they behave themselves," she added. Toto behaved himself, and sat in a tin high-chair beside Dorothy and ate his dinner from a tin platter. Indeed, they all ate from tin dishes, but these were of pretty shapes and brightly polished; Dorothy thought they were just as good as silver. Button-Bright looked curiously at the man who had "no appetite inside him," for the Tin Woodman, although he had prepared so fine a feast for his guests, ate not a mouthful himself, sitting patiently in his place to see that all built so they could eat were well and plentifully served. [Illustration: POLYCHROME DANCED GRACEFULLY TO THE MUSIC] What pleased Button-Bright most about the dinner was the tin orchestra that played sweet music while the company ate. The players were not tin, being just ordinary Winkies; but the instruments they played upon were all tin--tin trumpets, tin fiddles, tin drums and cymbals and flutes and horns and all. They played so nicely the "Shining Emperor Waltz," composed expressly in honor of the Tin Woodman by Mr. H. M. Wogglebug, T. E., that Polly could not resist dancing to it. After she had tasted a few dewdrops, freshly gathered for her, she danced gracefully to the music while the others finished their repast; and when she whirled until her fleecy draperies of rainbow hues enveloped her like a cloud, the Tin Woodman was so delighted that he clapped his tin hands until the noise of them drowned the sound of the cymbals. Altogether it was a merry meal, although Polychrome ate little and the host nothing at all. "I'm sorry the Rainbow's Daughter missed her mist-cakes," said the Tin Woodman to Dorothy; "but by a mistake Miss Polly's mist-cakes were mislaid and not missed until now. I'll try to have some for her breakfast." They spent the evening telling stories, and the next morning left the splendid tin castle and set out upon the road to the Emerald City. The Tin Woodman went with them, of course, having by this time been so brightly polished that he sparkled like silver. His axe, which he always carried with him, had a steel blade that was tin plated and a handle covered with tin plate beautifully engraved and set with diamonds. The Winkies assembled before the castle gates and cheered their Emperor as he marched away, and it was easy to see that they all loved him dearly. [Illustration] Visiting the Pumpkin-Field [Illustration] Dorothy let Button-Bright wind up the clock-work in the copper man this morning--his thinking machine first, then his speech, and finally his action; so he would doubtless run perfectly until they had reached the Emerald City. The copper man and the tin man were good friends, and not so much alike as you might think. For one was alive and the other moved by means of machinery; one was tall and angular and the other short and round. You could love the Tin Woodman because he had a fine nature, kindly and simple; but the machine man you could only admire without loving, since to love such a thing as he was as impossible as to love a sewing-machine or an automobile. Yet Tik-tok was popular with the people of Oz because he was so trustworthy, reliable and true; he was sure to do exactly what he was wound up to do, at all times and in all circumstances. Perhaps it is better to be a machine that does its duty than a flesh-and-blood person who will not, for a dead truth is better than a live falsehood. About noon the travelers reached a large field of pumpkins--a vegetable quite appropriate to the yellow country of the Winkies--and some of the pumpkins which grew there were of remarkable size. Just before they entered upon this field they saw three little mounds that looked like graves, with a pretty headstone to each one of them. [Illustration] "What is this?" asked Dorothy, in wonder. "It's Jack Pumpkinhead's private graveyard," replied the Tin Woodman. "But I thought nobody ever died in Oz," she said. "Nor do they; although if one is bad, he may be condemned and killed by the good citizens," he answered. Dorothy ran over to the little graves and read the words engraved upon the tombstones. The first one said: Here Lies the Mortal Part of JACK PUMPKINHEAD Which Spoiled April 9th. She then went to the next stone, which read: Here Lies the Mortal Part of JACK PUMPKINHEAD Which Spoiled October 2nd. On the third stone were carved these words: Here Lies the Mortal Part of JACK PUMPKINHEAD Which Spoiled January 24th. "Poor Jack!" sighed Dorothy. "I'm sorry he had to die in three parts, for I hoped to see him again." "So you shall," declared the Tin Woodman, "since he is still alive. Come with me to his house, for Jack is now a farmer and lives in this very pumpkin field." They walked over to a monstrous big, hollow pumpkin which had a door and windows cut through the rind. There was a stovepipe running through the stem, and six steps had been built leading up to the front door. They walked up to this door and looked in. Seated on a bench was a man clothed in a spotted shirt, a red vest, and faded blue trousers, whose body was merely sticks of wood, jointed clumsily together. On his neck was set a round, yellow pumpkin, with a face carved on it such as a boy often carves on a jack-lantern. This queer man was engaged in snapping slippery pumpkin-seeds with his wooden fingers, trying to hit a target on the other side of the room with them. He did not know he had visitors until Dorothy exclaimed: "Why, it's Jack Pumpkinhead himself!" He turned and saw them, and at once came forward to greet the little Kansas girl and Nick Chopper, and to be introduced to their new friends. Button-Bright was at first rather shy with the quaint Pumpkinhead, but Jack's face was so jolly and smiling--being carved that way--that the boy soon grew to like him. "I thought, a while ago, that you were buried in three parts," said Dorothy; "but now I see you're just the same as ever." "Not quite the same, my dear, for my mouth is a little more one-sided than it used to be; but pretty nearly the same. I've a new head, and this is the fourth one I've owned since Ozma first made me and brought me to life by sprinkling me with the Magic Powder." "What became of the other heads, Jack?" "They spoiled and I buried them, for they were not even fit for pies. Each time Ozma has carved me a new head just like the old one, and as my body is by far the largest part of me I am still Jack Pumpkinhead, no matter how often I change my upper end. Once we had a dreadful time to find another pumpkin, as they were out of season, and so I was obliged to wear my old head a little longer than was strictly healthy. But after this sad experience I resolved to raise pumpkins myself, so as never to be caught again without one handy; and now I have this fine field that you see before you. Some grow pretty big--too big to be used for heads--so I dug out this one and use it for a house." "Isn't it damp?" asked Dorothy. "Not very. There isn't much left but the shell, you see, and it will last a long time yet." "I think you are brighter than you used to be, Jack," said the Tin Woodman. "Your last head was a stupid one." "The seeds in this one are better," was the reply. "Are you going to Ozma's party?" asked Dorothy. "Yes," said he; "I wouldn't miss it for anything. Ozma's my parent, you know, because she built my body and carved my pumpkin head. I'll follow you to the Emerald City to-morrow, where we shall meet again. I can't go to-day, because I have to plant fresh pumpkin-seeds and water the young vines. But give my love to Ozma, and tell her I'll be there in time for the jubilation." "We will," she promised; and then they all left him and resumed their journey. [Illustration] The Royal Chariot Arrives [Illustration] The neat yellow houses of the Winkies were now to be seen standing here and there along the roadway, giving the country a more cheerful and civilized look. They were farm-houses, though, and set far apart; for in the Land of Oz there were no towns or villages except the magnificent Emerald City in its center. Hedges of evergreen or of yellow roses bordered the broad highway and the farms showed the care of their industrious inhabitants. The nearer the travelers came to the great city the more prosperous the country became, and they crossed many bridges over the sparkling streams and rivulets that watered the lands. As they walked leisurely along the shaggy man said to the Tin Woodman: "What sort of a Magic Powder was it, that made your friend the Pumpkinhead live?" "It was called the Powder of Life," was the answer; "and it was invented by a crooked Sorcerer who lived in the mountains of the North Country. A Witch named Mombi got some of this powder from the crooked Sorcerer and took it home with her. Ozma lived with the Witch then, for it was before she became our Princess, while Mombi had transformed her into the shape of a boy. Well, while Mombi was gone to the crooked Sorcerer's, the boy made this pumpkin-headed man to amuse himself, and also with the hope of frightening the Witch with it when she returned. But Mombi was not scared, and she sprinkled the Pumpkinhead with her Magic Powder of Life, to see if the Powder would work. Ozma was watching, and saw the Pumpkinhead come to life; so that night she took the pepper-box containing the Powder and ran away with it and with Jack, in search of adventures." "Next day they found a wooden Saw-Horse standing by the roadside, and sprinkled it with the Powder. It came to life at once, and Jack Pumpkinhead rode the Saw-Horse to the Emerald City." "What became of the Saw-Horse, afterward?" asked the shaggy man, much interested in this story. [Illustration] "Oh, it's alive yet, and you will probably meet it presently in the Emerald City. Afterward Ozma used the last of the Powder to bring the Flying Gump to life; but as soon as it had carried her away from her enemies the Gump was taken apart, so it doesn't exist any more." "It's too bad the Powder of Life was all used up," remarked the shaggy man; "it would be a handy thing to have around." "I am not so sure of that, sir," answered the Tin Woodman. "A while ago the crooked Sorcerer who invented the magic Powder fell down a precipice and was killed. All his possessions went to a relative--an old woman named Dyna, who lives in the Emerald City. She went to the mountains where the Sorcerer had lived and brought away everything she thought of value. Among them was a small bottle of the Powder of Life; but of course Dyna didn't know it was a magic Powder, at all. It happened she had once had a big blue bear for a pet; but the bear choked to death on a fishbone one day, and she loved it so dearly that Dyna made a rug of its skin, leaving the head and four paws on the hide. She kept the rug on the floor of her front parlor." "I've seen rugs like that," said the shaggy man, nodding, "but never one made from a blue bear." "Well," continued the Tin Woodman, "the old woman had an idea that the Powder in the bottle must be moth-powder, because it smelled something like moth-powder; so one day she sprinkled it on her bear rug to keep the moths out of it. She said, looking lovingly at the skin: 'I wish my dear bear were alive again!' To her horror the bear rug at once came to life, having been sprinkled with the Magic Powder; and now this live bear rug is a great trial to her, and makes her a lot of trouble." "Why?" asked the shaggy man. "Well, it stands up on its four feet and walks all around, and gets in the way; and that spoils it for a rug. It can't speak, although it is alive; for, while its head might say words, it has no breath in a solid body to push the words out of its mouth. It's a very slimpsy affair altogether, that bear rug, and the old woman is sorry it came to life. Every day she has to scold it, and make it lie down flat on the parlor floor to be walked upon; but sometimes when she goes to market the rug will hump up its back skin, and stand on its four feet, and trot along after her." [Illustration] "I should think Dyna would like that," said Dorothy. "Well, she doesn't; because every one knows it isn't a real bear, but just a hollow skin, and so of no actual use in the world except for a rug," answered the Tin Woodman. "Therefore I believe it is a good thing that all the magic Powder of Life is now used up, as it cannot cause any more trouble." "Perhaps you're right," said the shaggy man, thoughtfully. At noon they stopped at a farm-house, where it delighted the farmer and his wife to be able to give them a good luncheon. The farm people knew Dorothy, having seen her when she was in the country before, and they treated the little girl with as much respect as they did the Emperor, because she was a friend of the powerful Princess Ozma. They had not proceeded far after leaving this farm-house before coming to a high bridge over a broad river. This river, the Tin Woodman informed them, was the boundary between the Country of the Winkies and the territory of the Emerald City. The city itself was still a long way off, but all around it was a green meadow, as pretty as a well-kept lawn, and in this were neither houses nor farms to spoil the beauty of the scene. From the top of the high bridge they could see far away the magnificent spires and splendid domes of the superb city, sparkling like brilliant jewels as they towered above the emerald walls. The shaggy man drew a deep breath of awe and amazement, for never had he dreamed that such a grand and beautiful place could exist--even in the fairyland of Oz. Polly was so pleased that her violet eyes sparkled like amethysts, and she danced away from her companions across the bridge and into a group of feathery trees lining both the roadsides. These trees she stopped to look at with pleasure and surprise, for their leaves were shaped like ostrich plumes, their feather edges beautifully curled; and all the plumes were tinted in the same dainty rainbow hues that appeared in Polychrome's own pretty gauze gown. "Father ought to see these trees," she murmured; "they are almost as lovely as his own rainbows." Then she gave a start of terror, for beneath the trees came stalking two great beasts, either one big enough to crush the little Daughter of the Rainbow with one blow of his paws, or to eat her up with one snap of his enormous jaws. One was a tawny lion, as tall as a horse, nearly; the other a striped tiger almost the same size. Polly was too frightened to scream or to stir; she stood still with a wildly beating heart until Dorothy rushed past her and with a glad cry threw her arms around the huge lion's neck, hugging and kissing the beast with evident joy. "Oh, I'm _so_ glad to see you again!" cried the little Kansas girl. "And the Hungry Tiger, too! How fine you're both looking. Are you well and happy?" [Illustration: DOROTHY THREW HER ARMS AROUND THE LION'S NECK] "We certainly are, Dorothy," answered the Lion, in a deep voice that sounded pleasant and kind; "and we are greatly pleased that you have come to Ozma's party. It's going to be a grand affair, I promise you." "There will be lots of fat babies at the celebration, I hear," remarked the Hungry Tiger, yawning so that his mouth opened dreadfully wide and showed all his big, sharp teeth; "but of course I can't eat any of 'em." "Is your Conscience still in good order?" asked Dorothy, anxiously. "Yes; it rules me like a tyrant," answered the Tiger, sorrowfully. "I can imagine nothing more unpleasant than to own a Conscience," and he winked slyly at his friend the Lion. "You're fooling me!" said Dorothy, with a laugh. "I don't b'lieve you'd eat a baby if you lost your Conscience. Come here, Polly," she called, "and be introduced to my friends." Polly advanced rather shyly. "You have some queer friends, Dorothy," she said. "The queerness doesn't matter, so long as they're friends," was the answer. "This is the Cowardly Lion, who isn't a coward at all, but just thinks he is. The Wizard gave him some courage once, and he has part of it left." The Lion bowed with great dignity to Polly. "You are very lovely, my dear," said he. "I hope we shall be friends when we are better acquainted." "And this is the Hungry Tiger," continued Dorothy. "He says he longs to eat fat babies; but the truth is he is never hungry at all, 'cause he gets plenty to eat; and I don't s'pose he'd hurt anybody even if he was hungry." "Hush, Dorothy," whispered the Tiger; "you'll ruin my reputation if you are not more discreet. It isn't what we are, but what folks think we are, that counts in this world. And come to think of it Miss Polly would make a fine variegated breakfast, I'm sure." [Illustration] The Emerald City [Illustration] The others now came up, and the Tin Woodman greeted the Lion and the Tiger cordially. Button-Bright yelled with fear when Dorothy first took his hand and led him toward the great beasts; but the girl insisted they were kind and good, and so the boy mustered up courage enough to pat their heads; after they had spoken to him gently and he had looked into their intelligent eyes his fear vanished entirely and he was so delighted with the animals that he wanted to keep close to them and stroke their soft fur every minute. As for the shaggy man, he might have been afraid if he had met the beasts alone, or in any other country; but so many were the marvels in the Land of Oz that he was no longer easily surprised, and Dorothy's friendship for the Lion and Tiger was enough to assure him they were safe companions. Toto barked at the Cowardly Lion in joyous greeting, for he knew the beast of old and loved him, and it was funny to see how gently the Lion raised his huge paw to pat Toto's head. The little dog smelled of the Tiger's nose and the Tiger politely shook paws with him; so they were quite likely to become firm friends. Tik-tok and Billina knew the beasts well, so merely bade them good day and asked after their healths and inquired about the Princess Ozma. Now it was seen that the Cowardly Lion and the Hungry Tiger were drawing behind them a splendid golden chariot, to which they were harnessed by golden cords. The body of the chariot was decorated on the outside with designs in clusters of sparkling emeralds, while inside it was lined with a green and gold satin, and the cushions of the seats were of green plush embroidered in gold with a crown, underneath which was a monogram. "Why, it's Ozma's own royal chariot!" exclaimed Dorothy. "Yes," said the Cowardly Lion; "Ozma sent us to meet you here, for she feared you would be weary with your long walk and she wished you to enter the City in a style becoming your exalted rank." "What!" cried Polly, looking at Dorothy curiously. "Do you belong to the nobility?" [Illustration] "Just in Oz I do," said the child, "'cause Ozma made me a Princess, you know. But when I'm home in Kansas I'm only a country girl, and have to help with the churning and wipe the dishes while Aunt Em washes 'em. Do you have to help wash dishes on the rainbow, Polly?" "No, dear," answered Polychrome, smiling. "Well, I don't have to work any in Oz, either," said Dorothy. "It's kind of fun to be a Princess once in a while; don't you think so?" "Dorothy and Polychrome and Button-Bright are all to ride in the chariot," said the Lion. "So get in, my dears, and be careful not to mar the gold or put your dusty feet on the embroidery." Button-Bright was delighted to ride behind such a superb team, and he told Dorothy it made him feel like an actor in a circus. As the strides of the animals brought them nearer to the Emerald City every one bowed respectfully to the children, as well as to the Tin Woodman, Tik-tok, and the shaggy man, who were following behind. The Yellow Hen had perched upon the back of the chariot, where she could tell Dorothy more about her wonderful chickens as they rode. And so the grand chariot came finally to the high wall surrounding the City, and paused before the magnificent jewel-studded gates. These were opened by a cheerful looking little man who wore green spectacles over his eyes. Dorothy introduced him to her friends as the Guardian of the Gates, and they noticed a big bunch of keys suspended on the golden chain that hung around his neck. The chariot passed through the outer gates into a fine arched chamber built in the thick wall, and through the inner gates into the streets of the Emerald City. Polychrome exclaimed in rapture at the wondrous beauty that met her eyes on every side as they rode through this stately and imposing City, the equal of which has never been discovered, even in Fairyland. Button-Bright could only say "My!" so amazing was the sight; but his eyes were wide open and he tried to look in every direction at the same time, so as not to miss anything. [Illustration] The shaggy man was fairly astounded at what he saw, for the graceful and handsome buildings were covered with plates of gold and set with emeralds so splendid and valuable that in any other part of the world any one of them would have been worth a fortune to its owner. The sidewalks were superb marble slabs polished as smooth as glass, and the curbs that separated the walks from the broad street were also set thick with clustered emeralds. There were many people on these walks--men, women, and children--all dressed in handsome garments of silk or satin or velvet, with beautiful jewels. Better even than this: all seemed happy and contented, for their faces were smiling and free from care, and music and laughter might be heard on every side. "Don't they work, at all?" asked the shaggy man. "To be sure they work," replied the Tin Woodman; "this fair city could not be built or cared for without labor, nor could the fruit and vegetables and other food be provided for the inhabitants to eat. But no one works more than half his time, and the people of Oz enjoy their labors as much as they do their play." "It's wonderful!" declared the shaggy man. "I do hope Ozma will let me live here." The chariot, winding through many charming streets, paused before a building so vast and noble and elegant that even Button-Bright guessed at once that it was the Royal Palace. Its gardens and ample grounds were surrounded by a separate wall, not so high or thick as the wall around the City, but more daintily designed and built all of green marble. The gates flew open as the chariot appeared before them, and the Cowardly Lion and Hungry Tiger trotted up a jeweled driveway to the front door of the palace and stopped short. "Here we are!" said Dorothy, gaily, and helped Button-Bright from the chariot. Polychrome leaped out lightly after them, and they were greeted by a crowd of gorgeously dressed servants who bowed low as the visitors mounted the marble steps. At their head was a pretty little maid with dark hair and eyes, dressed all in green embroidered with silver. Dorothy ran up to her with evident pleasure, and exclaimed: "O Jellia Jamb! I'm so glad to see you again. Where's Ozma?" "In her room, your Highness," replied the little maid demurely, for this was Ozma's favorite attendant. "She wishes you to come to her as soon as you have rested and changed your dress, Princess Dorothy. And you and your friends are to dine with her this evening." "When is her birthday, Jellia?" asked the girl. "Day after to-morrow, your Highness." "And where's the Scarecrow?" "He's gone into the Munchkin country to get some fresh straw to stuff himself with, in honor of Ozma's celebration," replied the maid. "He returns to the Emerald City to-morrow, he said." By this time Tik-tok, the Tin Woodman, and the shaggy man had arrived and the chariot had gone around to the back of the palace, Billina going with the Lion and Tiger to see her chickens after her absence from them. But Toto stayed close beside Dorothy. [Illustration: "O, JELLIA JAMB! I'M SO GLAD TO SEE YOU"] "Come in, please," said Jellia Jamb; "it shall be our pleasant duty to escort all of you to the rooms prepared for your use." The shaggy man hesitated. Dorothy had never known him to be ashamed of his shaggy looks before, but now that he was surrounded by so much magnificence and splendor the shaggy man felt sadly out of place. Dorothy assured him that all her friends were welcome at Ozma's palace, so he carefully dusted his shaggy shoes with his shaggy handkerchief and entered the grand hall after the others. [Illustration] Tik-tok lived at the Royal Palace and the Tin Woodman always had the same room whenever he visited Ozma, so these two went at once to remove the dust of the journey from their shining bodies. Dorothy also had a pretty suite of rooms which she always occupied when in the Emerald City; but several servants walked ahead politely to show the way, although she was quite sure she could find the rooms herself. She took Button-Bright with her, because he seemed too small to be left alone in such a big palace; but Jellia Jamb herself ushered the beautiful Daughter of the Rainbow to her apartments, because it was easy to see that Polychrome was used to splendid palaces and was therefore entitled to especial attention. The Shaggy Man's Welcome [Illustration] The shaggy man stood in the great hall, his shaggy hat in his hands, wondering what would become of him. He had never been a guest in a fine palace before; perhaps he had never been a guest anywhere. In the big, cold, outside world people did not invite shaggy men to their homes, and this shaggy man of ours had slept more in hay-lofts and stables than in comfortable rooms. When the others left the great hall he eyed the splendidly dressed servants of the Princess Ozma as if he expected to be ordered out; but one of them bowed before him as respectfully as if he had been a prince, and said: "Permit me, sir, to conduct you to your apartments." The shaggy man drew a long breath and took courage. "Very well," he answered; "I'm ready." [Illustration] Through the big hall they went, up the grand staircase carpeted thick with velvet, and so along a wide corridor to a carved doorway. Here the servant paused, and opening the door said with polite deference: "Be good enough to enter, sir, and make yourself at home in the rooms our Royal Ozma has ordered prepared for you. Whatever you see is for you to use and enjoy, as if your own. The Princess dines at seven, and I shall be here in time to lead you to the drawing-room, where you will be privileged to meet the lovely Ruler of Oz. Is there any command, in the meantime, with which you desire to honor me?" "No," said the shaggy man; "but I'm much obliged." He entered the room and shut the door, and for a time stood in bewilderment, admiring the grandeur before him. He had been given one of the handsomest apartments in the most magnificent palace in the world, and you can not wonder that his good fortune astonished and awed him until he grew used to his surroundings. The furniture was upholstered in cloth of gold, with the royal crown embroidered upon it in scarlet. The rug upon the marble floor was so thick and soft that he could not hear the sound of his own footsteps, and upon the walls were splendid tapestries woven with scenes from the Land of Oz. Books and ornaments were scattered about in profusion, and the shaggy man thought he had never seen so many pretty things in one place before. In one corner played a tinkling fountain of perfumed water, and in another was a table bearing a golden tray loaded with freshly gathered fruit, including several of the red-cheeked apples that the shaggy man loved. At the farther end of this charming room was an open doorway, and he crossed over to find himself in a bedroom containing more comforts than the shaggy man had ever before imagined. The bedstead was of gold and set with many brilliant diamonds, and the coverlet had designs of pearls and rubies sewed upon it. At one side of the bedroom was a dainty dressing-room, with closets containing a large assortment of fresh clothing; and beyond this was the bath--a large room having a marble pool big enough to swim in, with white marble steps leading down to the water. Around the edge of the pool were set rows of fine emeralds as large as door-knobs, while the water of the bath was clear as crystal. [Illustration: THE SHAGGY MAN ADMIRES HIS NEW CLOTHES] For a time the shaggy man gazed upon all this luxury with silent amazement. Then he decided, being wise in his way, to take advantage of his good fortune. He removed his shaggy boots and his shaggy clothing, and bathed in the pool with rare enjoyment. After he had dried himself with the soft towels he went into the dressing-room and took fresh linen from the drawers and put it on, finding that everything fitted him exactly. He examined the contents of the closets and selected an elegant suit of clothing. Strangely enough, everything about it was shaggy, although so new and beautiful, and he sighed with contentment to realize that he could now be finely dressed and still be the Shaggy Man. His coat was of rose-colored velvet, trimmed with shags and bobtails, with buttons of blood-red rubies and golden shags around the edges. His vest was a shaggy satin of a delicate cream color, and his knee-breeches of rose velvet trimmed like the coat. Shaggy creamy stockings of silk, and shaggy slippers of rose leather with ruby buckles, completed his costume, and when he was thus attired the shaggy man looked at himself in a long mirror with great admiration. On a table he found a mother-of-pearl chest decorated with delicate silver vines and flowers of clustered rubies, and on the cover was a silver plate engraved with these words: THE SHAGGY MAN: HIS BOX OF ORNAMENTS The chest was not locked, so he opened it and was almost dazzled by the brilliance of the rich jewels it contained. After admiring the pretty things, he took out a fine golden watch with a big chain, several handsome finger-rings, and an ornament of rubies to pin upon the breast of his shaggy shirt-bosom. Having carefully brushed his hair and whiskers all the wrong way, to make them look as shaggy as possible, the shaggy man breathed a deep sigh of joy and decided he was ready to meet the Royal Princess as soon as she sent for him. While he waited he returned to the beautiful sitting room and ate several of the red-cheeked apples to pass away the time. Meanwhile Dorothy had dressed herself in a pretty gown of soft grey embroidered with silver, and put a blue-and-gold suit of satin upon little Button-Bright, who looked as sweet as a cherub in it. Followed by the boy and Toto--the dog with a new green ribbon around his neck--she hastened down to the splendid drawing-room of the palace, where, seated upon an exquisite throne of carved malachite and nestled amongst its green satin cushions was the lovely Princess Ozma, waiting eagerly to welcome her friend. [Illustration] Princess Ozma of Oz [Illustration] The royal historians of Oz, who are fine writers and know any number of big words, have often tried to describe the rare beauty of Ozma and failed because the words were not good enough. So of course I can not hope to tell you how great was the charm of this little Princess, or how her loveliness put to shame all the sparkling jewels and magnificent luxury that surrounded her in this her royal palace. Whatever else was beautiful or dainty or delightful of itself faded to dullness when contrasted with Ozma's bewitching face, and it has often been said by those who know that no other ruler in all the world can ever hope to equal the gracious charm of her manner. Everything about Ozma attracted one, and she inspired love and the sweetest affection rather than awe or ordinary admiration. Dorothy threw her arms around her little friend and hugged and kissed her rapturously, and Toto barked joyfully and Button-Bright smiled a happy smile and consented to sit on the soft cushions close beside the Princess. "Why didn't you send me word you were going to have a birthday party?" asked the little Kansas girl, when the first greetings were over. "Didn't I?" asked Ozma, her pretty eyes dancing with merriment. "Did you?" replied Dorothy, trying to think. "Who do you imagine, dear, mixed up those roads, so as to start you wandering in the direction of Oz?" inquired the Princess. "Oh! I never 'spected _you_ of that," cried Dorothy. "I've watched you in my Magic Picture all the way here," declared Ozma, "and twice I thought I should have to use the Magic Belt to save you and transport you to the Emerald City. Once was when the Scoodlers caught you, and again when you reached the Deadly Desert. But the shaggy man was able to help you out both times, so I did not interfere." "Do you know who Button-Bright is?" asked Dorothy. [Illustration] "No; I never saw him until you found him in the road, and then only in my Magic Picture." "And did you send Polly to us?" "No, dear; the Rainbow's Daughter slid from her father's pretty arch just in time to meet you." "Well," said Dorothy, "I've promised King Dox of Foxville and King Kik-a-bray of Dunkiton that I'd ask you to invite them to your party." "I have already done that," returned Ozma, "because I thought it would please you to favor them." "Did you 'vite the Musicker?" asked Button-Bright. "No; because he would be too noisy, and might interfere with the comfort of others. When music is not very good, and is indulged in all the time, it is better that the performer should be alone," said the Princess. "I like the Musicker's music," declared the boy, gravely. "But I don't," said Dorothy. "Well, there will be plenty of music at my celebration," promised Ozma; "so I've an idea Button-Bright won't miss the Musicker at all." Just then Polychrome danced in, and Ozma rose to greet the Rainbow's Daughter in her sweetest and most cordial manner. Dorothy thought she had never seen two prettier creatures together than these lovely maidens; but Polly knew at once her own dainty beauty could not match that of Ozma, yet was not a bit jealous because this was so. The Wizard of Oz was announced, and a dried-up, little, old man, clothed all in black, entered the drawing-room. His face was cheery and his eyes twinkling with humor, so Polly and Button-Bright were not at all afraid of the wonderful personage whose fame as a humbug magician had spread throughout the world. After greeting Dorothy with much affection, he stood modestly behind Ozma's throne and listened to the lively prattle of the young people. Now the shaggy man appeared, and so startling was his appearance, all clad in shaggy new raiment, that Dorothy cried "Oh!" and clasped her hands impulsively as she examined her friend with pleased eyes. [Illustration] "He's still shaggy, all right," remarked Button-Bright; and Ozma nodded brightly because she had meant the shaggy man to remain shaggy when she provided his new clothes for him. Dorothy led him toward the throne, as he was shy in such fine company, and presented him gracefully to the Princess, saying: "This, your Highness, is my friend, the shaggy man, who owns the Love Magnet." "You are welcome to Oz," said the girl Ruler, in gracious accents. "But tell me, sir, where did you get the Love Magnet which you say you own?" The shaggy man grew red and looked downcast, as he answered in a low voice: "I stole it, your Majesty." "Oh, Shaggy Man!" cried Dorothy. "How dreadful! And you told me the Eskimo gave you the Love Magnet." He shuffled first on one foot and then on the other, much embarrassed. "I told you a falsehood, Dorothy," he said; "but now, having bathed in the Truth Pond, I must tell nothing but the truth." "Why did you steal it?" asked Ozma, gently. "Because no one loved me, or cared for me," said the shaggy man, "and I wanted to be loved a great deal. It was owned by a girl in Butterfield who was loved too much, so that the young men quarreled over her, which made her unhappy. After I had stolen the Magnet from her, only one young man continued to love the girl, and she married him and regained her happiness." "Are you sorry you stole it?" asked the Princess. "No, your Highness; I'm glad," he answered; "for it has pleased me to be loved, and if Dorothy had not cared for me I could not have accompanied her to this beautiful Land of Oz, or met its kind-hearted Ruler. Now that I'm here, I hope to remain, and to become one of your Majesty's most faithful subjects." [Illustration: IN THE ROYAL PALACE OF OZ] "But in Oz we are loved for ourselves alone, and for our kindness to one another, and for our good deeds," she said. "I'll give up the Love Magnet," said the shaggy man, eagerly; "Dorothy shall have it." "But every one loves Dorothy already," declared the Wizard. "Then Button-Bright shall have it." "Don't want it," said the boy, promptly. "Then I'll give it to the Wizard, for I'm sure the lovely Princess Ozma does not need it." "All my people love the Wizard, too," announced the Princess, laughing; "so we will hang the Love Magnet over the gates of the Emerald City, that whoever shall enter or leave the gates may be loved and loving." "That is a good idea," said the shaggy man; "I agree to it most willingly." Those assembled now went in to dinner, which you may imagine was a grand affair; and afterward Ozma asked the Wizard to give them an exhibition of his magic. The Wizard took eight tiny white piglets from an inside pocket and set them on the table. One was dressed like a clown, and performed funny antics, and the others leaped over the spoons and dishes and ran around the table like racehorses, and turned hand-springs and were so sprightly and amusing that they kept the company in one roar of merry laughter. The Wizard had trained these pets to do many curious things, and they were so little and so cunning and soft that Polychrome loved to pick them up as they passed near her place and fondle them as if they were kittens. It was late when the entertainment ended, and they separated to go to their rooms. [Illustration] "To-morrow," said Ozma, "my invited guests will arrive, and you will find among them some interesting and curious people, I promise you. The next day will be my birthday, and the festivities will be held on the broad green just outside the gates of the City, where all my people can assemble without being crowded." "I hope the Scarecrow won't be late," said Dorothy, anxiously. "Oh, he is sure to return to-morrow," answered Ozma. "He wanted new straw to stuff himself with, so he went to the Munchkin Country, where straw is plentiful." With this the Princess bade her guests good night and went to her own room. Dorothy Receives the Guests [Illustration] Next morning Dorothy's breakfast was served in her own pretty sitting room, and she sent to invite Polly and the shaggy man to join her and Button-Bright at the meal. They came gladly, and Toto also had breakfast with them, so that the little party that had traveled together to Oz was once more reunited. No sooner had they finished eating than they heard the distant blast of many trumpets, and the sound of a brass band playing martial music; so they all went out upon the balcony. This was at the front of the palace and overlooked the streets of the City, being higher than the wall that shut in the palace grounds. They saw approaching down the street a band of musicians, playing as hard and loud as they could, while the people of the Emerald City crowded the sidewalks and cheered so lustily that they almost drowned the noise of the drums and horns. [Illustration] Dorothy looked to see what they were cheering at, and discovered that behind the band was the famous Scarecrow, riding proudly upon the back of a wooden Saw-Horse which pranced along the street almost as gracefully as if it had been made of flesh. Its hoofs, or rather the ends of its wooden legs, were shod with plates of solid gold, and the saddle strapped to the wooden body was richly embroidered and glittered with jewels. As he reached the palace the Scarecrow looked up and saw Dorothy, and at once waved his peaked hat at her in greeting. He rode up to the front door and dismounted, and the band stopped playing and went away and the crowds of people returned to their dwellings. By the time Dorothy and her friends had re-entered her room the Scarecrow was there, and he gave the girl a hearty embrace and shook the hands of the others with his own squashy hands, which were white gloves filled with straw. The shaggy man, Button-Bright, and Polychrome stared hard at this celebrated person, who was acknowledged to be the most popular and most beloved man in all the Land of Oz. "Why, your face has been newly painted!" exclaimed Dorothy, when the first greetings were over. "I had it touched up a bit by the Munchkin farmer who first made me," answered the Scarecrow, pleasantly. "My complexion had become a bit grey and faded, you know, and the paint had peeled off one end of my mouth, so I couldn't talk quite straight. Now I feel like myself again, and I may say without immodesty that my body is stuffed with the loveliest oat-straw in all Oz." He pushed against his chest. "Hear me crunkle?" he asked. "Yes," said Dorothy; "you sound fine." Button-Bright was wonderfully attracted by the straw man, and so was Polly. The shaggy man treated him with great respect, because he was so queerly made. Jellia Jamb now came to say that Ozma wanted Princess Dorothy to receive the invited guests in the Throne-Room, as they arrived. The Ruler was herself busy ordering the preparations for the morrow's festivities, so she wished her friend to act in her place. Dorothy willingly agreed, being the only other Princess in the Emerald City; so she went to the great Throne-Room and sat in Ozma's seat, placing Polly on one side of her and Button-Bright on the other. The Scarecrow stood at the left of the throne and the Tin Woodman at the right, while the Wonderful Wizard and the shaggy man stood behind. The Cowardly Lion and the Hungry Tiger came in, with bright new bows of ribbon on their collars and tails. After greeting Dorothy affectionately the huge beasts lay down at the foot of the throne. While they waited, the Scarecrow, who was near the little boy, asked: "Why are you called Button-Bright?" "Don't know," was the answer. "Oh yes, you do, dear," said Dorothy. "Tell the Scarecrow how you got your name." "Papa always said I was bright as a button, so mamma always called me Button-Bright," announced the boy. "Where is your mamma?" asked the Scarecrow. "Don't know," said Button-Bright. "Where is your home?" asked the Scarecrow. "Don't know," said Button-Bright. "Don't you want to find your mamma again?" asked the Scarecrow. "Don't know," said Button-Bright, calmly. The Scarecrow looked thoughtful. "Your papa may have been right," he observed; "but there are many kinds of buttons, you see. There are silver and gold buttons, which are highly polished and glitter brightly. There are pearl and rubber buttons, and other kinds, with surfaces more or less bright. But there is still another sort of button which is covered with dull cloth, and that must be the sort your papa meant when he said you were bright as a button. Don't you think so?" "Don't know," said Button-Bright. Jack Pumpkinhead arrived, wearing a pair of new white kid gloves; and he brought a birthday present for Ozma consisting of a necklace of pumpkin-seeds. In each seed was set a sparkling carolite, which is considered the rarest and most beautiful gem that exists. The necklace was in a plush case and Jellia Jamb put it on a table with the Princess Ozma's other presents. Next came a tall, beautiful woman clothed in a splendid trailing gown, trimmed with exquisite lace as fine as cobweb. This was the important Sorceress known as Glinda the Good, who had been of great assistance to both Ozma and Dorothy. There was no humbug about her magic, you may be sure, and Glinda was as kind as she was powerful. She greeted Dorothy most lovingly, and kissed Button-Bright and Polly, and smiled upon the shaggy man, after which Jellia Jamb led the Sorceress to one of the most magnificent rooms of the royal palace and appointed fifty servants to wait upon her. [Illustration] The next arrival was Mr. H. M. Woggle-Bug, T. E.; the "H. M." meaning Highly Magnified and the "T. E." meaning Thoroughly Educated. The Woggle-Bug was head professor at the Royal College of Oz, and he had composed a fine Ode in honor of Ozma's birthday. This he wanted to read to them; but the Scarecrow wouldn't let him. Soon they heard a clucking sound and a chorus of "cheep! cheep!" and a servant threw open the door to allow Billina and her ten fluffy chicks to enter the Throne-Room. As the Yellow Hen marched proudly at the head of her family, Dorothy cried, "Oh, you lovely things!" and ran down from her seat to pet the little yellow downy balls. Billina wore a pearl necklace, and around the neck of each chicken was a tiny gold chain holding a locket with the letter "D" engraved upon the outside. "Open the lockets, Dorothy," said Billina. The girl obeyed and found a picture of herself in each locket. "They were named after you, my dear," continued the Yellow Hen, "so I wanted all my chickens to wear your picture. Cluck--cluck! come here, Dorothy--this minute!" she cried, for the chickens were scattered and wandering all around the big room. They obeyed the call at once, and came running as fast as they could, fluttering their fluffy wings in a laughable way. It was lucky that Billina gathered the little ones under her soft breast just then, for Tik-tok came in and tramped up to the throne on his flat copper feet. "I am all wound up and work-ing fine-ly," said the clockwork man to Dorothy. "I can hear him tick," declared Button-Bright. "You are quite the polished gentleman," said the Tin Woodman. "Stand up here beside the shaggy man, Tik-tok, and help receive the company." Dorothy placed soft cushions in a corner for Billina and her chicks, and had just returned to the Throne and seated herself when the playing of the royal band outside the palace announced the approach of distinguished guests. And my, how they did stare when the High Chamberlain threw open the doors and the visitors entered the Throne-Room! First walked a gingerbread man, neatly formed and baked to a lovely brown tint. He wore a silk hat and carried a candy cane prettily striped with red and yellow. His shirt-front and cuffs were white frosting, and the buttons on his coat were licorice drops. Behind the gingerbread man came a child with flaxen hair and merry blue eyes, dressed in white pajamas, with sandals on the soles of its pretty bare feet. The child looked around smiling and thrust its hands into the pockets of the pajamas. Close after it came a big rubber bear, walking erect on its hind feet. The bear had twinkling black eyes and its body looked as if it had been pumped full of air. Following these curious visitors were two tall, thin men and two short, fat men, all four dressed in gorgeous uniforms. [Illustration: KING DOUGH, THE HEAD BOOLEYWAG, AND PARA BRUIN] Ozma's High Chamberlain now hurried forward to announce the names of the new arrivals, calling out in a loud voice: "His Gracious and Most Edible Majesty, King Dough the First, Ruler of the Two Kingdoms of Hiland and Loland. Also the Head Booleywag of his Majesty, known as Chick the Cherub, and their faithful friend Para Bruin, the rubber bear." These great personages bowed low as their names were called, and Dorothy hastened to introduce them to the assembled company. They were the first foreign arrivals, and the friends of Princess Ozma were polite to them and tried to make them feel that they were welcome. Chick the Cherub shook hands with every one, including Billina, and was so joyous and frank and full of good spirits that John Dough's Head Booleywag at once became a prime favorite. "Is it a boy or a girl?" whispered Dorothy. "Don't know," said Button-Bright. "Goodness me! what a queer lot of people you are," exclaimed the rubber bear, looking at the assembled company. "So're you," said Button-Bright, gravely. "Is King Dough good to eat?" "He's too good to eat," laughed Chick the Cherub. "I hope none of you are fond of gingerbread," said the King, rather anxiously. "We should never think of eating our visitors, if we were," declared the Scarecrow; "so please do not worry, for you will be perfectly safe while you remain in Oz." "Why do they call you Chick?" the Yellow Hen asked the child. "Because I'm an Incubator Baby, and never had any parents," replied the Head Booleywag. "My chicks have a parent, and I'm it," said Billina. "I'm glad of that," answered the Cherub, "because they'll have more fun worrying you than if they were brought up in an Incubator. The Incubator never worries, you know." [Illustration] King John Dough had brought for Ozma's birthday present a lovely gingerbread crown, with rows of small pearls around it and a fine big pearl in each of its five points. After this had been received by Dorothy with proper thanks and placed on the table with the other presents, the visitors from Hiland and Loland were escorted to their rooms by the High Chamberlain. They had no sooner departed than the band before the palace began to play again, announcing more arrivals, and as these were doubtless from foreign parts the High Chamberlain hurried back to receive them in his most official manner. Important Arrivals [Illustration] First entered a band of Ryls from the Happy Valley, all merry little sprites like fairy elves. A dozen crooked Knooks followed from the great Forest of Burzee. They had long whiskers and pointed caps and curling toes, yet were no taller than Button-Bright's shoulder. With this group came a man so easy to recognize and so important and dearly beloved throughout the known world, that all present rose to their feet and bowed their heads in respectful homage, even before the High Chamberlain knelt to announce his name. "The most Mighty and Loyal Friend of Children, His Supreme Highness--Santa Claus!" said the Chamberlain, in an awed voice. "Well, well, well! Glad to see you--glad to meet you all!" cried Santa Claus, briskly, as he trotted up the long room. He was round as an apple, with a fresh rosy face, laughing eyes, and a bushy beard as white as snow. A red cloak trimmed with beautiful ermine hung from his shoulders and upon his back was a basket filled with pretty presents for the Princess Ozma. "Hello, Dorothy; still having adventures?" he asked in his jolly way, as he took the girl's hand in both his own. "How did you know my name, Santa?" she replied, feeling more shy in the presence of this immortal saint than she ever had before in her young life. "Why, don't I see you every Christmas Eve, when you're asleep?" he rejoined, pinching her blushing cheek. "Oh; do you?" "And here's Button-Bright, I declare!" cried Santa Claus, holding up the boy to kiss him. "What a long way from home you are; dear me!" "Do you know Button-Bright, too?" questioned Dorothy, eagerly. "Indeed I do. I've visited his home several Christmas Eves." "And do you know his father?" asked the girl. [Illustration: MERRY RYLS AND CROOKED KNOOKS] "Certainly, my dear. Who else do you suppose brings him his Christmas neckties and stockings?" with a sly wink at the Wizard. "Then where does he live? We're just crazy to know, 'cause Button-Bright's lost," she said. Santa laughed and laid his finger aside of his nose as if thinking what to reply. He leaned over and whispered something in the Wizard's ear, at which the Wizard smiled and nodded as if he understood. Now Santa Claus spied Polychrome, and trotted over to where she stood. "Seems to me the Rainbow's Daughter is farther from home than any of you," he observed, looking at the pretty maiden admiringly. "I'll have to tell your father where you are, Polly, and send him to get you." "Please do, dear Santa Claus," implored the little maid, beseechingly. "But just now we must all have a jolly good time at Ozma's party," said the old gentlemen, turning to put his presents on the table with the others already there. "It isn't often I find time to leave my castle, as you know; but Ozma invited me and I just couldn't help coming to celebrate the happy occasion." "I'm so glad!" exclaimed Dorothy. "These are my Ryls," pointing to the little sprites squatting around him. "Their business is to paint the colors of the flowers when they bud and bloom; but I brought the merry fellows along to see Oz, and they've left their paint-pots behind them. Also I brought these crooked Knooks, whom I love. My dears, the Knooks are much nicer than they look, for their duty is to water and care for the young trees of the forest, and they do their work faithfully and well. It's hard work, though, and it makes my Knooks crooked and gnarled, like the trees themselves; but their hearts are big and kind, as are the hearts of all who do good in our beautiful world." "I've read of the Ryls and Knooks," said Dorothy, looking upon these little workers with interest. Santa Claus turned to talk with the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman, and he also said a kind word to the shaggy man, and afterward went away to ride the Saw-horse around the Emerald City. "For," said he, "I must see all the grand sights while I am here and have the chance, and Ozma has promised to let me ride the Saw-Horse because I'm getting fat and short of breath." "Where are your reindeer?" asked Polychrome. "I left them at home, for it is too warm for them in this sunny country," he answered. "They're used to winter weather when they travel." In a flash he was gone, and the Ryls and Knooks with him; but they could all hear the golden hoofs of the Saw-Horse ringing on the marble pavement outside, as he pranced away with his noble rider. Presently the band played again, and the High Chamberlain announced: [Illustration] "Her Gracious Majesty, the Queen of Merryland." They looked earnestly to discover whom this queen might be, and saw advancing up the room an exquisite wax doll, dressed in dainty fluffs and ruffles and spangled gown. She was almost as big as Button-Bright, and her cheeks and mouth and eyebrow were prettily painted in delicate colors. Her blue eyes stared a bit, being of glass, yet the expression upon her Majesty's face was quite pleasant and decidedly winning. With the Queen of Merryland were four wooden soldiers, two stalking ahead of her with much dignity and two following behind, like a royal bodyguard. The soldiers were painted in bright colors and carried wooden guns, and after them came a fat little man who attracted attention at once, although he seemed modest and retiring. For he was made of candy, and carried a tin sugar-sifter filled with powdered sugar, with which he dusted himself frequently so that he wouldn't stick to things if he touched them. The High Chamberlain had called him "The Candy Man of Merryland," and Dorothy saw that one of his thumbs looked as if it had been bitten off by some who was fond of candy and couldn't resist the temptation. The wax doll Queen spoke prettily to Dorothy and the others, and sent her loving greetings to Ozma before she retired to the rooms prepared for her. She had brought a birthday present wrapped in tissue paper and tied with pink and blue ribbons, and one of the wooden soldiers placed it on the table with the other gifts. But the Candy Man did not go to his room, because he said he preferred to stay and talk with the Scarecrow and Tik-tok and the Wizard and Tin Woodman, whom he declared the queerest people he had ever met. Button-Bright was glad the Candy Man stayed in the Throne-room, because the boy thought this guest smelled deliciously of wintergreen and maple sugar. The Braided Man now entered the room, having been fortunate enough to receive an invitation to the Princess Ozma's party. He was from a cave halfway between the Invisible Valley and the Country of the Gargoyles, and his hair and whiskers were so long that he was obliged to plait them into many braids that hung to his feet, and every braid was tied with a bow of colored ribbon. "I've brought Princess Ozma a box of flutters for her birthday," said the Braided Man, earnestly; "and I hope she will like them, for they are the finest quality I have ever made." [Illustration] "I'm sure she will be greatly pleased," said Dorothy, who remembered the Braided Man well; and the Wizard introduced the guest to the rest of the company and made him sit down in a chair and keep quiet, for, if allowed, he would talk continually about his flutters. The band then played a welcome to another set of guests, and into the Throne-Room swept the handsome and stately Queen of Ev. Beside her was young King Evardo, and following them came the entire royal family of five Princesses and four Princes of Ev. The Kingdom of Ev lay just across the Deadly Desert to the North of Oz, and once Ozma and her people had rescued the Queen of Ev and her ten children from the Nome King, who had enslaved them. Dorothy had been present on this adventure, so she greeted the royal family cordially; and all the visitors were delighted to meet the little Kansas girl again. They knew Tik-tok and Billina, too, and the Scarecrow and Tin Woodman, as well as the Lion and Tiger; so there was a joyful reunion, as you may imagine, and it was fully an hour before the Queen and her train retired to their rooms. Perhaps they would not have gone then had not the band begun to play to announce new arrivals; but before they left the great Throne-Room King Evardo added to Ozma's birthday presents a diadem of diamonds set in radium. The next comer proved to be King Renard of Foxville; or King Dox, as he preferred to be called. He was magnificently dressed in a new feather costume and wore white kid mittens over his paws and a flower in his button-hole and had his hair parted in the middle. King Dox thanked Dorothy fervently for getting him the invitation to come to Oz, which he had all his life longed to visit. He strutted around rather absurdly as he was introduced to all the famous people assembled in the Throne-Room, and when he learned that Dorothy was a Princess of Oz the Fox King insisted on kneeling at her feet and afterward retired backward--a dangerous thing to do, as he might have stubbed his paw and tumbled over. No sooner was he gone than the blasts of bugles and clatter of drums and cymbals announced important visitors, and the High Chamberlain assumed his most dignified tone as he threw open the door and said proudly: "Her Sublime and Resplendent Majesty, Queen Zixi of Ix! His Serene and Tremendous Majesty, King Bud of Noland. Her Royal Highness, the Princess Fluff." [Illustration: HER MAJESTY, QUEEN ZIXI OF IX] That three such high and mighty royal personages should arrive at once was enough to make Dorothy and her companions grow solemn and assume their best company manners; but when the exquisite beauty of Queen Zixi met their eyes they thought they had never beheld anything so charming. Dorothy decided that Zixi must be about sixteen years old, but the Wizard whispered to her that this wonderful queen had lived thousands of years, but knew the secret of remaining always fresh and beautiful. King Bud of Noland and his dainty fair-haired sister, the Princess Fluff, were friends of Zixi, as their kingdoms were adjoining, so they had traveled together from their far-off domains to do honor to Ozma of Oz on the occasion of her birthday. They brought many splendid gifts; so the table was now fairly loaded down with presents. Dorothy and Polly loved the Princess Fluff the moment they saw her, and little King Bud was so frank and boyish that Button-Bright accepted him as a chum at once and did not want him to go away. But it was after noon now, and the royal guests must prepare their toilets for the grand banquet at which they were to assemble that evening to meet the reigning Princess of this Fairyland; so Queen Zixi was shown to her room by a troop of maidens led by Jellia Jamb, and Bud and Fluff presently withdrew to their own apartments. "My! what a big party Ozma is going to have," exclaimed Dorothy. "I guess the palace will be chock full, Button-Bright; don't you think so?" "Don't know," said the boy. "But we must go to our rooms, pretty soon, to dress for the banquet," continued the girl. "I don't have to dress," said the Candy Man from Merryland. "All I need do is to dust myself with fresh sugar." [Illustration] "Tik-tok and I always wear the same suits of clothes," said the Tin Woodman; "and so does our friend the Scarecrow." "My feathers are good enough for any occasion," cried Billina, from her corner. "Then I shall leave you four to welcome any new guests that come," said Dorothy; "for Button-Bright and I must look our very best at Ozma's banquet." "Who is still to come?" asked the Scarecrow. "Well, there's King Kika-bray of Dunkiton, and Johnny Dooit, and the Good Witch of the North. But Johnny Dooit may not get here until late, he's so very busy." "We will receive them and give them a proper welcome," promised the Scarecrow. "So run along, little Dorothy, and get yourself dressed." [Illustration] The Grand Banquet [Illustration] I wish I could tell you how fine the company was that assembled that evening at Ozma's royal banquet. A long table was spread in the center of the great dining-hall of the palace and the splendor of the decorations and the blaze of lights and jewels was acknowledged to be the most magnificent sight that any of the guests had ever seen. The jolliest person present, as well as the most important, was of course, old Santa Claus; so he was given the seat of honor at one end of the table while at the other end sat Princess Ozma, the hostess. John Dough, Queen Zixi, King Bud, the Queen of Ev and her son Evardo, and the Queen of Merryland had golden thrones to sit in, while the others were supplied with beautiful chairs. [Illustration] At the upper end of the banquet room was a separate table provided for the animals. Toto sat at one end of this table, with a bib tied around his neck and a silver platter to eat from. At the other end was placed a small stand, with a low rail around the edge of it, for Billina and her chicks. The rail kept the ten little Dorothys from falling off the stand, while the Yellow Hen could easily reach over and take her food from her tray upon the table. At other places sat the Hungry Tiger, the Cowardly Lion, the Saw-Horse, the Rubber Bear, the Fox King and the Donkey King; they made quite a company of animals. At the lower end of the great room was another table, at which sat the Ryls and Knooks who had come with Santa Claus, the wooden soldiers who had come with the Queen of Merryland, and the Hilanders and Lolanders who had come with John Dough. Here were also seated the officers of the royal palace and of Ozma's army. The splendid costumes of those at the three tables made a gorgeous and glittering display that no one present was ever likely to forget; perhaps there has never been in any part of the world at any time another assemblage of such wonderful people as that which gathered this evening to honor the birthday of the Ruler of Oz. When all the members of the company were in their places an orchestra of five hundred pieces, in a balcony overlooking the banquet room, began to play sweet and delightful music. Then a door draped with royal green opened, and in came the fair and girlish Princess Ozma, who now greeted her guests in person for the first time. As she stood by her throne at the head of the banquet table every eye was turned eagerly upon the lovely Princess, who was as dignified as she was bewitching, and who smiled upon all her old and new friends in a way that touched their hearts and brought an answering smile to every face. Each guest had been served with a crystal goblet filled with lacasa, which is a sort of nectar famous in Oz and nicer to drink than soda-water or lemonade. Santa now made a pretty speech in verse, congratulating Ozma on having a birthday, and asking every one present to drink to the health and happiness of their dearly beloved hostess. This was done with great enthusiasm by those who were made so they could drink at all, and those who could not drink politely touched the rims of their goblets to their lips. All seated themselves at the tables and the servants of the Princess began serving the feast. I am quite sure that only in Fairyland could such a delicious repast be prepared. The dishes were of precious metals set with brilliant jewels and the good things to eat which were placed upon them were countless in number and of exquisite flavor. Several present, such as the Candy Man, the Rubber Bear, Tik-tok, and the Scarecrow, were not made so they could eat, and the Queen of Merryland contented herself with a small dish of sawdust; but these enjoyed the pomp and glitter of the gorgeous scene as much as did those who feasted. [Illustration: DRINKING THE HEALTH OF PRINCESS OZMA OF OZ] The Woggle-Bug read his "Ode to Ozma," which was written in very good rhythm and was well received by the company. The Wizard added to the entertainment by making a big pie appear before Dorothy, and when the little girl cut the pie the nine tiny piglets leaped out of it and danced around the table, while the orchestra played a merry tune. This amused the company very much, but they were even more pleased when Polychrome, whose hunger had been easily satisfied, rose from the table and performed her graceful and bewildering Rainbow Dance for them. When it was ended the people clapped their hands and the animals clapped their paws, while Billina cackled and the Donkey King brayed approval. Johnny Dooit was present, and of course he proved he could do wonders in the way of eating, as well as in everything else that he undertook to do; the Tin Woodman sang a love song, every one joining in the chorus; and the wooden soldiers from Merryland gave an exhibition of a lightning drill with their wooden muskets; the Ryls and Knooks danced the Fairy Circle; and the Rubber Bear bounced himself all around the room. There was laughter and merriment on every side, and everybody was having a royal good time. Button-Bright was so excited and interested that he paid little attention to his fine dinner and a great deal of attention to his queer companions; and perhaps he was wise to do this, because he could eat at any other time. The feasting and merrymaking continued until late in the evening, when they separated to meet again the next morning and take part in the birthday celebration, to which this royal banquet was merely the introduction. [Illustration] The Birthday Celebration [Illustration] A clear, perfect day, with a gentle breeze and a sunny sky, greeted Princess Ozma as she wakened next morning, the anniversary of her birth. While it was yet early all the city was astir and crowds of people came from all parts of the Land of Oz to witness the festivities in honor of their girl Ruler's birthday. The noted visitors from foreign countries, who had all been transported to the Emerald City by means of the Magic Belt, were as much a show to the Ozites as were their own familiar celebrities, and the streets leading from the royal palace to the jeweled gates were thronged with men, women, and children to see the procession as it passed out to the green fields where the ceremonies were to take place. And what a great procession it was! First came a thousand young girls--the prettiest in the land--dressed in white muslin, with green sashes and hair ribbons, bearing great baskets of red roses. As they walked they scattered these flowers upon the marble pavements, so that the way was carpeted thick with roses for the procession to walk upon. Then came the Rulers of the four Kingdoms of Oz; the Emperor of the Winkies, the Monarch of the Munchkins, the King of the Quadlings and the Sovereign of the Gillikins, each wearing a long chain of emeralds around his neck to show that he was a vassal of the Ruler of the Emerald City. Next marched the Emerald City Cornet Band, clothed in green-and-gold uniforms and playing the "Ozma Two-Step." The Royal Army of Oz followed, consisting of twenty-seven officers, from the Captain-General down to the Lieutenants. There were no privates in Ozma's Army because soldiers were not needed to fight battles, but only to look important, and an officer always looks more imposing than a private. While the people cheered and waved their hats and handkerchiefs, there came walking the Royal Princess Ozma, looking so pretty and sweet that it is no wonder her people love her so dearly. She had decided she would not ride in her chariot that day, as she preferred to walk in the procession with her favored subjects and her guests. Just in front of her trotted the living Blue Bear Rug owned by old Dyna, which wobbled clumsily on its four feet because there was nothing but the skin to support them, with a stuffed head at one end and a stubby tail at the other. But whenever Ozma paused in her walk the Bear Rug would flop down flat upon the ground for the princess to stand upon until she resumed her progress. Following the Princess stalked her two enormous beasts, the Cowardly Lion and the Hungry Tiger, and even if the Army had not been there these two would have been powerful enough to guard their mistress from any harm. Next marched the invited guests, who were loudly cheered by the people of Oz along the road, and were therefore obliged to bow to right and left almost every step of the way. First was Santa Claus, who, because he was fat and not used to walking, rode the wonderful Saw-Horse. The merry old gentleman had a basket of small toys with him, and he tossed the toys one by one to the children as he passed by. His Ryls and Knooks marched close behind him. Queen Zixi of Ix came after; then John Dough and the Cherub, with the rubber bear named Para Bruin strutting between them on its hind legs; then the Queen of Merryland, escorted by her wooden soldiers; then King Bud of Noland and his sister, the Princess Fluff; then the Queen of Ev and her ten royal children; then the Braided Man and the Candy Man, side by side; then King Dox of Foxville and King Kik-a-bray of Dunkiton, who by this time had become good friends; and finally Johnny Dooit, in his leather apron, smoking his long pipe. [Illustration:] These wonderful personages were not more heartily cheered by the people than were those who followed after them in the procession. Dorothy was a general favorite, and she walked arm in arm with the Scarecrow, who was beloved by all. Then came Polychrome and Button-Bright, and the people loved the Rainbow's pretty Daughter and the beautiful blue-eyed boy as soon as they saw them. The shaggy man in his shaggy new suit attracted much attention because he was such a novelty. With regular steps tramped the machine-man Tik-tok, and there was more cheering when the Wizard of Oz followed in the procession. The Woggle-Bug and Jack Pumpkinhead were next, and behind them Glinda the Sorceress and the Good Witch of the North. Finally came Billina, with her brood of chickens to whom she clucked anxiously to keep them together and to hasten them along so they would not delay the procession. Another band followed, this time the Tin Band of the Emperor of the Winkies, playing a beautiful march called, "There's No Plate like Tin." Then came the servants of the Royal Palace, in a long line, and behind them all the people joined the procession and marched away through the emerald gates and out upon the broad green. Here had been erected a splendid pavilion, with a grandstand big enough to seat all the royal party and those who had taken part in the procession. Over the pavilion, which was of green silk and cloth of gold, countless banners waved in the breeze. Just in front of this, and connected with it by a runway, had been built a broad platform, so that all the spectators could see plainly the entertainment provided for them. The Wizard now became Master of Ceremonies, as Ozma had placed the conduct of the performance in his hands. After the people had all congregated about the platform and the royal party and the visitors were seated in the grandstand, the Wizard skillfully performed some feats of juggling glass balls and lighted candles. He tossed a dozen or so of them high in the air and caught them one by one as they came down, without missing any. Then he introduced the Scarecrow, who did a sword-swallowing act that aroused much interest. After this the Tin Woodman gave an exhibition of Swinging the Axe, which he made to whirl around him so rapidly that the eye could scarcely follow the motion of the gleaming blade. Glinda the Sorceress then stepped upon the platform, and by her magic made a big tree grow in the middle of the space, made blossoms appear upon the tree, and made the blossoms become delicious fruit called tamornas; and so great was the quantity of fruit thus produced that when the servants climbed the tree and tossed it down to the crowd, there was enough to satisfy every person present. Para Bruin, the rubber bear, climbed to a limb of the big tree, rolled himself into a ball, and dropped to the platform, whence he bounded up again to the limb. He repeated this bouncing act several times, to the great delight of all the children present. After he had finished, and bowed, and returned to his seat, Glinda waved her wand and the tree disappeared; but its fruit still remained to be eaten. The Good Witch of the North amused the people by transforming ten stones into ten birds, the ten birds into ten lambs, and the ten lambs into ten little girls, who gave a pretty dance and were then transformed into ten stones again, just as they were in the beginning. Johnny Dooit next came on the platform with his tool-chest, and in a few minutes built a great flying machine; then put his chest in the machine and the whole thing flew away together--Johnny and all--after he had bid good-bye to those present and thanked the Princess for her hospitality. [Illustration] The Wizard then announced the last act of all, which was considered really wonderful. He had invented a machine to blow huge soap-bubbles, as big as balloons, and this machine was hidden under the platform so that only the rim of the big clay pipe to produce the bubbles showed above the flooring. The tank of soap-suds, and the air-pumps to inflate the bubbles, were out of sight beneath, so that when the bubbles began to grow upon the floor of the platform it really seemed like magic to the people of Oz, who knew nothing about even the common soap-bubbles that our children blow with a penny clay pipe and a basin of soap-and-water. The Wizard had invented another thing. Usually soap-bubbles are frail and burst easily, lasting only a few moments as they float in the air; but the Wizard added a sort of glue to his soapsuds, which made his bubbles tough; and, as the glue dried rapidly when exposed to the air, the Wizard's bubbles were strong enough to float for hours without breaking. He began by blowing--by means of his machinery and air-pumps--several large bubbles which he allowed to float upward into the sky, where the sunshine fell upon them and gave them iridescent hues that were most beautiful. This aroused much wonder and delight, because it was a new amusement to every one present--except perhaps Dorothy and Button-Bright, and even they had never seen such big, strong bubbles before. [Illustration: THE WIZARD BLEW A BUBBLE AROUND SANTA CLAUS] The Wizard then blew a bunch of small bubbles and afterward blew a big bubble around them so they were left in the center of it; then he allowed the whole mass of pretty globes to float into the air and disappear in the far distant sky. "That is really fine!" declared Santa Claus, who loved toys and pretty things. "I think, Mr. Wizard, I shall have you blow a bubble around me; then I can float away home and see the country spread out beneath me as I travel. There isn't a spot on earth that I haven't visited, but I usually go in the night-time, riding behind my swift reindeer. Here is a good chance to observe the country by daylight, while I am riding slowly and at my ease." "Do you think you will be able to guide the bubble?" asked the Wizard. "Oh yes; I know enough magic to do that," replied Santa Claus. "You blow the bubble, with me inside of it, and I'll be sure to get home in safety." "Please send me home in a bubble, too!" begged the Queen of Merryland. "Very well, madam; you shall try the journey first," politely answered old Santa. The pretty wax doll bade good-bye to the Princess Ozma and the others, and stood on the platform while the Wizard blew a big soap-bubble around her. When completed he allowed the bubble to float slowly upward, and there could be seen the little Queen of Merryland standing in the middle of it and blowing kisses from her fingers to those below. The bubble took a southerly direction, quickly floating out of sight. "That's a very nice way to travel," said Princess Fluff. "I'd like to go home in a bubble, too." So the Wizard blew a big bubble around Princess Fluff, and another around King Bud, her brother, and a third one around Queen Zixi; and soon these three bubbles had mounted into the sky and were floating off in a group in the direction of the kingdom of Noland. The success of these ventures induced the other guests from foreign lands to undertake bubble journeys, also; so the Wizard put them one by one inside his bubbles, and Santa Claus directed the way they should go, because he knew exactly where everybody lived. Finally Button-Bright said: "I want to go home, too." "Why, so you shall!" cried Santa; "for I'm sure your father and mother will be glad to see you again. Mr. Wizard, please blow a big, fine bubble for Button-Bright to ride in, and I'll agree to send him home to his family as safe as safe can be." "I'm sorry," said Dorothy with a sigh, for she was fond of her little comrade; "but p'raps it's best for Button-Bright to get home; 'cause his folks must be worrying just dreadful." She kissed the boy, and Ozma kissed him, too, and all the others waved their hands and said good-bye and wished him a pleasant journey. "Are you glad to leave us, dear?" asked Dorothy, a little wistfully. "Don't know," said Button-Bright. He sat down cross-legged on the platform, with his sailor hat tipped back on his head, and the Wizard blew a beautiful bubble all around him. A minute later it had mounted into the sky, sailing toward the west, and the last they saw of Button-Bright he was still sitting in the middle of the shining globe and waving his sailor-hat at those below. "Will you ride in a bubble, or shall I send you and Toto home by means of the Magic Belt?" the Princess asked Dorothy. "Guess I'll use the Belt," replied the little girl. "I'm sort of 'fraid of those bubbles." "Bow-wow!" said Toto, approvingly. He loved to bark at the bubbles as they sailed away, but he didn't care to ride in one. Santa Claus decided to go next. He thanked Ozma for her hospitality and wished her many happy returns of the day. Then the Wizard blew a bubble around his chubby little body and smaller bubbles around each of his Ryls and Knooks. As the kind and generous friend of children mounted into the air the people all cheered at the top of their voices, for they loved Santa Claus dearly; and the little man heard them through the walls of the bubble and waved his hands in return as he smiled down upon them. The band played bravely while every one watched the bubble until it was completely out of sight. "How 'bout you, Polly?" Dorothy asked her friend. "Are you 'fraid of bubbles, too?" "No," answered Polychrome, smiling; "but Santa Claus promised to speak to my father as he passed through the sky. So perhaps I shall get home an easier way." Indeed, the little maid had scarcely made this speech when a sudden radiance filled the air, and while the people looked on in wonder the end of a gorgeous rainbow slowly settled down upon the platform. With a glad cry the Rainbow's Daughter sprang from her seat and danced along the curve of the bow, mounting gradually upward, while the folds of her gauzy gown whirled and floated around her like a cloud and blended with the colors of the rainbow itself. [Illustration: "GOOD-BYE, OZMA! GOOD-BYE, DOROTHY!"] "Good-bye, Ozma! Good-bye, Dorothy!" cried a voice they knew belonged to Polychrome; but now the little maiden's form had melted wholly into the rainbow, and their eyes could no longer see her. Suddenly the end of the rainbow lifted and its colors slowly faded like mist before a breeze. Dorothy sighed deeply and turned to Ozma. "I'm sorry to lose Polly," she said; "but I guess she's better off with her father; 'cause even the Land of Oz couldn't be like home to a cloud fairy." "No, indeed," replied the Princess; "but it has been delightful for us to know Polychrome for a little while, and--who knows?--perhaps we may meet the Rainbow's daughter again, some day." The entertainment being now ended, all left the pavilion and formed their gay procession back to the Emerald City again. Of Dorothy's recent traveling companions only Toto and the shaggy man remained, and Ozma had decided to allow the latter to live in Oz for a time, at least. If he proved honest and true she promised to let him live there always, and the shaggy man was anxious to earn this reward. They had a nice quiet dinner together and passed a pleasant evening with the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodman, Tik-tok, and the Yellow Hen for company. When Dorothy bade them good-night she kissed them all good-bye at the same time. For Ozma had agreed that while Dorothy slept she and Toto should be transported by means of the Magic Belt to her own little bed in the Kansas farmhouse and the little girl laughed as she thought how astonished Uncle Henry and Aunt Em would be when she came down to breakfast with them next morning. Quite content to have had so pleasant an adventure, and a little tired by all the day's busy scenes, Dorothy clasped Toto in her arms and lay down upon the pretty white bed in her room in Ozma's royal palace. Presently she was sound asleep. [Illustration: THE END] THE TWINKLE TALES By Laura Bancroft _Each volume, 5 x 7 inches, with 16 full pages in colors, and other illustrations by_ Maginel Wright Enright PRINCE MUD TURTLE In this story Twinkle, a little girl, captures a mud turtle who turns out to be a fairy prince. MR. WOODCHUCK Twinkle is taken underground to visit Mr. Woodchuck's family and neighbors, and discovers what they think of traps and people who set them. BANDIT JIM CROW Jim Crow, Twinkle's pet, escapes and becomes a robber among the birds. He gets his punishment from them. TWINKLE'S ENCHANTMENT Twinkle becomes enchanted and meets a dancing bear, Prince Grasshopper, and others. SUGAR LOAF MOUNTAIN On entering a hole in the mountain Twinkle and Chubbins find themselves in a land where all the people are made of candy. PRAIRIE DOG TOWN Twinkle and Chubbins are made small by a magician and are escorted through Prairie Dog Town by its Mayor. _Each volume with different cover design, cloth, stamped in colors, 50 cents_ POLICEMAN BLUEJAY By LAURA BANCROFT _With many beautiful pictures in color and line by_ Maginel Wright Enright In this delightful fairy tale and nature story combined, Twinkle and Chubbins, two children, after having been transformed into little birds with human heads, become friends with a number of birds and learn many curious and true things about them. _Size 9-3/4 x 7 inches. Eight full-page colored illustrations and dozens of headings, tail pieces and decorations. Cloth back, with decorated paper sides. Price $1.00._ BOOKS BY L. FRANK BAUM ILLUSTRATED BY JOHN R. NEILL _UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME_ _Each book, handsomely bound in artistic pictorial cover. $1.25 per volume._ THE LAND OF OZ An account of the adventures of the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodman, Jack Pumpkinhead, the Animated Saw-Horse, the Highly Magnified Woggle-Bug, the Gump and many other delightful characters. Nearly 150 black-and-white illustrations and sixteen full-page pictures in colors. OZMA OF OZ The story tells "more about Dorothy," as well as those famous characters, the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodman and the Cowardly Lion, and something of several new creations equally delightful, including Tik-tok the machine man, the Yellow Hen, the Nome King and the Hungry Tiger. Forty-one full-page colored pictures; twenty-two half pages in color and fifty black-and-white text pictures; special end sheets, title page, copyright page, book plate, etc, etc. DOROTHY AND THE WIZARD OF OZ In this book Dorothy, with Zeb, a little boy friend, and Jim, the Cab Horse, are swallowed up in an earthquake and reach a strange vegetable land, whence they escape to the Land of Oz, and meet all their old friends. Among the new characters are Eureka, Dorothy's pink kitten, and the Nine Tiny Piglets. Gorgeously illustrated with sixteen full color pages and numerous black-and-white pictures, besides head and tail pieces, ornaments, etc. JOHN DOUGH AND THE CHERUB A whimsical tale portraying the exciting adventures of the Gingerbread Man and his comrade Chick the Cherub in the "Palace of Romance," the "Land of the Mifkets," "Highland and Lowland," and other places. Forty full-page colored pictures; twenty colored pictorial chapter headings; 100 black-and-white text pictures, special end sheets, title page, etc. [Illustration: ENDPIECE] [Illustration: ENDPIECE] [Illustration: BACK COVER] 
16963	----	file was produced from images generously made available by The Kentuckiana Digital Library) THE GOLDEN BIRD BY MARIA THOMPSON DAVIESS Author of "The Melting of Molly," "Phyllis," "Sue Jane," "The Tinder Box," etc. ILLUSTRATED BY EDWARD L. CHASE NEW YORK THE CENTURY CO. 1918 Copyright, 1918, by THE CENTURY CO. Copyright, 1918, by BUTTERICK PUBLISHING COMPANY _Published, September, 1918_ [Transcriber's note: Minor typos corrected.] [Illustration: "Oh, how beautiful!" exclaimed Polly, all restraint leaving her young face and body as she fell on her knees before the sultan] TO IDA CLYDE CLARKE WHOSE COURAGE INSPIRES ME LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS "Oh, how beautiful!" exclaimed Polly, all restraint leaving her young face and body as she fell on her knees before the sultan A poor old sheep was lying flat with pathetic inertia while Adam stood over her with something in his arms I put his babykins in a big feed-basket and the lamb twins came and welcomed him And Bud was beautiful in the "custom-made" fifteen-dollar gray cheviot with his violet eyes and yellow shock, in spite of his red ears THE GOLDEN BIRD CHAPTER I The primary need of a woman's nature is always supposed to be love, but very suddenly I discovered that in my case it was money, a lot of it and quick. That is, I thought I needed a lot and in a very great hurry; but if I had known what I know now, I might have been contented feeding upon the bread of some kind of charity, for instance, like being married to Matthew Berry the very next day after I discovered my poverty. But at that period of my life I was a very ignorant girl, and in the most noble spirit of a desperate adventure I embarked upon the quest of the Golden Bird, which in one short year has landed me--I am now the richest woman in the world. "But, Ann Craddock, you know nothing at all about a chicken in any more natural state than in a croquette," stormed Matthew at me as he savagely speared one of those inoffensive articles of banquet diet with a sharp silver fork while he squared himself with equal determination between me and any possible partner for the delicious one-step that the band in the ball-room was beginning to send out in inviting waves of sound to round the dancers in from loitering over their midnight food. "The little I do _not_ know about the chicken business, after one week spent in pursuit of that knowledge through every weird magazine and state agricultural bulletin in the public library, even you could learn, Matthew Berry, with your lack of sympathy with the great American wealth producer, the humble female chicken known in farmer patois as a hen. Did you know that it only costs about two dollars and thirteen cents to feed a hen a whole year and that she will produce twenty-seven dollars and a half for her owner, the darling thing? I know I'll just love her when I get to know her--them better, as I will in only about eighteen hours now." "Ann, you are mad--mad!" foamed Matthew, as he set down his plate of perfectly good and untasted food, and buried his head in his hands until his mop of black hair looked like a big blot of midnight. "I'm not mad, Matthew, just dead poor, an heiress out of a job and with the necessity of earning her bread by the sweat of her brow instead of consuming cake by the labor of other people. Uncle Cradd is coming in again with a two-horse wagon, and the carriage to move us out to Elmnest to-morrow morning. Judge Rutherford will attend to selling all the property and settle with father's creditors. Another wagon is coming for father's library, and in two days he won't know that Uncle Cradd and I have moved him, if I can just get him started on a bat with Epictetus or old Horace. Then me for the tall timbers and my friend the hen. "Oh, Ann, for the love of high heaven, marry me to-morrow, and let me move you and Father Craddock over into that infernal, empty old barn I keep open as a hotel for nigger servants. Marry me instead--" "Instead of the hen?" I interrupted him with a laugh. "I can't, Matt, you dear thing. I honestly can't. I've got to go back to the land from which my race sprang and make it blossom into a beautiful existence for those two dear old boys. When Uncle Cradd heard of the smash from that horrible phosphate deal he was at the door the next morning at sun-up, driving the two gray mules to one wagon himself, with old Rufus driving the gray horses hitched to that queer tumble-down, old family coach, though he hadn't spoken to father since he married mother twenty-eight years ago. "'Ready to move you all home, bag and baggage, William,' he said, as he took father into his huge old arms clad in the rusty broadcloth of his best suit, which I think is the garment he purchased for father's very worldly, town wedding with my mother, which he came from Riverfield to attend for purposes of disinheriting the bridegroom and me, though I was several years in the future at that date. 'Elmnest is as much yours as mine, as I told you when you sprigged off to marry in town. Get your dimity together, Nancy! Your grandmother Craddock's haircloth trunk is strapped on behind her carriage there, and Rufus will drive you home. These mules are too skittish for him to handle. Fine pair, eh, William?' And right there in the early dawn, almost in front of the garage that contained his touring Chauvinnais and my gray roadster, father stood in his velvet dressing-gown and admired the two moth-eaten old animals. Now, I honestly ask you, Matthew, could a woman of heart refuse at least to attempt to see those two great old boys through the rest of their lives in peace and comfort together? Elmnest is roof and land and that is about all, for Uncle Cradd never would let father give him a cent on account of his feud with mother, even after she had been dead for years. Father would have gone home with him that morning, but I made him stay to turn things over to Judge Rutherford. Aren't they great, those two old pioneers?" "They are the best sports ever, Ann, and I say let's fix up Elmnest for them to live in when they won't stay with us, and for a summer home for us to go and take--take the children for rural training. Now what do you say--wedding to-morrow?" And the light in dear old Matthew's eyes was very lovely indeed as the music grew less blatant and the waiter turned down the lights near the little alcove that the wide walnut paneling made beside the steps that go up to the balcony. I have always said that the Clovermead Country Club has the loveliest house anywhere in the South. "No, Matthew, I care too much about you to let you marry a woman in search of a roof and food," I answered him, with all of the affection I seemed to possess at that time in my eyes. "You deserve better than that from me." "Now, see here, Ann Craddock, did I or did I not ask you to marry me at your fourteenth birthday party, which was just ten years ago, and did you or did you not tell me just to wait until you got grown? Have you or have you not reached the years of discretion and decision? I am ready to marry, I am!" And as he made this announcement of his matrimonially inclined condition of mind, Matthew took my hand in his and laid his cheek against it. "My heart isn't grown up yet, Matt," I said softly, with all the tenderness I, as I before remarked, at that time possessed. "Don't wait for me. Marry Belle Proctor or somebody and--and bring the--babies out to Elmnest for--" The explosion that then followed landed me in Owen Murray's arms on the floor of the ball-room, and landed Matthew in his big racing-car, which I could hear go roaring down the road beyond the golf-links. There is a certain kind of woman whose brain develops with amazing normality and strength, but whose heart remains very soft-fibered and uncertain, with tendencies to lapse into second childhood. I am that garden variety, and it took the exercising of many heart interests to toughen my cardiac organ. As I traveled out the long turnpike that wound itself through the Harpeth Valley to the very old and tradition-mossed town of Riverfield, in the high, huge-wheeled, swinging old coach of my Great-grandmother Craddock, sitting pensively alone while father occupied the front seat beside Uncle Cradd, both of them in deep converse about a line in Tom Moore, while Uncle Cradd bumbled the air of "Drink to me only with thine eyes" in a lovely old bass, I should have been softly and pensively weeping at the thought of the devastation of my father's fortune, of the poverty brought down upon his old age, and about my fate as a gay social being going thus into exile; but I wasn't. Did I say that I was sitting alone in state upon the faded rose leather of those ancestral cushions? That was not the case, for upon the seat beside me rode the Golden Bird in a beautiful crate, which bore the legend, "Cock, full brother to Ladye Rosecomb, the world's champion, three-hundred-and-fourteen-egg hen, insured at one thousand dollars. Express sixteen dollars." And in another larger crate, strapped on top of the old haircloth trunk, which held several corduroy skirts, some coarse linen smocks made hurriedly by Madam Felicia after a pattern in "The Review," and several pairs of lovely, high-topped boots, as well as a couple of Hagensack sweaters, rode his family, to whom he had not yet even spoken. The family consisted of ten perfectly beautiful white Leghorn feminine darlings whose crate was marked, "Thoroughbreds from Prairie Dog Farm, Boulder, Colorado." I had obtained the money to purchase these very much alive foundations for my fortune, also the smart farmer's costume, or rather my idea of the correct thing in rustics, by selling all the lovely lingerie I had brought from Paris with me just the week before the terrible war had crashed down upon the world, and which I had not worn because I had not needed them, to Bess Rutherford and Belle Proctor at very high prices, because who could tell whether France would ever procure their like again? They were composed mostly of incrustations of embroidery and real Val, and anyway the Golden Bird only cost seven hundred dollars instead of the thousand, and the ladies Bird only ten dollars apiece, which to me did not seem exactly fair, as they were of just as good family as he. I was very proud of myself for having been professional enough to follow the directions of my new big red book on "The Industrious Fowl," and to buy Golden Bird and his family from localities which were separated as far as is the East from the West. My company was responsible for my light-heartedness at a time when I should have been weeping with vain regrets at leaving life--and perhaps love, for I couldn't help hearing in my mind's ears that great dangerous racer bearing Matthew away from me at the rate of eighty miles an hour. I was figuring on just how long it would take the five to eight hundred children of the Bird family, which I expected to incarnate themselves out of egg-shells, to increase to a flock of two thousand, from which, I was assured by the statistics in that very reliable book, I ought to make three thousand dollars a year, maybe five, with "good management." Also I was not at all worried about the "good management" to be employed. I intended to begin to exert it the minute of my arrival in the township of Riverfield. I had even already begun to use "thoughtful care," for I had brought a box of tea biscuits along, and I felt a positive thrill of affection for Mr. G. Bird as he gratefully gobbled a crushed one from my hand. Also it was dear of him the way he raised his proud head and chuckled to his brides in the crate behind him to come and get their share. It was pathetic the way he called and called and they answered, until I finally stopped their mouths with ten other dainties, so that he could consume his in peace. Even at that early stage of our friendship I liked the Golden Bird, and perhaps it was just a wave of prophetic psychology that made me feel so warmly towards the proud, white young animal who was to lead me to-- So instead of the despair due the occasion, I was happy as I jogged slowly out over the twenty long miles that stretched out like a silvery ribbon dropped down upon the meadows and fields that separate the proud city of Hayesville and the gray and green little old hamlet of Riverfield, which nestles in a bend of the Cumberland River and sleeps time away under its huge old oak and elm and hackberry trees, kept perpetually green by the gnarled old cedars that throw blue-berried green fronds around their winter nakedness. As we rode slowly along, with a leisure I am sure all the motor-car world has forgotten exists, the two old boys on the front seat hummed and chuckled happily while I breathed in great gulps of a large, meadow-sweet spring tang that seemed to fairly soak into the circulation of my heart. The February day was cool with yet a kind of tender warmth in its little gust of Southern wind that made me feel as does that brand of very expensive Rhine wine which Albert at the Salemite on Forty-second Street in New York keeps for Gale Beacon specially, and which makes Gale so furious for you not to recognize, remember about, and comment upon at his really wonderful dinners to bright and shining lights in art and literature. Returning from New York to the Riverfield Road through the Harpeth Valley, I also discovered upon the damsel Spring a hint of a soft young costume of young green and purple and yellow that was as yet just a mist being draped over her by the Southern wind. "I feel like the fairy princess being driven into a land of enchantment, Mr. Golden Bird," I remarked as I leaned back upon the soft old cushions and took in the first leisurely breath of the air of the open road that my lungs had ever inhaled: one simply gulps air when seated in a motor-car. "It is all so simple and easy and--" Just at this moment happened the first real adventure of my quest, and at that time it seemed a serious one, though now I would regard it as of very little moment. Suddenly there came the noise of snipping cords, the feeling of jar and upheaval, and before I could turn more than half-way around for purposes of observation, the entire feminine Bird family in their temporary crate abode slid down into the dust of the road with a great crash. I held my breath while, with a jolt and a bounce and a squeak of the heavy old springs, Uncle Cradd brought the ancestral family coach to a halt about ten feet away from the wreck, which was a mêlée of broken timber, squeaking voices, and flapping wings. As soon as I recovered from the shock I sprang from my cushions beside Mr. G. Bird, who was fairly yelling clucks of command at this family-to-be, and ran to their assistance. Now, I am very long and fleet of limb, but those white Leghorn ladies were too swift for me, and before I reached the wreck, they had all ten disentangled themselves from the crushed timbers and had literally taken to the woods, through which the Riverfield ribbon was at that moment winding itself. Clucking and chuckling, they concealed themselves in an undergrowth of coral-strung buck bushes, little scrub cedars, and dried oak leaves, and I could hear them holding a council of war that sounded as if they were to depart forever to parts unknown. In a twinkling of an eye I saw my future fortune literally take wings, and in my extremity I cried aloud. "Oh, call them all back, Mr. Golden Bird," I pleaded. "Now, Nancy, that is always what I said about hens. They are such pesky womanish things that it's beneath the dignity of a man to bother with 'em. I haven't had one on the place for twenty years. We'll just turn this rooster loose with them and we can go on home in peace," said Uncle Cradd as he peered around the side of the coach while father's mild face appeared on the other side. As he spoke, he reached back and released my Golden Bird from his crate and sent him flying out into the woods in the direction of his family. "Oh, they are the only things in the world that stand between me and starvation," I wailed, though not loud enough for either father or Uncle Cradd to hear. "Please, please, Golden Bird, come back and bring the others with you," I pleaded as I held out my hand to the proud white Sultan, who had paused by the roadside on his way to his family and was now turning bright eyes in the direction of my outstretched hand. In all the troubles and trials through which that proud Mr. G. Bird and I went hand in hand, or rather wing in hand, in which I was at times hard and cold and disappointed in him, I have never forgotten that he turned in his tracks and walked majestically back to my side and peered into the outstretched hand with a trustful and inquiring peck. Some kind fortune had brought it to pass that I held the package of tea biscuits in my other hand, and in a few breathless seconds he was pecking at one and calling to the foolish, faithless lot of huddled hens in the bushes to come to him immediately. First he called invitingly while I held my breath, and then he commanded as he scratched for lost crumbs in the white dust of the Riverfield ribbon, but the foolish creatures only huddled and squeaked, and at a few cautious steps I took in their direction, they showed a decided threat of vanishing forever into the woods. "Oh, what will I do, Mr. G. Bird?" I asked in despair, with a real sob in my throat as I looked toward the family coach, from which I could hear a happy and animated discussion of Plato's Republic going on between the two old gentlemen who had thirty years' arrears in argument and conversation to make up. I could see that no help would come from that direction. "I can't lose them forever," I said again, and this time there was the real sob arising unmistakably in my voice. "Just stand still, and I'll call them to you," came a soft, deep voice out of the forest behind me, and behold, a man stood at my side! The man's name is Adam. "Now give me a cracker and watch 'em come," he said, as he came close to my side and took a biscuit from my surprised and nerveless hand. "Ah, but you are one beauty, aren't you?" he further remarked, and I was not positively sure whether he meant me or the Golden Bird until I saw that he had reached down and was stroking Mr. G. Bird with a delighted hand. "Chick, chick, chick!" he commanded, with a note that was not at all unlike the commanding one the Sultan had used a few minutes past, only more so, and in less than two seconds all those foolish hens were scrambling around our feet. In fact, the command in his voice had been so forcible that I myself had moved several feet nearer to him until I, too, was in the center of my scrambling, clucking Bird venture. I don't like beautiful men. I never did. I think that a woman ought to have all the beauty there is, and I feel that a man who has any is in some way dishonest, but I never before saw anything like that person who had come out of the woods to the rescue of my family fortune, and I simply stared at him as he stood with a fluff of seething white wings around his feet and towered against the green gray of an old tree that hung over the side of the road. He was tall and broad, but lithe and lovely like some kind of a woods thing, and heavy hair of the same brilliant burnished red that I had seen upon the back of a prize Rhode Island Red in the lovely water-color plates in my chicken book,--which had tempted me to buy "red" until I had read about the triumphs of the Leghorn "whites,"--waved close to his head, only ruffling just over his ears enough to hide the tips of them. His eyes were set so far back under their dark, heavy, red eyebrows that they seemed night-blue with their long black fringe of lashes. His face was square and strong and gentle, and the collar of his gray flannel shirt was open so that I could see that his head was set on his wide shoulders with lines like an old Greek masterpiece. Gray corduroy trousers were strapped around his waist by a wide belt made of some kind of raw-looking leather that was held together by two leather lacings, while on his feet were a kind of sandal shoes that appeared to be made of the same leather. He must have constructed both belt and shoes himself, and he hadn't any hat at all upon his crimson-gold thatch of hair. I looked at him so long that I had to look away, and then when I did I looked right back at him because I couldn't believe that he was true. "Now I'm going to pick them up gently, two at a time, tie their feet together with a piece of this string, and hand them to you to put inside the carriage. I'll catch the cock first, the handsome old sport," and as Pan spoke, he began to suit his actions to his words with amazing tact and skill. I shall always be glad that the first chicken I ever held in my arms was put into them gently by that woods man, and that it was the Golden Bird himself. "Put him in and shut the door, and he'll calm the ladies as you bring them to him," he commanded as he bent down and lifted two of the Bird brides and began to tie their feet together with a piece of cord he had taken from a deep pocket in the gray trousers. "Oh, thank you," I said with a depth of gratitude in my voice that I did not know I possessed. "You are the most wonderful man I ever saw--I mean that I ever saw with chickens," I said, ending the remark in an agony of embarrassment. "I don't know much about them. I mean chickens," I hastened to add, and made matters worse. "Oh, they are easy, when you get to know 'em, chickens--or men," he said kindly, without a spark in his eyes back of their black bushes. "Are they yours?" "They are all the property I have got in the world," I answered as I clasped the last pair of biddies to my breast, for while we had been holding our primitive conversation, I had been obeying his directions and loading the Birds into Grandmother Craddock's stately equipage. Anxiety shone from my eyes into his sympathetic ones. "Well, you'll be an heiress in no time with them to start you, with 'good management.' I never saw a finer lot," he said, as he walked to the door of the carriage with me, with the last pair of white Leghorn ladies in his arms. "But maybe I haven't got that management," I faltered, with my anxiety getting tearful in my words. "Oh, you'll learn," he said, with such heavenly soothing in his voice that I almost reached out my hands and clung to him as he settled the fussing poultry in the bottom of the carriage in such a way as to leave room for my feet among them. Mr. G. Bird was perched on the seat at my side and was craning his neck down and soothingly scolding his family. "How are you, Mr. Craddock?" Pan asked of Uncle Cradd's back, and by his question interrupted an argument that sounded, from the Greek phrases flying, like a battle on the walls of Troy. "Well, well, how are you, Adam?" exclaimed Uncle Cradd, as he turned around and greeted the woodsman with a smile of positive delight. I had known that man's name was Adam, but I don't know how I knew. "This is my brother, Mr. William Craddock, who's come home to me to live and die where he belongs, and that young lady is Nancy. Those chickens are just a whim of hers, and we have to humor her. Can we lift you as far as Riverfield?" Uncle Cradd made his introduction and delivered his invitation all in one breath. "I'm glad to meet you, sir, and I am grateful for your assistance in capturing my daughter's whims," said father, as he came partly out of his B.C. daze. As he took my hand into his slender, but very powerful grasp, that man had the impertinence to laugh into my eyes at my parent's double-entendre, which he had intended as a simple single remark. "No, thank you, sir; I've got to get across Paradise Ridge before sundown. The lambs are dropping fast over at Plunkett's, and I want to make sure those Southdown ewes are all right," he answered as he put my hand out of his, though I almost let it rebel and cling, and took for a second the Golden Bird's proud head into his palm. "I'll be over at Elmnest before your--your 'good judgment' needs mine," he said to me as softly as I think a mother must speak to a child as she unloosens clinging dependent fingers. As he spoke he shut the door of the old ark, and Uncle Cradd drove on, leaving him standing on the edge of the great woods looking after us. "Oh, I wish that man were going home with us, Mr. G. Bird, or we were going home with him," I said with a kind of terror of the unknown creeping over me. As I spoke I reached out and cuddled the Golden darling into the hollow of my arm. Some day I am going to travel to the East shore of Baltimore to the Rosecomb Poultry Farm to see the woman who raised the Golden Bird and cultivated such a beautiful confiding, and affectionate nature in him. He soothed me with a chuckle as he pecked playfully at my fingers and then called cheerfully down to the tethered white Ladies of Leghorn. CHAPTER II As we ambled towards the sun, which was setting over old Harpeth, the tallest humpbacked hill on Paradise Ridge, the Greek battle raged on the front seat and there was peace with anxiety in the back of the ancestral coach. As the wheels and the two old gentlemen rumbled and the Bird's family clucked and crooned, with only an occasional irritated squawk, I, for the first time since the landslide of our fortune, began to take real thought of the morrow. "Yes, landslide is a good name for what is happening to us, and I hope we'll slide or land on the home base, whatever is the correct term in the national game that Matthew has given up trying to teach me to enjoy," I said to myself as I settled down to look into our situation. I found that it was not at all astonishing that father had lost all the fortune that my mother had left him and me when she died three years ago. It was astonishing that the old dreamer had kept it as long as he had, and it was only because most of it had been in land and he had from the first lived serenely and comfortably on nice flat slices of town property cut off whenever he needed it. He had been a dreamer when he came out of the University of Virginia ten years after the war, and it had been the tragedy of Uncle Cradd's life that he had not settled down with him on the very broad, but very poor, ancestral acres of Elmnest, to slice away with him at that wealth instead of letting himself be captured in all his poetic beauty at a dance in Hayesville by a girl whose father had made her half a million dollars in town land deals. Uncle Cradd's resentment had been bitter, and as he was the senior of his twin brother by several hours, he demanded that father sell him his half of Elmnest, and for it had paid his entire fortune outside of the bare acres. In poetic pride father had acceded to his demand, lent the money thrust upon him to the first speculator who got to him, and the two brothers had settled themselves down twenty miles apart in the depths of a feud, to eat their hearts out for each other. The rich man sought a path to the heart of the poor man, but was repulsed until the day after the spectacular failure of his phosphate company had penetrated into the wilds of little Riverfield, and immediately Uncle Cradd had hitched up the moth-eaten string in his old stables and come into town for us, and in father's sweet old heart there was never an idea of not, as he put it, "going home." I had never seen Elmnest, but I knew something of the situation, and that is where the Golden Bird arrived on the situation. The morning after our decision to return to the land--a decision in which I had borne no part but a sympathetic one after I had listened half the night to father's raptures over Uncle Cradd as a Greek scholar with whom one would wish to spend one's last days--the February copy of "The Woman's Review" arrived, and on the first page was an article from a woman who earns five thousand dollars a year with the industrious hen on a little farm of ten acres. There were lovely pictures of her with her feathered family, and I decided that what a woman with the limited experience of a head stenographer in a railroad office could do, I, with my wider scope of travel and culture, could more than double on three hundred acres of land in the Harpeth Valley. Some day I'm going to see that woman and I'm going to stop by and speak sternly to the editor of "The Woman's Review" on my way. "Mr. G. Bird," I began as I reached this point and I saw that we were arriving in the heart of civilization, which was the square of a quaint little old town. From a motor-car acquaintance, I knew this to be Riverfield, but I had never even stopped because of the family pride involved in the feud now dead. "Mr. Bird," I repeated, "I am afraid I am up against it, and I hope you'll stand by me." He answered me by preening a breast feather and winking one of his bright eyes as Uncle Cradd stopped the ancient steeds in the center of the square, before a little old brick building that bore three signs over its tumble-down porch. They were: "Silas Beesley, Grocer," "U.S. Post-Office," and "Riverfield Bank and Trust Co." "Hey, Si, here's William come home!" called Uncle Cradd, as a negro boy with a broad grin stood at the heads of the slow old horses, who, I felt sure, wouldn't have moved except under necessity before the judgment day. In less time than I can take to tell it father descended literally into the arms of his friends. About half a dozen old farmers, some in overalls and some in rusty black broadcloth the color of Uncle Cradd's, poured out of the wide door of the business building before described, and they acted very much as I have seen the boys at Yale or Princeton act after a success or defeat on the foot-ball field. They hugged father and they slapped him on the back and they shook his hand as if it were not of human, sixty-year-old flesh and blood. Then they introduced a lot of stalwart young farmers to him, each of whom gave father hearty greetings, but refrained from even a glance in my direction as I sat enthroned on high on the faded old cushions and waited for an introduction, which at last Uncle Cradd remembered to give me. "This is Miss Nancy Craddock, gentlemen, named after my mother, and she's going to beat out the Bend in her chicken raising, which she's brought along with her. Come over, youngsters, and look her over. The fire in the parlor don't burn more than a half cord of wood on a Sunday, and you can come over Saturday afternoon and cut it against the Sabbath, with a welcome to any one of the spare rooms and a slab of Rufus's spare rib and a couple of both breakfast and supper muffins." All of the older men laughed at this sweeping invitation, and all the younger greeted it with ears that became instantly crimson. I verily believe they would one and all have fled and left me sitting there yet if a diversion had not arrived in the person of Mrs. Silas, who came bustling out of the door of the grocery or post-office or bank; whichever it is called, is according to your errand there. Mrs. Si was tall, and almost as broad as the door itself, with the rosiest cheeks and the bluest eyes I had ever beheld, and they crinkled with loveliness around their corners. She had white water-waves that escaped their decorous plastering into waving little tendril curls, and her mouth was as curled and red-lipped and dimpled as a girl's. In a twinkling of those blue eyes I fell out of the carriage into a pair of strong, soft, tender arms covered with stiff gray percale, and received two hearty kisses, one on each cheek. "God bless you, honeybunch, and I'm glad William has brought you home at last, the rascal." As she hugged me she reached out a strong hand and gave father first a good shake by his shoulder and then by his hand. "Fine girl, eh, Mary?" answered father as he returned the shoulder shake with a pat on the broad gray percale back, and retained the strong hand in his, with a frank clinging. I wondered if-- "She's her Aunt Mary's blessed child, and I will have her making riz biscuits like old Madam Craddock's black Sue for you two boys in less than a week," she answered him, with a laugh that somehow sounded a bit dewy. "Oh, do you know about chickens, Mrs.--I mean, Aunt Mary?" I asked as I clung to the hand to which father was not clinging. "Bless my heart, what's that I see setting up on old Madam Craddock's cushions? Is it a rooster or a dream bird?" she answered me by exclaiming as she caught sight of Mr. G. Bird sitting in lonely state, but as good as gold, upon the rose-leather cushions. "I thought I feathered out the finest chickens in the Harpeth Valley, but this one isn't human, you might say," and as she spoke she shook off father and me, and approached the carriage and peered in with the reverence of a real poultry artist. "Bless my heart!" she again exclaimed. "Those are just Miss Nancy's whims to take the place of her card-routs and sinful dancing habits," said Uncle Cradd, with a great and indulgent amusement as all the little crowd of native friends gathered around to look at the Bird family. "Say, that rooster ought to have been met with a brass band like they did Mr. Cummins' horse, Lightheels, after he won all those cups up in the races at Cincinnati," said the tallest of the young farmers, whose ears had begun to assume their normal color. "And a sight more right he has to such a honor, Bud Beesley," replied Aunt Mary, with spirit, as she stroked the proud head of the Golden Bird. "It takes hens and women all their days to collect the money men spend on race-horses sometimes, my son." "Well, Mary, I reckon you aren't alluding to this pair of spanking grays I've got; but in case you are getting personal to them, I think we had better begin to go. Come, get in with the Whim family, Nancy, and let's be traveling. It's near on to a mile over a mighty rough road to the house from the gate here. Everybody come and see us." As he spoke Uncle Cradd assisted me with ceremony into the chariot beside the Golden hero of the hour, and started the ancient steeds into a tall old gate right opposite the bank-store-post-office. As he drove away something like warm tears misted across my eyes as I looked back and saw all the goodwill and friendliness in the eye of the farmer friends who watched our departure. "That, Ann, is the salt of the earth, and I don't see how I consumed life so long without it," said father as he turned, and looked at me with a sparkle in his mystic gray eyes that I had never seen there when we were seated at table with the mighty or making our bow in broadcloth and fine linen in some of the palaces of the world. I didn't know what it was then, but I do now; it is a land-love that lies deep in the heart of every man who is born out in meadows and fields. They never get over it and sometimes transmit it even to the second generation. I felt it stir and run in my blood as we rumbled and bumped up the long avenue of tall old elm-trees that led through deep fields which were even then greening with blue-grass and from which arose a rich loamy fragrance, and finally arrived at the most wonderful old brick house that I had ever seen in all of my life; it seemed to even my much traveled eyes in some ways the most wonderful abode for human beings I had ever beheld. It was not the traditional white-pillared mansion. It was more wonderful. The bricks had aged a rich, red purple, and were rimmed and splotched with soft green and gray moss under traceries of vines that were beginning to put out rich russet buds. The windows were filled with tiny diamond panes of glass, which glittered in the gables from the last rays of the sun setting over Old Harpeth, and the broad, gray shingled roof hovered down over the wide porch which would have sheltered fifty people safely. A flagstone walk and stone steps led up from the drive, seemingly right into the wide front door, which had small, diamond-paned, heavily shuttered windows in it, and queer holes on each side. "To shoot through in case of marauding Indians," answered Uncle Cradd to my startled question, which had sprung from a suspicion that must have been dictated by prenatal knowledge. As I entered the homestead of my fathers I felt that I had slipped back into the colonial age of America, and I found myself almost in a state of terror. The wide old hall, the heavy-beamed ceiling of which was so low that you felt again hovered, was lighted by only one candle, though a broad path of firelight lay across the dark polished floor from the room on the left, where appeared old Rufus enveloped in a large apron no whiter than the snowy kinks on his old head. "Time you has worship, Mas' Cradd, my muffins and spare ribs will be done," he said after he had bestowed a grand bow first upon father and then upon me, with a soft-voiced greeting of "sarvant, little Mis', and sarvant, Mas' William." "It is fitting that we render unto the Lord thankfulness for your return home with Nancy, your child, William, in the first moments of your arrival. Come!" commanded Uncle Cradd, and he led us into a huge room as low ceilinged and dark-toned as the hall. In it there was only the firelight and another dim candle placed on a small table beside a huge old book. With the surety of long habit father walked straight to a large chair that was drawn close to the hearth on the side opposite the table, behind which was another large chair of exactly the same pattern of high-backed dignity, and seated himself. Then he drew me down into a low chair beside him, and I lifted up my hands, removed my hat, and was at last come home from a huge and unreal world outside. As I sat and gazed from the dark room through a large old window, which was swung open on heavy hinges to allow the sap-scented breeze to drift in and fan the fire of lingering winter, out into an old garden with brick-outlined walks and climbing bare rose vines upon which was beginning to be poured the silver enchantment of a young moon, Uncle Cradd, in his deep old voice, which was like the notes given out by an ancient violin, began to read a chapter from his old Book which began with the exhortation, "Let brotherly love continue," and laid down a course of moral conduct that seemed so impossible that I sat spellbound to the last words, "Grace be with you all. Ahmen." Then I knelt beside father, with old Rufus close behind our chairs, and was for the first time in my life lifted on the wings of prayer and carried off up somewhere I hadn't been before. As Uncle Cradd's sonorous words of love and rejoicing over our return rolled forth in the twilight, I crouched against father's shoulder, and I think the spirit of my Grandmother Craddock, whom I had heard indulging in a Methodist form of vocal rejoicing which is called a shout, was about to manifest itself through me when I was brought to earth and to my feet by a long, protracted, and alarmed appeal sent forth in the voice of the Golden Bird. "Keep us and protect us through the night with Your grace. Ahmen! Why didn't you put those chickens out of the way of skunks and weasels, Rufus, you old scoundrel," rolled out Uncle Cradd's deep voice, dropping with great harmony from the sublime to the domestic. Then, with Rufus at my heels, I literally flew through the back door of the house towards the sound of distress that had come from that direction. In front of a rambling old barn, which was silvered by the crescent that hung over its ridge-pole, stood the chariot, and at its door, with Mr. G. Bird in his arms, I saw that man Adam. "He didn't recognize my first touch," came across the moonbeams in a voice as fluty as the original Pan's, and mingled with friendly chuckles and clucks from the entire Bird family as they felt the caress of long hands among them. I was so ruffled myself that I felt in need of soothing; so I came across the light and into the black shadow of the old coach. "Oh, I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come!" I exclaimed. After my ardent exclamation of welcome to Pan I stood still for fear he would vanish into the moonlight, because with his litheness and the eerie locks of hair that even in the silvering radiance showed a note of crimson cresting over his ears, he looked exactly as if he had come out of the hollow in some oak-tree. "I thought you might feel that way about it," he answered me, or rather I think that is what he said, because he was crooning to me and the Ladies Bird at the same time, and with a mixture of epitaphs and endearments that I didn't care to untangle. "There, there, lovely lady, don't be scared; it is going to be all right," he soothed, as he lifted one of the fluffy biddies and tucked her under his arm. "Oh, I am so glad you think so," I claimed the remark by exclaiming, while she made her claim by a contented little cluck. "Now don't be bothered, sweetheart," he again said, as he picked up another of the Ladies Bird and turned towards the huge old tumble-down barn that was yawning a black midnight out into the gray moonlight. "Let's all go into the barn and settle down to live happily together ever after." "I think that will be lovely," I answered, while beautiful Mrs. Bird made her reply with a consenting cluck. I never supposed I would make an affirmative answer to a domestic proposal that was at least uncertain of intent, but then I also never dreamed of being in the position of guardian to eleven head of prize live stock, and I think anything I did or said under the circumstances was excusable. "Don't you want to come with me and bring the cock with you. Old Rufus wouldn't touch one of them for a gold rock," he asked, and I felt slightly aggrieved when I discovered that I was to know when I was being addressed by a lack of any term of endearment, though the caressing flutiness of Adam's voice was the same to me as to any one of the Ladies Leghorn. "Naw, Marster, chickens am my hoodoo. To tetch one makes my flesh crawl like they was walking on my grave, and if little Mis' will permit of me, I wanter git back to see to the browning of my muffins ginst the time Mas' Cradd rars at me fer his supper," and without waiting for the consent he had asked, old Rufus shuffled hurriedly back into the house. "I'll bring Mr. Golden Bird. I adore the creeps his feathers give me," I said as I reached in the coach and took the Sultan in my arms. He gave not a single note of remonstrance, but I suppose it was imagination that made me think that he fluffed himself into my embrace with friendly joy. "Come on, let's put them for to-night over in the feed-room. There, ladies, did you ever see a greater old barn than this?" As he spoke to us he led the way with four of the admiring and obedient Ladies, in his arms, while the fifth, who was I, followed him into the deep, purple, hay-scented darkness. "I never did see anything like it," I answered, while only one of the Leghorn ladies gave a sleepy cluck of assent to their part of the question. I really did have a thrill of pure joy in that old barn. It wasn't like anything I had ever seen before, and was as far removed from a garage as is a brown-hearted chestnut burr from a soufflé of maroons served on a silver dish. I could hear the moth-eaten string of steeds munching noisily over at one end of the huge darkness, and the odor that arose from their repast was of corn and not of suffocating gasoline. Tall weeds and long frames with teeth in them, which gave them the appearance of huge alligator mouths yawning from the dusk to snap me, pressed close on each side. Straps and ropes and harness were draped from the beams and along the walls, and the combined aroma of corn and hay and leather and horses seemed an inspiration to a lusty breath. "There, sweeties, is a nice smooth bin for you to go to bed on," said Adam as he set the Ladies Leghorn one by one from his arms on the edge of a long narrow box that was piled high with corn. "Now you stay here with them until I bring the rest. Put your Golden Bird down beside the biddies, and I'll bring the others to put on the other side of him to roost, and in the morning he can begin scratching for a happy and united family." With which command Pan disappeared into the purple darkness and left me alone in the snapping monster shadows with only the sleepy Golden Bird for company. The Bird shook himself after being deposited beside the half-portion of his family, puffed himself up, sank his long neck into his shoulders, and evidently went to sleep. I shivered up close to him and looked over my shoulder into the blackness behind the teeth and then didn't look again until I heard the soft pad of the weird leather shoes behind me. "Now all's shipshape for the night," said Pan as he spread out his armful of feathers into a bunchy line on the edge of the bin. "Just throw them about two double handfulls of mixed corn and wheat down in the hay litter on the floor at daybreak and keep them shut up and scratching until you are sure none of them are going to lay. From the red of their combs I judge they will all be laying in a few days." "At daybreak?" I faltered. "Yes; they ought to be got to work as soon as they hop off the roost," answered Pan, as he spread a little more of the hay on the floor in front of the perch of the Bird family. "How do I know it--I mean daybreak?" I asked, with eagerness and hesitation both in my voice, as Pan started padding out through the monster-haunted darkness towards the square of silver light beyond the huge door. As I asked my question I followed close at his heels. "I'll be going through to Plunketts and I'll call you, like this." As we came from the shadows into the moonlight beside the coach, Adam paused and gave three low weird notes, which were so lovely that they seemed the sounds from which the melody of all the world was sprung. "I'll call twice, and then you answer if you are awake. If not, I'll call again." "I'll be awake," I asserted positively. "Won't you--that is, must I fix--" "That's all for to-night, and good night," he answered me with a laugh that was as reedy as the brisk wind in the trees. In a second he was padding away from me into the trees beyond the garden as swiftly as I suppose jaguars and lithe lions travel. "Oh, don't you want some supper?" I called into the moonlight, even running a few steps after him. "Parched corn in my pocket--lambs," came fluting back to me from the shadows. "Supper am sarved, little Mis'," Rufus announced from the hack door, as I stood still looking and listening into the night. "Uncle Cradd," I asked eagerly at the end of the food prayer that the old gentleman had offered after seating me with ceremony behind a steaming silver coffee urn of colonial pattern, of which I had heard all my life, "who is that remarkable man?" CHAPTER III "Si Beesley? Spare rib, dear?" was his disappointing but hospitable, answer in two return questions to my anxious inquiries about the Pan who had come out of the woods at my need. "No; I mean--mean, didn't you call him Adam?" "Nobody knows. Now, William, a spare rib and a muffin is real nourishment after the nightingale's tongues and snails you've been living on for twenty-odd years, isn't it?" As he spoke Uncle Cradd beamed on father, who was eating with the first show of real pleasure in food since we had had to send Henri back to New York, after the crash, weeping with all his French-cook soul at leaving us after fifteen years' service. "I have always enjoyed that essay of Charles Lamb's on roast pig, Cradd," answered father as he took a second muffin. "I know that Lamb used to bore you, Cradd, but honestly now, doesn't his materialism seem--" "Oh, Uncle Cradd, please tell me about that Adam man before you and father disappear into the eighteenth century," I pleaded, as I handed two cups of steaming coffee to Rufus to pass my two elderly savants. "There is nothing to tell, Nancy child," answered Uncle Cradd, with an indulgent smile as he peered at me over his glasses. "Upon my word, William, Nancy is the living image of mother when we first remember her, isn't she? You are very beautiful, my dear." "I know it," I answered hurriedly and hardly aware of what I was saying; "but I want to know where he came from, please, Uncle Cradd." "Well, as near as I can remember he came out of the woods a year ago and has been in and out helping about the farms here in Harpeth Valley ever since. He never eats or sleeps anywhere, and he's a kind of wizard with animals, they say. And, William, he does know his Horace. Just last week he appeared with a little leather-covered volume, and for four mortal hours we--" "They says dat red-haided peckerwoods goes to the devil on Fridays, and Mas' Adam he cured my hawgs with nothing but a sack full of green cabbage heads in January, he did," said Rufus, as he rolled his big black eyes and mysteriously shook his old head with its white kinks. "No physic a-tall, jest cabbage and a few turnips mixed in the mash. Yes, m'm, dey does go to the devil of a Friday, red-haided peckerwoods, dey does." "By the way, Cradd, I want you to see a little volume of the Odes I picked up in London last year. The dealer was a robber, and my dealer didn't want me to buy, but I thought of that time you and I--" "Not one of the Cantridge edition?" "Yes, and I want you--" During all the rest of supper I sat and communed with my own self while father and Uncle Cradd banqueted with the Immortals. Even after we went back into the low-ceilinged old living-room, which was now lighted by two candles placed close together on a wonderful old mahogany table before the fire, one of the dignified chairs drawn up on each side, with my low seat between, I was busily mapping out a course of action that was to begin with my dawn signal. "I'd like to get into the--trunk as soon as possible. There is something I want to look up in my chicken book," I said before I seated myself in the midst of one of the battles that raged around Ilium. "Nancy, my dear, you will find that Rufus has arranged your Grandmother Craddock's room for you, and Mary Beesley came over to see that all was in order," said Uncle Cradd, coming and taking my face into his long, lean old hands. "God bless you, my dear, and keep you in His care here in the home of your forefathers. Good-night!" After an absent-minded kiss from father I was dismissed with a Sanskrit blessing from somewhere in the valley of the Euphrates up into my bedroom in the valley of Old Harpeth. If I had discovered the shadow of tradition in the rest of the old house, I walked into the very depths of them as I entered the bedroom of my foremothers. Deep crimson coals of fire were in a squat fireplace, and a last smoldering log of some kind of fragrant wood broke into fragments and sent up a little gust of blue and gold flame as if in celebration of my arrival. There was the remnant of a candle burning on a small table beside a bed that was very near, if not quite, five feet high, beside which were steps for the purposes of ascension. All the rest of the room was in a blur of lavender-scented darkness, and I only saw that both side walls folded down and were lit with the deep old gables, through the open windows of which young moon rays were struggling to help light the situation for me. As I looked at that wide, puffy old bed, with a blur of soft colors in its quilt and the valance around its posts and tester, I suddenly became as utterly weary as a child who sees its mother's arms outstretched at retiring time. I don't know how I got out of my clothes and into my lace and ribbons, with only the flickering candle and the dying log to see by, but in less time than I ever could have dreamed might be consumed in the processes of going to bed I climbed the little steps and dived into the soft bosom of the old four-poster. "God bless me and keep me in His care here in my grandmother's bed," I murmured after the invocation of Uncle Cradd, and that is all I knew after the first delicious sink and soft huddling of my body between sheets that felt as if they must be rich silk and smelled of old lavender. And then came a dream--a most lovely dream. I was at the opera in Gale Beacon's box, and Mr. G. Bird was out on the stage singing that glorious coo in the aria in Saint-Saëns' "Samson and Delilah," and I was trying to answer him. Suddenly I was wide awake sitting up in a billowed softness, while moonlight of a different color was sifting in through the gable windows and the most lovely calling notes were coming in on its beams. Without a moment's hesitation I answered in about six notes of that Delilah song which was the only sound ready in my mind. Then I listened and I am not sure that I heard a reedy laugh under my window as just the two notes succeeding the ones I had given forth came in on the dawn beams. Then all was as still and quiet as the hush of midnight. In about two seconds I had vaulted forth from between the high posts, splashed into a funny old wooden tub bound together with brass rims, whirled my black mop into a knot, slipped into the modish boots, corduroys, and a linen smock, and was running out into the peculiar moon-dawn with the swiftness of a boy. But I was too late! The silver-moon sky was growing rosy over behind the barn as I peered about, and a mist was rolling away from between the trees, but not a soul in all the world was awake, and I was alone. "Did he call me?" I asked of myself under my breath. And the answer I got was from the Golden Bird, who sent a long, triumphant, eager "salutation to the dawn" from out the shadows of the barn. Eagerly I flew to him, and the minute I entered the apartment of the Bird family I discovered that I had been only half dreaming about my early morning opera. Pan had come and gone. Upon the door was pinned a piece of torn brown wrapping-paper upon which I found these penciled words: Give them about two quarts of warm meal mash, into which you put some ground turnips at noon. Better build about four nests in the dark under the bin, and be sure to disinfect them by white-washing inside and out. Put in clean hay. Dust all the beauties on their heads and under their wings with wood ashes in which you put a little of the powder you'll find in a piece of this paper in the right-hand corner of the bin. They'll want a good feed of ground grain at three o'clock. Get copperas from Rufus to put in their water, and I'll let you know later what else to do. Salutations! ADAM "I'm glad I got up so early if that's the day's program," I gasped to myself as I leaned against the bin from which the Golden Bird had already alighted and was commanding the Ladies Leghorn to descend--a command which they were obeying one at a time with outspread white wings that were handled with the height of awkwardness. "But I'll do it all if it kills me," I added, with my head up, as I began to scatter some of the big white grains that I knew to be corn and which, by lifting lids and peering into huge slanting top boxes set against the wall, I discovered along with a lot of other small brown seed stuff that I knew must be wheat. I was glad that I had remembered that Adam had called the room the feed-room so I had known where to look. It was so perfectly exciting to see all those fluffy white members of my family fortune scratching and clucking about my feet that I prolonged the process of the feeding by scattering only a few grains at a time until great shafts of golden morning sun were thrusting themselves in through the dim dusk and cobweb-veiled windows. "Morning, little Mis'! I axes yo' parding fer not having breakfast 'fore sun-up fer you, but they didn't never any Craddock ladies want theirn before nine o'clock before, they didn't," came Rufus's voice in solemn words of apology uttered in tones of serious reproof. As he spoke he stood as far from the door of the feed-room as possible and eyed the scratching Bird family with the deepest disapproval. "Feed-room ain't no place fer chickens; they oughter make they living on bugs and worms and sich." "These chickens are--are different, Rufus, and--and so am I," I answered him with dignity. "Call me when the gentlemen are ready to breakfast with me." "They talked until most daylight, and I knows 'em well enough to not cook fer 'em until after ten o'clock. They's gentlemen, they is." The tones of his voice were perfectly servile, though it was plain to see that his mental processes were not. "All right, I'll eat mine now, Rufus, and then I want you to get me a--a hammer and some nails. Also a bucket of whitewash," I said as I closed the door upon the Birds and preceded him to the house. "Oh, my Lawd-a-mussy!" he exclaimed as he dived into the refuge of the kitchen, completely routed, to appear with my breakfast upon his tray and with such dignity in his mien that it was pathetic. I was merciful while I consumed the meal which was an exact repetition of the supper of the ribs of the hog and muffins and coffee; then I threw another fit into him, to quote from Matthew at his worst in the way of diction. "Please set a bucket of the wood ashes from the living-room fire out at the barn for me, Rufus," I commanded him with pleasant firmness. "Yes, Madam," was the answer I got in a tone of cold despair. It was thus that the feud with my family traditions was established. "Also, Rufus, please bring the saw with the hammer and the nails," was my last hand-grenade as I departed out the back door to the barn. From the old clock standing against the wall in the back hall I discovered the hour to be exactly seven-thirty, and I felt that I had what would seem like a week ahead of me before the setting of the sun. However, I was wrong in my judgment, for time fairly fled from me, and it was nine o'clock by my platinum wrist-watch before I had more than got one very wobbly-looking box nailed together on the floor of the barn, and I was deep in both pride and exhaustion. "I knew I could do it, but I didn't believe it," I was remarking to myself in great congratulations when a shadow fell across the light from the door. I looked up and, behold, Mrs. Silas Beesley loomed up against the sun and seemed to shine with equal refulgence to my delighted eyes! In her hand she held a plate covered with a snowy napkin, and her blue eyes danced with delighted astonishment. "Well, well, Nancy!" she exclaimed, as she seated herself upon a bench by the door and began to fan herself with a corner of a snowy kerchief that crossed her ample bosom. "Looks like you have begun sawing and nailing at the Craddock family estate pretty early in the action though it's none too soon, and mighty glad I am to see you do it while there is still a little odd lumber left. I've always said that it's women folks that prop a family and it will soon tumble without 'em. I am so glad you've come, honeybunch, that tears are laughing themselves out of the corner of my eyes." This time the white kerchief was dabbed over the keen blue eyes. "Is it all--very--very bad, Mrs.--I mean, Aunt Mary?" I asked, as I laid down my dull-toothed instrument for the dissection of the plank, and sank cross-legged on the barn floor in front of her. "Oh, it might be worse," she answered as she smiled again with resolution. "Rufus has eleven nice hogs and feed enough for them until summer, thanks to the help of Adam in tending the ten-acre river-bottom field, which they made produce more than any one else in the river bend got off of fifty. Nobody can take the house, because it is hitched on to you with entailment, and though the croppers have skimmed off all the cream of the land, the clay bottom of it is obliged to be yours. Now that you and William have come with a little money the fields can all be restored. Adam will help you like he did Hiram Wade down the road there. It only cost him about ten dollars to the acre. "But--but father and I--that is, Aunt Mary, you know father has lost all his property and Uncle Cradd assured us that--that there was plenty for us all at Elmnest," I said in a faltering tone of voice as a feeling of descending tragedy struck into my heart. "Cradd and Rufus have lived on hog, head, heels, and tail for over a year, with nothing else but the corn meal that Rufus trades meat with Silas for. I thought, honeybunch, when I saw you coming so stylish and beautiful with those none-such chickens that you must have been bringing a silk purse sewed with gold thread with you. I said to Silas as he put out the lamp last night, 'The good Lord may let His deliverance horses lag along the track, but He always drives them in on the home stretch for His own, of which Moseby Craddock is one.' 'Why, she's so fine she can't eat eggs outen chickens that costs less than maybe a hundred dollars the dozen,' answered Silas to me as he put out the cat." "They cost eight hundred and fifty dollars and they are all I have got in the world. Father gave up everything, and I sold my clothes and the cars to buy back his library and--and the chickens," I said with the terror pressing still more heavily down upon me. "Well, I shouldn't call them chickens spilled milk. Just listen at 'em!" And just as we had arrived at the point of desperation in our conversation a diversion occurred in the way of two loud cacklings from the feed-room and the most ringing and triumphant crow that I am sure ever issued from the throat of a thoroughbred cock. "'Tain't possible for 'em to have laid this quick after traveling," said Aunt Mary, but she was almost as fleet as I was in her progress to the feed-room door. And behold! "Well, what do you think about that, right out of the crate just last night, no nests nor nothing!" she exclaimed as we both paused and gazed at two huge white eggs in hastily scratched nests beside the bin over which two of the very most lovely white Leghorn ladies were proudly standing and clucking, while between them Mr. G. Bird was crowing with such evident pride that I was afraid he would split his crimson throat. All the other white Birds were clucking excitedly as if issuing hen promissory notes upon their futures. "They're omens of good luck, bless the Lord, Honeybunch. Pick 'em right up!" exclaimed Mrs. Silas. "Oh, they are warm!" I cried as I picked the two treasures up with reverent hands and cuddled them against the linen of the smock over my breast in which my heart was beating high with excitement. And as I held them there all threat of life vanished never to return, no matter through what vicissitudes the Golden Bird family and I were to pass. "You can eat these, and next week you can begin to save for a setting as soon as you can get a hen ready. I'll lend you the first one of mine that broods," said Mrs. Silas as she took both the beautiful treasures into one of her large hands with what I thought was criminal carelessness, but didn't like to say so. "I've ordered a three-hundred-egg incubator for them," I said proudly, as I gently took the warm treasures back into my hand. "Incubators are so much more sanitary and intelligent than hens," I added with all the surety of the advertisement for the mechanical hen which I had answered with thirty-five dollars obtained from the sale of the last fluffy petticoat I had hoped to retain, but which I gave up gladly after reading the advertisement. Two most lovely chemises had gone for the two brooders that were to accompany the incubator, and it seemed hard to think that I would have to wait ten days to receive the fruits of my feminine sacrifice from the slow shipping service of the railroad. "Don't ever say that again, Nancy! Hens have more genuine wisdom growing at the roots of their pin feathers than most women display during the span of their entire lives, and they make very much better mothers," reproved Aunt Mary, with sweet firmness. "Just you wait and see which brings out your prize birds, the wooden box or the hen. When men invent something with a mother's heart, they had better name it angel and admit that the kingdom has come. Bless my soul; these biscuits I brought over for you-all's breakfast are stone-cold!" "I've had my breakfast a half a day ago," I answered. "You go in and start father and Uncle Cradd off with the biscuits while I finish the nest and--and do some more things for my family fortune." "Child, if you attempt to do the things that Adam wants you to do for and with live stock you may see miracles being hatched out and born, but you'll be too worn out to notice 'em. Trap nests indeed! I've got to have some time to make my water waves and offer daily prayer!" And with this ejaculation of good-natured indignation, evidently at the memory of sundry and various poultry prods, Mrs. Silas betook herself to the house with a beautiful and serene dignity. As she went she stopped to break a sprig from a huge old lilac that was beginning to burst its brown buds and to put up half a yard of rambler that trailed across the path with its treacherous thorns. "Your lilacs are breaking scent already," she called back to me over her shoulder. A woman can experience no greater sensation of joy than that which she feels when she first realizes that she is the mistress of a lilac bush. Neither her début dance nor her first proposal of sentiment equals it. It is the same way about the first egg she gathers with her own hands; the sensation is indescribable. "I'll do all the things he says do for you and the family, Mr. G. Bird, if it kills me, as it probably will," I said with resolution as I drove a last wobbly nail into the first nest, and took up the saw to again attack the odds and ends of old plank I had collected on the barn floor. "If I can make one nest in two hours, I can make two more in four more, and then I will have time for the rest of the things," I assured myself as I again looked at my wrist-watch, and began to saw with my knee holding the tough old plank in place across a rickety box. CHAPTER IV It is beautiful how sometimes deserving courage is rewarded if it just goes on deserving long enough. After about an hour's hand-to-saw bout with the old plank I was just chewing through the last inch of the last of the four sides of nest number two when I suddenly stopped and listened. Far away to the front of the house I heard hot oaths being uttered by the engine in a huge racing-machine with a powerful chug with which I was quite familiar. While I listened, the motor in agony gave a snort as it bounded over some kind of obstruction and in two seconds, as I stood saw in hand, with not enough time to wipe the sweat of toil from my brow, the huge blue machine swept around the corner of the house, brought up beside the family coach, which was still standing in front of the barn, and Matthew flung himself out of it and to my side. "Holy smokers, Ann, but you look good in that get-up!" he exclaimed as he regarded me with the delight with which a person might greet a friend or relative whom he had long considered dead or lost. "Why, you look just as if you had stepped right out of the 'Elite Review.' And the saw, too, makes a good note of human interest." "Well, it's chicken interest and not human, Matthew Berry," I said, answering his levity with spirit. "And I'm sorry I can't be at home for your amusement to-day, but my chickens are laying while I wait, and the least I can do is to get these nests ready for 'em. You'll excuse me, won't you, and go in to talk with father and Uncle Cradd?" "They're not producing dividends already, are they, Ann? Why, you only started the Consolidated Egg Co. yesterday!" exclaimed Matthew, with insulting doubt of my veracity in his voice. "Look there!" I said, as I pointed to my two large pearls, which I had carefully put in the soft felt hat I had purchased to go with the smocks for fifteen dollars at Goertz's. "Well, what do you know about that?" exclaimed Matthew, with real astonishment, as he sat down on his heels and took the two treasures into his highly manicured hands. "Gee, they are right hot off the bat!" he exclaimed, as he detected some of the warmth still left in them, I suppose. "Yes, and I've got to get these nests done right away so as to be ready to catch the rest of them," I said and began to saw furiously, as if I were constructing a bucket to catch a deluge. "Say, gimme the saw, Ann, and you get the fodder and things to put in the bottom of them to keep them from smashing as they come," said Matthew, as he flung off his coat, jammed his motor-cap on the back of his head, and took the saw from my unresisting hand. "I'll get the whitewash and whiten them as you finish them," I said, as I hurriedly consulted the torn piece of wrapping-paper I took from one of the huge pockets of my smock. "All right, but you had better hump yourself, for I believe I'm going to be some carpenter. This saw has a kind of affinity feeling to my hand," said Matthew, as he put his foot on one end of the plank and began to make the saw fly through the wood like a silver knife through fluffy cake. If saws were the only witnesses, the superiority of men over women would be established in very short order. "And say, Ann, I wish you would be thinking what you are going to charge for a half interest in this business. Law and real estate look slow to me after these returns right before my eyes," he added, as he stopped to move the pearl treasures farther out of the way of a possible flying plank. "I'm going to give you one of them to take home with you, Matt," I answered, with a most generous return of his appreciation of these foundation pebbles of my family fortune. Then I went to appeal to Rufus for the whitewash. "They's a half barrel uf lime and a bucket and bresh in the corner uf the barn what Mas' Adams made me git, he did; but it's fer the hawgs and can't be wasted on no chickens," he said, answering my very courteous request with a great lack of graciousness. "The chickens will pay it back to the hogs, Rufus," I answered airily as I ran back to the barn, eager for the fray. And a gorgeous fray it was, with Matthew whistling and directing and pounding and having the time of his very frivolous life. Now, of course, nobody in these advanced times thinks that it is not absolutely possible, even easy, for a woman to live any kind of constructive life she chooses entirely without assistance from a man, but she'll get to the place she has started for just about a year after she would have arrived if a man had happened along to do the sawing. The way my friend Matthew Berry cut and hammered off one by one the directions on that piece of paper in my smock pocket would have proved the proposition above stated to any doubtful woman. And while Matthew and I had had many happy times together at balls and parties and dinners and long flights in our cars and at the theatre and opera, also in dim corners in gorgeous clothes, I am sure we had never been so happy as we were that morning while we labored together in the interest of Mr. G. Bird and family. We went beyond the paper directions and delved in my book and hammered away until, when Rufus, with stately coldness, announced some time after noon that dinner was served, we both declared that it was impossible, though Matthew was at that moment performing the last chore commanded by dusting the medicated ashes under the last wing of the last Lady Leghorn, held tenderly in my arms. The mash had been concocted and heated in the cleansed whitewash bucket over a fire improvised by Matthew between two stones beside the barn, because I did not dare disturb Rufus again, and the model nests were all in place and ready for the downpour of pearls that we expected at any time, and there was nothing left to do that we could think of or read about in the book. "Let's go in and get a bite with Father Craddock and the twin, and then we'll read things to do this afternoon in the book where you got those directions," said Matthew as he started towards the house in the wake of Rufus' retiring apron. I hadn't broken Pan to Matthew, and I didn't know exactly why. Perhaps I didn't quite believe in the red-headed Peckerwood myself just then, and felt unable to incarnate him to Matthew. Uncle Cradd's welcome to Matthew was very stately and friendly when we went in and found him and father in their high-back chairs on each side of the table, waging the classic argument that Rufus had reported them to have discontinued at an early hour of the morning. Father was delighted with the package of books that Matthew had brought out with him in his car, because father considered them too valuable to be transported in the wagon which was to bring the rest of the library. "Just a little of the cream of the collection, Cradd," he said as he unwrapped a small leather-covered volume which Matthew had transported in the pocket over his heart. "Just five hundred dollars' worth of cream," whispered Matthew to me, with a whimsical look at the small and very ancient specimen of Americana. "It is a good thing that Senator Proctor has only Belle and let her have the six thousand cash for the Chauvenaise, and Bess wanted your little Royal in a hurry, though she got a bargain at that. Still the library is really worth five times what you paid." "Sh--hush!" I said as I led the way before the parental twins into the old dining-room. Father hadn't even questioned how he was to have the library saved for him, and of course Uncle Cradd knew nothing at all about the matter. After seating me with the same ceremony he had employed since my arrival into the family, though with hostility bristling psychologically for my plebeian intrusion into his traditions of the Craddock ladies, Rufus appalled me by offering me for the third time since my arrival at Elmnest roasted ribs of the hog, muffins and coffee. Only my training in the social customs of a world beyond the ken of Rufus kept me from exclaiming with protest, but I came to myself to discover that Matthew was devouring huge slabs of the roasted bones and half a dozen batches of the corn bread in a manner that was ravenously unconventional. I remembered that the last time I had seen him at repast, just about forty-eight hours past, he had speared a croquette of chicken with disdain, and I decided not to apologize for the meal even in the most subtle way. Also the spectacle of father polishing off the small bones, when I remembered the efforts of devoted Henri to tempt his appetite with sophisticated food, filled me with a queer primitive feeling that made it possible for me to fall upon my series of the ribs with an ardor which I had thought I was incapable of. "I call that some food," sighed Matthew, as he regarded the pile of bones in his plate with the greatest satisfaction in his appeased eyes. I felt Rufus melt behind me as he passed the muffins again. "The native food of the Harpeth Valley nourishes specially fine men--and very beautiful women," answered Uncle Cradd, with a glance of pride, first at me and then at father in his spare, but muscular, uprightness and finally at Matthew, with his one hundred and eighty pounds of brawn packed on his six-foot skeleton in the most beautiful lines and curves of strength and distinction. "Oh, that reminds me, Mr. Craddock, and you, too, Father of Ann," said Matthew, as he reached into his pocket and hurriedly drew out a huge letter. "I have a proposition that came to the firm this morning to talk over with you two gentlemen. Ann thought I came out to help her settle the Bird family comfortably, and for a while I forgot and thought so too, but now I'll have to ask you two gentlemen to talk business, though I must confess the matter puzzles me not a little." "The art of dining and the craft of business should never be commingled; let us repair to the library," said Uncle Cradd, thus placing the spare ribs in an artistic atmosphere and at the same time aiming an arrow of criticism, though unconscious, at the custom of the world out over Paradise Ridge of feeding business conditions down the throat of an adversary with his food and drink, specially drink. "I don't know why, but I'm scared to death now that I'm up against it," Matthew confided to me as he first took a legal-looking piece of paper from his pocket and then hastily put it back as he and I followed the parental twins down the hall and into the library. "Will you rescue me, Ann?" he whispered as he ceremoniously seated me in my low chair and took a straight one beside father as Uncle Cradd stood tall, huge and towering on the old home-woven rug before the small fire in the huge rock chimney. "Yes," I answered as I settled back in the little chair and took one passionately delighted look around the old room, which I was seeing in the broad light of day for the first time. I am glad that the old home which had been the stronghold of my foremothers and fathers was thus revealed to me in half lights and a little at a time; I couldn't have stood the ecstasy of it all at once. The room was the low-beamed old wonder that I had felt it to be in the candle-light the night before, only now the soft richness of the paneling, which held back into the gloom the faded colors of the books that lined the walls, the mellowed glow of the rough stone of the chimney, and the faded hand-woven rugs on the floor made it all look like one of Rembrandt's or Franz Hals' canvases. But in a few seconds I came back from the joy of it to a consciousness of what Matthew Berry was saying. "You see," he was explaining with enthusiasm, "that this new form of office for the state commissioner of agriculture is really a part of the great program of preparedness that has been evolving here in America since the Great War began, and nobody knows just what to expect of it as yet. The request from the President for the appointment of Evan Baldwin to take the portfolio in the State of Harpeth has made everybody see that the President means business with the States, and that America is to be made to produce her own food and the food of the rest of the world that needs it. When a scientist like Baldwin, worth millions and with experiment stations of hundreds of acres in most states in the Union, which are coining more millions with their propagation output, steps out and stands shoulder to shoulder with Edison in working to get the United States prepared to feed the world as well as to fend off any of that world that menaces it, the rest of us have got to get up and hustle, some with a musket and some with a plow." "And some with an egg-basket," I added, as my cheeks began to glow with something I hadn't ever felt before, but which I classified as patriotism. "My country has only to call us and we'll answer to the whole of our kingdom, William and I. We were lads too young to carry muskets against her in the Civil war, but we, with Rufus, plowed these acres with children's strength, and the larger portion of our products went to feed hungry soldiers both blue and gray. I say, just let my country call William and me!" As Uncle Cradd spoke, his back straightened, and I saw that he must have been every inch of six feet three in his youth. "William?" "With you, Cradd," answered father quietly, and I felt that that formula was the one by which they had lived their joint youth. "Well, that is about what they are asking of you, Mr. Craddock," said Matthew, his cheeks red with the glow of the blood Uncle Cradd had called up in his enthusiastic heart. "The new State secretary of agriculture has asked our firm to undertake negotiations for the purchase of Elmnest, for a recruiting station for the experts who are to take over the organizing of the farming interests in the Harpeth Valley, which is the central section of the State of Harpeth. They offer three hundred dollars an acre for the whole tract of two hundred acres, despite the fact that some of it is worn almost to its subsoil. They consider that as valuable, because they wish to give demonstrations and try experiments in land restoration, though very little of that is needed here in the valley. It's a pretty big thing, Mr. Craddock and Father William, sixty thousand dollars will provide all the--" "Did I understand that this proposition is put to us in the form of a demand of our Government upon our patriotism?" asked Uncle Cradd in a booming voice, while father only looked uncertain and ready to say, "With you, Cradd." I sat speechless for a moment, with a queer pain in my heart that I did not for the first second understand. "Well, not exactly that, Mr. Craddock, but something like it in a--" Matthew was beginning to say in a judicial way. "That is enough, Matthew Berry, son of the friend of my youth. If the United States needs Elmnest for national defenses, I am willing to give it up--indeed insist on presenting it to the Government except for a small part of the sum mentioned, which is needed for the simple and declining lives of my brother William, Rufus, and me, and my niece Nancy. Will you so convey our answer, William?" "With you, Cradd," came the devoted formula with which father slipped back finally into the dependence of his youth. "Good, Mr. Craddock," exclaimed Matthew, and I could see visions of Ann Craddock reclaimed from her farmer's smock in a ball-gown upon the floor of the country club in the fleeting glance of triumph he gave me. "Of course, about the price--" Then in that counsel of the mighty arose Ann Craddock, farm woman in the stronghold of her worn-out acres. "Is it or is it not true, Uncle Cradd, that no deed to this property can be made without my consent?" I asked calmly. "Why, yes, Nancy," answered Uncle Cradd, indulgently. "But this is a matter for your father and me to decide for you. I am sure you cannot fail in patriotism, my child." "I don't," I answered. "I am going to be more patriotic than any woman ever was before. I am not going to sell my Grandmother's rosebushes in their gardens or the acres that have nourished my family since its infancy in America long before this Evan Baldwin ever had any family, I feel sure, for sixty thousand dollars to go back and sit down in a corner with. I am going to demonstrate to the United States what one woman can do in the way of nutriment production aided by one beautiful rooster and ten equally beautiful hens, and when they begin to take stock of the resources of this Government, we women of the Harpeth Valley will be there with our egg-baskets. Just take that answer to your Mr. Evan Baldwin, Matthew Berry, and I'll never forgive you for this insult." "Nancy!" ejaculated Uncle Cradd with stern amazement. "Can't do a thing with her when she looks like that, Cradd," said father, as he comfortably lighted a cigar and drew the small leather-covered book towards him with hungry fingers. "Now, Ann," began Matthew, in the soothing tone of voice he had seen fail on me many times, "you don't understand entirely, and your situation is pretty desperate in--" "I do, I do understand that when I refuse this offer I am assuming enormous obligations, Matthew Berry," I answered, with my head in the air and absolute courage in my heart. "I ask you to bear witness, Matthew, to what my answer to the demand of my country would have been if I alone could have answered, but Nancy is within her rights, and I protect the rights of a woman before those of any man," said Uncle Cradd, and there was not a trace of relief in his fine old face that he was to be saved from a parting with the land that had been the love of his life, but one of affectionate regard and admiration for me. "Also say to the secretary of agriculture that a Craddock woman is as good as her word, and that the Harpeth Valley can be depended upon to lead the United States in the production of eggs in--when shall I promise, Nancy?" "About--about a year," I answered, searching in my mind for some data from the huge red book as to when wealth from the hen could be expected to roll in in response to the "good management" I felt even then capable of displaying. Even now I can't blame myself for over-confidence when I think of the two white pearls in my hat on the table beside father's book. "Better make it two," advised Matthew cautiously, but with a gleam of enthusiasm as he also glanced at the eggs. That gleam was what earned my forgiveness for his daring to come upon me with such a mission. "Say eighteen months. That will be the end of the second season," I answered with decision. "And it is about time for me to give the last feeding of my hostages to the United States and Mr. Evan Baldwin. You'll excuse me, Matthew?" I asked politely, but cruelly, for I knew he intended to follow me immediately. "Now here is your line of dispute, Cradd, just as I said," exclaimed father, who had opened his leather treasure and been hunting through its pages even before my heroics had completely exploded. And before Matthew and I had left the room, they were off on a bat with some favorite Ancient. CHAPTER V "Of course, Ann, you _do_ realize just what you are doing?" asked Matthew of me, as we walked on the moss-green flagstones back to the barn, and his voice was so sweet and gentle with solicitude that I felt I must answer him seriously and take him into my confidence. Affection is a note that one must always make payment on. "Yes, Matt, I do realize that those two are in a way children, for whose maintenance I have made myself responsible, and my mind is scared to death, but my heart is beating so high with courage that I can hardly stand it." "Oh, come with me, Ann, and let me--" Matthew wooed. "Matt," I answered gravely, "I haven't been here twenty-four hours yet, but when the thought of having it all taken away came to me, something in me rose and made me rage, rage, as I did in the house. I don't know what it is, but there is something in this low old farm-house, this tumble-down old barn, that leafless old garden with its crumbling brick walks, and these neglected, worn-out old acres, which seems to--to feed me and which I know I would perish without. Oh, please understand and--and help me a little like you did this morning," I ended with a broken plea, as I stretched out my hand to him just as I entered the door of my barn--castle of dreams for the future. "Dear Lord, the pluck of women!" Matthew exclaimed reverently, down in his throat. "I'll be here, Ann, whenever you want me, and if you say that chickens must fill my future life, then chickens it shall be," he added, rising to the surface of the question again. "Oh, Matt, you are a darling, and I--" I was exclaiming when a soft voice from out of the shadows of the barn interrupted me and an apple-blossom in the shape of a girl drifted into the late afternoon sunlight from the direction of the feed-room. "I'm Polly Beesley, and mother sent these eggs to scramble with the ones you got this morning for supper," she said in a low voice that was positively fragrant with sweetness. Two huge plaits of corn-silk hair fell over her shoulders, and her eyes were as shy and blue as violets were before they became a large commercial product. Her gingham dress was cut with decorum just below her shoe-tops and, taking into consideration the prevailing mode, its length, fullness, and ruffles made the slim young thing look like a picture from the same review from which I had cut my smocks. However, I am sure that if she had been at the between six and eighteen age year before last, when about two and a half yards of gingham would have been modish for her costume, she would still have been attired in the voluminous ruffles. "Holy smokes," I thought I heard Matthew gurgle, and I felt him start at the apparition, though the young thing never so much as glanced in his direction as she tendered me a quaint little basket in which lay half a dozen eggs, real homely brown eggs and not pearl treasures. "Oh, thank you, Polly dear," I answered with enthusiasm, and in obedience to some urge resulting from the generations ahead of Polly and my incarnation in the atmosphere of Riverfield, my lips met the rosy ones that were held up to me. I felt sorry for Matthew, and I couldn't restrain a glance of mischief at him that crossed his that were fixed on the yellow braids. "I didn't believe it of this day and generation," I heard him mutter as I presented him to Polly, who answered that she was "pleased to make his acquaintance," in a voice in which terror belied the sentiment expressed. In her eyes traces of that same terror remained until suddenly the Golden Bird stepped proudly out of the bushes with the Ladies Bird, clucking and scratching along behind him. He had led the family out into the pasture and was now wisely returning them to the barn before the setting of the sun. I thought I had never seen him look so handsome, and no wonder his conquest was immediate. "Oh, how beautiful," exclaimed Polly, while all restraint left her young face and body as she fell on her knees before the Sultan. "Chick, chick, chick," she wooed, in the words that Pan had used to command, and with a delight equal to hers in the introduction, the Bird came toward her. "Oh, please, sir, Mr.--Mr. Berry, get me some corn quick--quick! I want to squeeze him once," she demanded of Matthew, confident where she had before been fearful. His response was long-limbed and enthusiastic, so that in a few seconds Mr. G. Bird stood pecking grains from her hand. The spectacle was so lovely that I was not at all troubled by twinges of jealousy, but enjoyed it, for even at that early moment I think I felt a mercenary interest in seeing the friendship between the Golden Bird and the Apple-Blossom sealed. In her I psychologically scented an ally, and I enjoyed the hug bestowed upon him fully as much or even more than he did. It was a lovely picture that the kiddie made as she knelt at our feet with the white fluff balls and wings whirring and clucking around her. "Yes; let's go into the chicken business, Ann," said Matthew, as his eyes danced with artistic pleasure. "You love 'em, don't you, Miss--Miss Corn-tassel?" he asked, with teasing delight in his voice as well as in his eyes. "Yes sir," she answered as she looked up at him merrily, all fear of him gone. "Say, what do you think of going into the business with your Uncle Matthew if Ann refuses to sell a half interest in hers to me?" he asked of her in his jolly booming voice, with a smile many inches wide across his face. "I'll put up the capital, you put up the work, and we'll take all the prizes away from Ann." "I don't want to take the prizes from Miss Ann. I'd rather have Reds so we could both get ribbons," she answered as she dimpled up at me as affectionately as if she had tagged at my gingham skirts at our sixth and second years. "Reds it shall be, Corn-tassel, and I'll be back with them as soon as an advertisement in the daily papers can find them for me. I'll start the search right now," said Matthew, teasing the kiddie as if he had known her all his life, but with an expression turning to the genuine poultry business enthusiasm. "You and Ann come on down to the gate with me in the car and we'll talk--" But just here an interruption occurred in the way of a hoarse squawk coming from around the corner of the house. Hastily my eye called the roll of the Ladies of Leghorn and found them all present just as the tall young farmer whose ears had cooled down the day before over at Riverfield enough to let him admire the Golden Bird and family appeared around from behind the huge lilac at the corner of the house. He was attired as yesterday in the beautiful dull-blue overall and jacket; his hair was the color of Polly's and shocked from under the edges of a floppy gray hat, and in his arms he carried a large hen the identical color of Pan's head. "Howdy, Miss Nancy," he said in a voice as shy as Polly's, and his eyes were also as blue and shy as hers. He looked right through Matthew until I introduced them, then he shifted the hen and shook hands with Polly's "Pleased to make your acquaintance" greeting. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Beesley," said Matthew, exerting more charm of manner than I had ever seen him use before. "My, but that is a gorgeous bird you have!" "She's a right good hen, but she's a mongrel. There isn't a single thoroughbred Rhode Island Red hereabouts. I aim to get a setting of pure eggs for Polly this spring if I sell my hawgs as good as Mr. Adam perdicks I will. I brought her as a present to you, Miss Nancy, 'cause she's been a-brooding about two days, and if you get together a setting of eggs the last of next week she'll hatch 'em all. She carried three broods last year." "Oh, Mr. Beesley, how lovely of you," I exclaimed, as I reached out my arms for the gorgeous old red ally. "I like her better than any present I ever had in all my life!" This I said before the face of Matthew Berry, with a complete loss of memory of all of the wonderful things he had been giving me from my début bouquet of white orchids and violets to the tiny scarab from the robe of an Egyptian princess that I wore in the clasp of my platinum wrist-watch. "Well, I should say!" Matthew exclaimed, with not a thought of the comparison in his generous mind. "Did you know that your sister, Miss Polly, and I are going into the Rhode Island Red business together? We were just deciding the details as you came around the house. What do you say to coming in? How many shall I buy? Say, about fifty hens and half a dozen cocks? Let's start big while we are about it. If Ann is going to make three thousand dollars a year off one rooster and ten hens, we can make fifteen off of five times as many." "Yes, and we can bust the business all to pieces with too much stock," answered the brother Corn-tassel. "Miss Nancy has got real horse-sense starting small, and chicken-sense too." "I stand corrected," answered Matthew. "I see that a flyer cannot be taken in chickens any higher than a hen can fly. I'm growing heady over this business and must go back to town to set the wheels in motion. All of you ride down to the gate with me and find out what the word jolt means." Then after housing the Bird family in the feed-room with their guest, all happily at scratch in the hay for the wheat and corn thrown to them by the Corn-tassels while Matthew and I went in to bid the paternal twins good-by, we all rode merrily and joltily down the long avenue under the old elms to the big gate at the square in Riverfield. In front of the post-office-bank-grocery emporium we deposited the Corn-tassels, introduced Matthew to Aunt Mary and Uncle Silas, with the most cordial results on both sides, and then turned in the car out the Riverfield ribbon instead of in. "Just a spin will do you good, sweet thing," said Matthew, as I settled down close enough to his shoulder to talk and not interrupt the powerful engine. "I want you to myself for a small moment away from your live stock, human and inhuman." "Oh, Matt, there is nobody just like you and you have made this day--possible," I said as I snuggled down into the soft cushions. "Honestly, Ann, do you mean positively that you don't want me--now?" he asked me as he sent the car whirling into the sun setting over Old Harpeth. "Not--now," I answered bravely, though I nestled a little closer to him. He seemed so good and strong and--certain. "All right then, I'll take the next best and I'll come in to your farm circle as partner or competitor or any old thing that keeps me in your aura. I'll grow chickens with the Corn-tassels or--here we turn back for I want to get out again over that bit of mountain-path that leads to your citadel before twilight." "Put me out at the gate, Matt. I want to walk up," I said, and held to it against his protest. I finally made him see that I really was not equal to another "rocking" over the road, and I stood and watched him drive the huge car away from me down the Riverfield ribbon. "I'm afraid I love him and just don't know it," I said to myself, as I stood at the big gate and watched him going away from me into life as I had known it since birth until twenty-four hours past. And from that vision of my past I turned in the sunset light of the present and began to walk slowly up the long avenue into my future. "I've never known anything but dancing and motoring and being happy, and how could that teach any woman what love is?" I queried as I stopped and picked up a small yellow flower out of a nest of green leaves that some sort of ancestral influence must have introduced to me as dandelion, for I had never really met one before. I felt a pale reflection of the glow I had experienced when I took the two warm pearls in my hands in the morning. Then suddenly something happened that thrilled me first with interest and then with--I don't know what to call it, but it was not fear. A fierce little wind, that was earthy and sweet, but strong, ruffled across my path and up into the tops of the elms, and with a bit of fury tore down an old bird's-nest and flung it at my feet. It was soft and downy with bits of fur and hair and wool inside, but it was all rent in two. "I wonder if I can hold my Elmnest steady on the limb when--" I was saying to myself unsteadily, with a mist in my eyes for the small wrecked home, when from somewhere over my left shoulder there came Pan's reedy call, and it ended with the two Delilah notes that I had thought I heard in the early morning. It was with no will of my own that I answered with that coo which I had heard Mr. G. Bird singing on the stage of the Metropolitan in my dawn dream. Also I crashed rapidly through the bushes in the direction of the call that this time came imperatively and without the coo. "To your left and then straight toward the oak-tree," came human words from Pan in quick command and direction. "Hurry!" With a last struggle with the briars I broke out into a small open space under the spreading branches of the old oak and upon a scene of tragedy, that is, it was almost tragedy, for the poor old sheep was lying flat with pathetic inertia while Adam stood over her with something in his arms. "It's the fine Southdown ewe I persuaded Rufus to trade for one of the precious hogs," he said, with not so much as a word of greeting or interest personal to me in his voice or glance, but with such wonderful tenderness that I came close to him because I couldn't resist it. "She dropped twin lambs last night and she is down with exhaustion. They are getting cold, and I want to take her right up to the barn where I can bed her on hay and get something hot into all three. Can you cuddle the lambs and carry them while I shoulder her?" As he spoke he held out his armful to me without wounding me by waiting for my consent. "Oh, the poor, cold babies!" I exclaimed, as I lifted the skirt of my long, fashionable, heavy linen smock and wrapped them in it and my arms, close against my warm solar plexus, which glowed at their soft huddling. One tiny thing reached out a little red tongue and feebly licked my bare wrist, and I returned the caress of introduction with a kiss on its little snowy, woolly head. "You've the lovesome hand with the beasties," said Pan as he smiled down on the lambs and me. [Illustration: A poor old sheep was lying flat with pathetic inertia while Adam stood over her with something in his arms] "I like 'em because they make me sorter grow inside some place, I don't know exactly where," I answered as I adjusted my woolly burden for what I knew would seem a long march. "I'll get 'em to the barn all right," I assured their first friend, who was now bending over the poor mother. "This is what I took Russian ballet dancing and played golf for, only I didn't know it." "You'd have executed more Baskt twists and done more holes a day if you had known," said Adam, with beautiful unbounded faith in me, as he braced his legs far apart and lifted the limp mother sheep up across his back and shoulder. It seemed positively weird to be standing there acting a scene out of Genesis and mentioning Baskt, and I was about to say so when Pan started on ahead through the bushes and commanded me briefly to: "Come on!" At his heels I toiled along with the sheep babies hugged close to my breast until at last we deposited all three on a bed of fragrant hay in a corner of the barn. "What'll I feed 'em?" I questioned anxiously. "There isn't a bit of any kind of food on this place but the ribs of a hog and a muffin and a cup of coffee." "We'll give her a quart of hot water with a few drops of this heart stimulant I have in my pocket, and she'll do the rest for the family as soon as she warms up. She's got plenty of milk and needs to have it drawn badly. There you are--go to it, youngsters. She is revived by just being out of the wind and in the warmth, and I don't believe she needs any medicine. She wouldn't let them to her udder if she wasn't all right. Now we can leave them alone for a time, and I'll give her a warm mash in a little while." As he spoke Adam calmly walked away from the interesting small family, which was just beginning a repast with great vigor, and paused at the feed-room door. With more pride than I had ever felt when entering a ball-room with a Voudaine gown upon me and a bunch of orchids, I followed and stood at his side. "Well, how do you do, sweeties, and where did you get this model hen-house? Trap nests! I wouldn't have believed it of you!" said Adam to the Leghorn family and me inclusive. "I didn't do it all," I faltered as I experienced a terrific temptation to lie silently and claim all of the affectionate praise that was beaming from Pan's eyes upon all of us, but I fought and conquered it with nobility. "Matthew Berry came out and did about--no, a little more than half of it. But I did all I could," I added, with a pathetic appeal for his approbation. "Well, half of the job is more than the world could expect of the beautiful Ann Craddock, who sits in the front of Gale Beacon's box at the Metropolitan," answered Pan, with a little flute of laughter in his voice that matched the crimson crests which stood more rampant than ever across the tips of his ears. "Why, where--who are you and--" I asked in astonishment as I followed him into the last of the sunset glow coming across the front of the barn. CHAPTER VI "I'm just Adam and I go many places," he answered with more of the intoxicating crooning laughter. "Rufus says that red-headed Peckerwoods go to the devil on Fridays," I retorted to the raillery of the Pan laugh. "It _was_ Friday and she didn't sing Delilah to my notion. Did she to yours?" he asked, this time with a smile that was even more interesting than the laugh. "Come over and sit with me by the spring-house and let's discuss grand opera while I eat my supper and wait until I think it is safe to give the ewe some mash. "I will if you'll invite me to the supper; I can't face another swine and muffin meal," I answered as I followed him down a path that led west from the barn-door. "I've got two apples and a double handful of black walnut kernels. The drinks from the spring are on you," he answered as he led me down through a thicket of slim trees that were sending out a queer fragrance to a huge old stone spring-house from which gushed a stream of water. "Just these two spring days are bringing out the locust buds almost before time. Smell 'em!" he said as he looked up into the tops of the slim trees, which were showing a pink-green tinge of color in the red sunset rays. "Oh," I said softly as I clasped my hands to my breast and breathed in deep, "I'm glad, glad I didn't have to let them sell it. I love it. I love it!" "Sell it?" asked Adam as he brushed a rug of dry leaves from under the bushes upon one of the huge slabs of rock before the door of the spring-house for me to sit on, and took two apples from his pocket. "Yes, and I'll work both my fingers and toes to the bone before I'll give it up," I answered as I crouched down beside him on the leaves and began to munch at the apple, which he had polished on the sleeve of his soft, gray, flannel shirt before he handed it to me. While we dined on the two red apples, the tangy nuts, and a few hard crackers that, I think, were dog-biscuits, I told him all about it, up to my defiance and assumption of the management of Elmnest in the library after dinner. "I _can_ keep us from starving until I learn chickens, can't I?" I asked after the recital, and I crouched a little closer to him on the rock, for black shadows were coming in between the trees and into my consciousness, and all the pink moonlight had faded as a rosy dream, leaving the world about us silver gray. "I wonder just how much genuine land passion there is in the hearts of women?" said Adam, softly answering my question with another. "The duration of race life depends upon it really." "I don't know what you are talking about, but I understand you," I answered him hotly. "Also I know that I love that old sheep more than you do, and I'm going to get in line with my egg-basket when the United States begins mustering in forces to fight, no matter what it is to be. I wish I could say it like I feel it to that Mr. Secretary Evan Baldwin, who forgets that women are the natural--the nutritive sex." "I wish you could," said kind Adam, with one of Pan's railing laughs. "Don't laugh at me--I'm getting born all over, and it is hard," I said with a sob in my throat. "Forgive me! I'm not really laughing--it's just a form--form of the Peckerwood's nature-worship," he answered as he took my hand in his warm one for a second. "Let's go finish up with old sheep mother," he added as he began to pad swiftly away up the path, drawing me after him. "Yes, I _am_ growing inside," I assured myself as I for the second night fell asleep on the soft bosom of my family tradition of four posts. One of the most bromidic performances that human beings indulge in anywhere from their thirty-fifth to eightieth years is to sigh, look wise, and make this remark: "If I could only begin life over again, knowing what I do now!" I'm never going to be impressed by that again, and I'm going to answer straight out from the shoulder, "Well, it would be a great strain to you if you found yourself doing it." That was about what my entry into life at Elmnest, Riverfield, Harpeth, was, and in many places it rubbed and hurt my pride; in many places at many times it sapped my courage; in many ways it pruned and probed into my innermost being with a searching knife to see if I really did have any intelligence or soul, and at all times it left me with a feeling of just having been sprouted off the cosmic. I know what I mean, but it doesn't sound as if I did. This is the way most of it happened to me in my first six weeks of life in the rustic. How did I know that when you cleaned up a house that hadn't been cleaned up for about fifteen years you must wait for ten days after you came to that realization for a sunshiny day, and carry all the beds out in the yard before you began, and that no matter how much awful dust and cobwebs you swept and mopped out or how much old furniture you polished until it reflected your face, it was all perfectly futile unless the bed-sunning ceremony had been first observed? Just how were the ability to speak French in the most exclusive circles of Parisian society and a cultivated knowledge of every picture-gallery in the world going to keep me from making a blunder that would put me down in Mrs. Pennie Addcock's mind as a barbarian? "Why, Mrs. Tillett and me have been getting ready all along to come and help you beat and sun the beds the first sunshiny day and then turn to with our buckets and mops and brooms. Now you've gone and done the wrong thing by all this polishing before a single bed had been beat and aired." As she spoke Mrs. Addcock surveyed my house, upon which I had spent every waking moment of my muscular strength, assisted by Polly Corn-tassel and sometimes Bud of the blue eyes, but not at all by Rufus, who resented the cleansing process to such an extent that he wrapped up his jaw in a piece of old flannel and retired to the hay-loft when Bud and Polly and I insisted on invading the horrors of his kitchen. "Oh, my dear Mrs. Addcock, won't you and Mrs. Tillett please forgive me for being so ignorant and help me do it to-day?" I pleaded as I picked up a small Tillett, who was peeping soft wooing at me from where he balanced himself on uncertain and chubby legs against his mother's skirts. "Well, in this case there is just nothing else to do, but turn to on the beds now, wrong end first, but next year you'll know," she answered me with indulgent compromise in her voice. "And I guess we'll find some broom and mop work yet to be done. Come on, Mrs. Tillett. I guess Nancy can mind the baby all right while we work." "Oh, he ain't no trouble now except he wants to find out all about the world by tasting of it. Don't let him eat a worm or sech, and he'll be all right," answered the beaming young mother of the toddler. "And, Miss Nancy, I was jest going to tell you that I have got a nice pattern of a plain kind of work dress if you would like to use it," she added as she pointedly did not look at my peasant's smock that hung in such lovely long lines that I found myself pausing much too often before one of the mirrors in the big living-room to admire them. Mrs. Tillett's utility costume was of blue checked gingham and had no lines at all except top and bottom, with a belt in between. Both ladies wore huge gingham aprons, and I must say that they looked like the utility branch of the feminine species while I may have resembled the ornamental. But they were dear neighbors, and the Tillett baby and I had a very busy and happy day with the Golden Bird and his busy family while the two missionaries did over every bed in Elmnest, even invading the living-room and shaking out the cushions of the old couch in the very face of one of the charges of Xerxes' army. I put his babykins in a big feed-basket in a nest of hay, and the two lamb twins came and licked him every now and then by way of welcome into my barn nursery. The fine young sheep mother was now in blooming health, and the valuable progeny were growing by the hours, most of which they spent at the maternal fount, opposite each other and both small tails going like a new variety of speedometer. "I see mother ewe knows enough to hang around the lady of the barn and feed-bins. Those lambkins are two pounds heavier than any born within a week of them at Plunkett's," Pan had said not a week past, and both sheep mother and I had beamed with gratified pride at his commendation. [Illustration: I put his babykins in a big feed-basket and the lamb twins came and welcomed him] Then while the renovation of the four-posters went on with a happy buzz, I busied myself in and out and about with the numberless details of care of the Bird family. My knowledge of music earned by many long hours in the practice of harmonics and a delighted and diligent attendance at the opera seasons of New York, Berlin, and Paris, to say nothing of Boston and London, had not, in my new life, in any way aided me to see that I had made a mistake in ordering a three-hundred-egg incubator to start building a prize flock with Mr. Golden Bird and the ten Ladies Leghorn, but in this case Adam had guided me from off that shoal, and by telegram I had changed the order for three fifty-egg improved metal mothers and the implements needed in accomplishing their maternal purpose. In one of them were now fifty beautiful white pearls that I could not refrain from visiting and regarding through the little window in the metallic side of the metallic mother at least several times an hour, though I knew that twice a day to regulate the heat and fill the lamp was sufficient. "I don't believe I'll be able to stand seeing them hop out," I remarked to Baby Tillett, the lambkins, and the good old red ally, who was patiently seated on a box over fifteen of the pearls. Adam had kept the poor old darling covering some white china eggs for nearly two weeks before he gave her the pearls on the same day we put the forty-five in the interior of her metal rival. I didn't at first understand his sinister purpose in thus holding her back until the metal rival could get an even start, but I did later. "I hope you have a mighty good hatching, Nancy, but I have no faith in half-way measures, and a tin box is a half-way measure for a hen, just as cleaning house without bed-sunning is trifling," said Mrs. Addcock, with a final prod as she came out to the barn with Mrs. Tillett to reclaim Baby Tillett. "You ain't married, Miss Nancy, and you won't understand how babies need mothers, even the chicken kind," said Mrs. Tillett, as she cuddled Baby Tillett gurglingly against her shoulder and followed in the wake of Mrs. Addcock with the mops and buckets down the walk and around the house. I stood beside the tin triumph of science, with my baby lambs licking at my hands, while Mrs. Ewe nuzzled for corn in one of my huge pockets, and a baby collie, which Pan had brought the week before, when her eyes were scarcely open, tumbled about my feet, and looked after the retreating women--and I did understand. "Still, I'll do the best I can by your--your progeny, Mr. G. Bird," I said as the great big, white old fellow came and pecked in my pocket for corn in perfect friendliness with Mrs. Ewe. I was called upon to keep my promise in less than a week. It might have been a tragedy if Bess Rutherford's practical sense had not helped save my affections from a panic. This is how it happened. "Yes, chicken culture is a germ that spreads by contagion. I'm not at all surprised at your friends," Adam had answered when I had appealed to him to know if I could sell Bess Rutherford just six of the baby chicks, when they came out, for her to begin a brood in a new back-yard system, only Bess is so progressive that she is having a nice big place in the conservatory that opens out of her living-room cleared for them to run about out of their tin mother when they want to. She says she believes eternal vigilance is the price of success with poultry as the book she bought, which is different from mine, says, and Bess decided that she wanted her chickens where she could go in to see them comfortably when she came from parties and things without having to go around in the back yard, which is the most lovely garden in Hayesville anyway, in her slippers and party clothes. "I'd sell her the chicks at twenty dollars apiece, and that's cheap if they produce as they ought to with their blood and such--such care as she intends to bestow on them. The twenty-dollar price will either cure her or start an idle woman into a producer," said Adam, in answer to my request, as he cut me out a pair of shoes from a piece of hide like that which the shoes upon his own feet were made from. It was raining, and I sat at his feet in the barn and laboriously sewed what he had cut. I told Bess what Adam said, and she paid me the hundred and twenty dollars right on the spot, and then insisted on opening the incubator at the regular time for the ten minutes the book directs, to cool off the eggs night and morning, and putting her monogram on six of the eggs. To do this she decided to stay all night, and telephoned her maid, Annette, to pack her bag and let Matthew bring it out to her when he came to help Polly Corn-tassel put their first batch of eggs into their incubator. Matthew had bought twenty hens and two nice brotherly roosters, and they had almost caught up with me in the number of their brown babies on the whole shells. Matthew had been coming out night and morning ever since he had brought out his and the Beesleys' poultry and had either had supper with us at Elmnest or we had both got riz biscuits and peach preserves and chicken fried with Aunt Mary and Uncle Silas and Polly and Bud. I had subjugated Rufus into cooking a few canned things, for which I had traded one of his pig jaws at the bank-post-office-grocery emporium, and Uncle Silas had thrown in a few potatoes, and Adam had brought me a great bag of white beans from across Paradise Ridge, so the diet at Elmnest had changed slightly. The absorbed twins had never noticed it at all; only they displayed more hearty vigor in attacking the problems of literature and history that absorbed them. Also almost every day Pan brought me young green things that were sprouting in the woods, and I cooked them for him in an old iron pot down by the spring-house and had supper with him. "Those two dears are the most precious old Rips I ever beheld," said Bess when we had retired to my room after supper on the fateful night of our near tragedy. "You are so fortunate, Ann, to have two delicious fathers in name only. Mine pokes into my business at all angles and insists on so much attention from me that I don't know how I'll amount to anything in this world. He says it takes a very fine and brainy woman to earn about ten thousand dollars a year being affectionate and agreeable to her own father, and that I get so much because there is no possible competition as I am an only child, but all the same it looks like unearned money to me. Just wait until those six little chickens begin to earn me a hundred dollars a month like my book guarantees they will do in their second year; then I'm going to show dad just how much I love him for himself and give him back my bank-book." "Still it is an awful lot of work, Bess," I remonstrated feebly, because I knew that I couldn't have made myself believe all I had learned in just two months at Elmnest the day I started in business. "You know, Ann, I told you about that wonderful Evan Baldwin who has been in Hayesville two or three times this winter, the man to whom the governor gave the portfolio of agriculture, I believe they call it. Well, he was at the Old Hickory ball the other night when you wouldn't come, and I told him all about you and about buying those little chickens from you, and he was so wonderful and sympathetic that Owen Murray sulked dreadfully. He encouraged me entirely and told me a lot of things about some of his experiment stations in all the different States. You thought you were going to stagger me with that twenty-dollar price on those chicks in shell, but he said he had paid as much as five hundred dollars apiece for a few eggs he got from some prize chickens in England and had brought them over in a basket in his own hand. He said he thought from what I told him about the Golden Bird that twenty would be about right for one of his sons or daughters. Ann, he is a perfectly delicious man, and you must meet him. It is awful the way all the girls and women just follow him in droves, though I'm sure he doesn't seem to notice us." "I never want to lay eyes on him, Bess. He has insulted me and I never--" but just here a thought struck me in my solar plexus and crinkled me entirely up. "Oh, Bess, I forgot to fill the lamp in the incubator to-night, and I believe the chicken eggs will be all chilled to death. What will I do? It is near midnight and it's--it's--c--cold." "Let's get 'em quick and maybe we can resuscitate 'em. Don't you remember about reviving frozen people in that first-aid class we had just after the war broke out and we didn't know whether we were in it or not? Come on, quick!" Bess seized the quilt from the bed and descended into the back yard, clad only in her lingerie for sleeping, a silk robe-de-chambre and satin mules, while I followed, likewise garmented. "Oh, dear, how cold," wailed Bess as the frosty Spring air poured around us in our flight to the barn. "Put the quilt around you," I chattered. "I'm going to put all the egg chickens in it," she answered as we scuttled into the barn out of the wind. "The lamp is out, but the eggs still feel warm to the hand," I said as I knelt in deep contrition beside the metal hen. "Fill it and light it, and they'll soon warm up," advised Bess. "There's no oil on the place. I forgot it," I again wailed. "Isn't there room under the hen here?" asked Bess, with the brilliant mind she inherited from Mr. Rutherford running over the speed limit, and as she spoke she felt under the old Red Ally, who only clucked good naturedly. "It feels like she is covering a hundred now, and there's no room for more," said Bess, answering herself with almost a wail in her voice. "What will we do? The book says April-hatched chickens are the best, and these would have come out in just a few days." And then from somewhere in my heart, which had harbored the cuddle of the cold lamb babies against it, there rose a knowledge of first aid for the near-baby chickens. "Oh, Bess," I exclaimed, "let's wrap the tray of eggs up in the quilt and take it up-stairs to bed with us. We are just as warm as the hen, and I'll get Rufus to go for Polly at daylight to fix the lamp while we stay in bed and huddle them until the incubator warms up, as it does in just an hour after it's lighted." "Ann, you are both maternal and intellectual," said Bess, with the deepest admiration in her voice. "Let's hurry or we'll never get warmed up ourselves." And in very much less time than could be imagined Bess Rutherford and I were in the middle of the four-poster, sunk deep into the feathers with the precious pearls of life carefully imbedded between us. "Now don't joggle," Bess commanded as we got all settled and tucked in. "Mrs. Tillett lets little Tillett sleep with her cold nights," I murmured drowsily. "I don't believe it; no woman would undertake the responsibility of human life like that," Bess answered as she tucked in a loose end of cover under the pillow. "Most of the world mothers sleep with their babies," Adam said when I told him about little Tillett, "and--" I was answering when I trailed off into a dream of walking a tight rope over a million white eggs. In the morning Bess said she had dreamed that she was a steam roller trying to make a road of eggs smooth enough to run her car over. CHAPTER VII Also Bess and I woke to find ourselves heroines. Matthew came to breakfast after he had seen the lamps in his mock hens burning brightly, and brought Polly with him to congratulate us on the rescue of our infant industry. Polly had told him of our brilliant coup against old Jack Frost, and he was all enthusiasm, as was also Uncle Cradd, while father beamed because he was hearing me praised and thought of something else at the same time. Later Owen Murray came out for Bess in his car, and insisted on buying six more of the eggs, because, he said, they had now become a sporting proposition and interested him. Bess agreed to board them to maturity in her conservatory for him at fifty cents a day per head and let him visit them at any time. He gave me a check immediately. He offered to buy six of Polly's chicks at the same price, but Matthew refused to let her sell them at all, and also Bess refused to have any mixing of breeds in her conservatory. Polly didn't know enough to resent losing the hundred and twenty dollars, because she had never had more than fifty cents in her life, and Matthew didn't realize what it would have meant to her to have that much money, because he had more than he needed all his life, so they were all happy and laughed through one of Rufus' worst hog effusions in the way of a meal for lunchers, but--but I had in a month learned to understand what a dollar might mean to a man or woman, and at the thought of that two hundred and forty dollars Mr. G. Bird and family had earned for me in their second month of my ownership my courage arose and girded up its loins for the long road ahead. I knew enough to know that these returns were a kind of isolated nugget in the poultry business, and yet why not? "We'll sell Mr. Evan Baldwin a five-hundred-dollar gold egg yet, Mr. G. Bird," I said to myself. After luncheon they all departed and left me to my afternoon's work. Matthew lingered behind the others and helped me feed the old red ally and Mrs. Ewe and Peckerwood Pup. "I was talking to Evan Baldwin at the club after his first lecture the other night and, Ann, I believe I'll be recruited for the plow as well as for the machine-gun. I'm going to buy some land out there back of the Beesleys' and raise sheep on it. He says Harpeth is losing millions a year by not raising sheep. I'm going to live at Riverfield a lot of the time and motor back and forth to business. Truly, Ann, the land bug has bit me and--and it isn't just--just to come up on your blind side. But, dear, now don't you think that it would be nice for me to live over here with you as a perfectly sympathetic agricultural husband?" "I needed a husband so much more yesterday to help with the pruning of the rose-vines than I do to-day, Matthew," I answered with a laugh. Matthew's proposals of marriage are so regular and so alike that I have to avoid monotony in the wit of my answers. "I'm never in time to do a single thing on this place, and I don't see how everything gets done for you without my help. Who helps you?" "Everybody," I answered. I had never had the courage to break Adam to Matthew in the long weeks I had been seeing them both every day, and of course Pan had never come out of the woods when Matthew or any of the rest were there. "I'll tell you what you can do for me," I said, with a sudden inspiration about getting rid of him, for the red-headed Peckerwood had promised to come and put some kind of hoodoo earth around the peonies and irises and pinks in my garden, also to bud some kind of a new rose on one of the old blush ones, and I wanted the place quiet so he would venture out of his lair. "You can go on to town and look after Polly carefully. She is going in with Bess for the first time since their infatuation, and I want her eyes to open gradually on the world out over Paradise Ridge." "Ann, ought they ever to open?" asked Matthew, suddenly, with the color coming up to the roots of his hair and burning in his ears like it still does in Bud Corn-tassel's when he comes over to see or help me or to bring me something from Aunt Mary, his mother. "Bess is one of the best of friends I've got in the world, but I just--just couldn't see Corn-tassel dancing in some man's arms in the mere hint of an evening gown that Bess occupied while fox-trotting with Evan Baldwin at the club the other night." "Who was the belle of the ball, Matt?" I asked him, with a flame in my cheeks, for the pink and lavender chiffon gown Bess had worn was one of the Voudaine creations that I had brought from Paris and sold her after the crash. "Oh, Bess always is when you are not there and, Ann, don't for a moment think that I--I--" Poor Matthew was stuttering while I rubbed the tip of my nose against his sleeve in the way of a caress, as I had a feed-bucket in one hand and a water-pan in the other. "Do go and shop with Polly and Bess as a force for protection. I must have a quiet afternoon to commune with my garden," I commanded. "Sometimes you make me so mad, Ann Craddock, that--that--" Matthew was stuttering when Uncle Cradd appeared at the back door to chat with him, and I made my escape through the barn and out into the woods. I had thought that I saw a glint of Peckerwood red pass through the pasture that way, and I was determined that Pan shouldn't give me and the garden the slip as he always did when he saw anybody around. As I ran rapidly through the old pasture, which was overgrown with buckbushes and sassafras sprouts, which were turning into great pink and green fern clumps in the warm April sunshine, I gave the two or three Saint-Saëns Delilah notes which had been robbed of any of their wicked Delilah flavor for me by having heard Mr. G. Bird sing them so beautifully on the stage of the Metropolitan in that first dream night in Elmnest. But I called and then called in vain until at last I came out to the huge old rock that juts out from the edge of the rugged little knoll at the far end of the pasture. Here I paused and looked down on Elmnest in the afternoon sunshine with what seemed to be suddenly newly opened eyes. I had been in and out of Elmnest to such an extent for the last six weeks that I hadn't had a chance to get off and look at it from an outsider's standpoint, and now suddenly I was taking that view of it. The old rose and green brick house, covered in by its wide, gray shingle roof, the gables and windows of which were beginning to be wreathed in feathery and pink young vines, which were given darker notes here and there in their masses by the sturdy green of the honey-suckles, hovered down on a small plateau rear-guarded by the barn and sheds, flanked by the garden and the gnarled old orchard, and from its front door the long avenue of elms led far down to the group of Riverfield houses that huddled at the other end. All villages in the State of Harpeth have been so built around the old "great houses" of the colonial landowners, and between their generations has been developed a communistic life that I somehow feel is to bridge from the pioneer life of this country to the great new life of the greater commune that is coming to us. Down there in Riverfield I knew that there was sin and sorrow and birth and death, but there was no starvation, and for every tragedy there was a neighbor to reach out a helping hand, and for every joy there were hearty and friendly rejoicings. "Oh, and I'm one of them--I belong," I said to myself as I noted each cottage into which I went and came at will, as friend and beloved neighbor. Even at that distance I could see a small figure, which I knew to be Luella Spain, running up the long avenue, and in its hand I detected something that, I was sure, was a covered plate or dish. "And I'm making Elmnest fulfil its destiny into the future--into the future that the great Evan Baldwin is preaching about in town, instead of practicing out in the fields. I wonder if he really knows a single thing about farming." "He does," came an answer from right at my shoulder in Pan's flutiest voice, and I turned to find him standing just behind me on the very edge of the old tilting rock. "How do you know?" I demanded of him as I took the clean white cloth tied up at four corners, gypsy-fashion, which he offered me and which, I could see, was fairly bursting with green leaves of a kind I had never seen before. "I was with him at the Metropolitan the night I saw Ann Craddock in Gale Beacon's box, you know,--the night that Mr. G. Bird sang 'Delilah,' and also I've slept on the bare ground with him in his woods in Michigan and on his red clay in Georgia." "Well, I hate him all the same for the insult of his offer to buy Elmnest, though I doubt if he has any family pride or any family either, so, of course, he wouldn't understand that it _is_ an insult to offer to buy one's colonial home with holes in the door to shoot Indians through," I answered with the temper that always came at the mention of the name of a man I had chosen to consider a foe without any consent on his part at all. "You'd think he was born and raised in a hollow log if you should ever interview him, and he hasn't any family, but from some of the motions he is making, I think he intends to have," answered Pan, with one of his most fluty jeers, and he shook his head until the crests ruffled still lower over the tips of his ears. "Are you--you one of his agents--that is, _spies_, and was it you that insulted me by wanting to buy Elmnest just because it was poor and old?" I demanded, with the color in my cheeks. "I am not his spy or his agent, and do you want to come down to the spring-house and cook these wild-mustard shoots for our dinner, or shall I go at our old garden with the prospect of an empty stomach at sunset?" "Why won't you come in to dinner with me?" I asked, with a mollified laugh, though I knew I was bringing down upon myself about my hundredth refusal of proffered hospitality. "Two reasons--first, because I won't eat with my neighbors at the 'great house' when I can't eat with them in the cottage, and I just can't eat the grease that a lot of the poorer villagers deluge their food with. I'm Pan, and I live in the woods on roots and herbs. Second--because about six weeks ago I found a farm woman who would come out at my wooing to cook and eat the herbs and roots with me and I could have her to myself all alone. Now, will you come on down to the spring?" And without waiting for my reply, Adam started down the hill, crosswise from the path by which I had ascended, padding ahead in his weird leather sandals and breaking a path for me through the undergrowth as I followed close at his shoulder, an order of rough travel to which I had become accustomed in the weeks that had passed and that now seemed to me--well, I might say racial. In the riot of an April growing day, in which we could hear life fairly teem and buzz at our feet, on right, and left, and overhead, Adam and I worked shoulder to shoulder in the old garden of Elmnest. Every now and then I ran down to the spring to put a green fagot under the pot of herbs, which needed to simmer for hours to be as delicious as was possible for them. From the library came a rattle and bang of literary musketry from the blessed parental twins, who were for the time being with Julius Cæsar in "all Gaul," and oblivious to anything in the twentieth century, even a spring-intoxicated niece and daughter down in her grandmother's garden with a Pan from the woods; occasionally Rufus rattled a pot or a pan; but save for these few echoes of civilization, Adam and I delved and spaded and clipped and pruned and planted in the old garden just as if it had been the plot of ground without the walls of Eden in which our first parents were forced to get busy. "Great work, Farmwoman," said Adam as we sat down on the side steps to eat, bite-about, the huge red apple he had taken from the bundle of emigrant appearance which he always carried over his shoulder on the end of a long hickory stick and which I had by investigation at different times found to contain everything from clean linen to Sanskrit poetry for father. To-day I found the manuscript score of a new opera by no less a person than Hurter himself, which he insisted on having me hum through with him while we ate the apple. "I told Hurter I thought that fourth movement wouldn't do, and now I know it after hearing you try it through an apple," said Pan as he rose from beside me, tied the manuscript up in the bandana bundle, and picked up his long pruning-knife. "Now, Woman, we'll put a curb on the rambling of every last rambler in this garden and then we can lay out the rows for Bud to plant with the snap beans to-morrow." Adam, from the first day he had met me, had addressed me simply with my generic class name, and I had found it a good one to which to make answer. Also Adam had shown me the profit and beauty of planting all needful vegetables mixed up with the flowers in the rich and loamy old garden, and had adjusted a cropping arrangement between the Corn-tassel Bud and me that was to be profitable to us both, Bud only doing in odd hours the work I couldn't do, and getting a share of the profits. "Don't work me to death to-day," I pleaded, and told him about the rescue of the babies Bird with so much dramatic force that his laughter rang out with such volume that old Rufus came to the kitchen window to look out and shake his head, and I knew he was muttering about "Peckerwoods," "devils," and the sixth day of the week. "Will the chicks live all right, do you think?" I asked anxiously. "They're safe if they never got cold to the touch and you didn't joggle 'em too much. Do either you or Miss Rutherford happen to er--er--kick in your sleep?" "We do not!" I answered with dignity, as I snipped away a dead branch of ivy from across the path. "I just thought Miss Rutherford might from--" "You don't know Bess; she's so executive that--" "That she wouldn't kick eggs for anything," finished Pan, mockingly. "She does pretty well in the Russian ballet, doesn't she?" "Oh, I wish you could just see her in the 'Cloud Wisp'!" I exclaimed, with the greatest pride, for Bess Rutherford has nothing to envy Pavlova about. "I have--er--have a great desire to so behold her at some future time," answered Pan, with one of his eery laughs, and I could almost see hoofs through the raw hide of his shoes. I would have ruffled the red crests off of the tips of his ears to see if they really were pointed if he had not stood just out of reach of my hand, where it would have been impossible to catch him if I tried. "You won't eat with me in civilization, you won't meet any of my friends, and I don't believe you ever want to please me," I said as I turned away from his provocation and began again with the scissors. "I don't like world girls," he said with the fluty coo in his voice that always calms the Ladies Leghorn when they are ruffled. "I only love farm women. The moon is beginning to get a rise out of the setting sun, and let's go away from these haunts of men to our own woods home. Come along!" As he spoke Pan pocketed his long knife, picked up his stick and bundle, and began to pad away through the trees down towards the spring, with me at his shoulder, and for the first time he held my hand in his as I followed in my usual squaw style. In all the long dreary weeks that followed I was glad that I had had that dinner at sunset and moonrise with him down in the cove at the spring that was away from all the world. All during the days that never seemed to end, as I went upon my round of duties, I put the ache of the memories of it from me, but in the night I took the agony into my heart and cherished it. "And it's the Romney hand ye have with the herb-pot, Woman dear," said Adam as he squatted down beside our simmering pot and stirred it with the clean hickory stick I had barked for that purpose when, very shortly after high noon, I had put the greens, with the two wild onion sprigs and the handful of inevitable black-walnut kernels, into the iron pot set on the two rocks with their smoldering green fire between. "You know you'd rather be eating this dinner of sprouts and black bread with your poor Adam than--than dancing that 'Cloud Drift' in town with Matthew Berry--or Baldwin the enemy." "Yes," I answered, as I knelt beside him and thrust in another slim stick and tasted the juice of the pot off the end. "But it would be hard to make Matthew believe it. I forgot to tell you that Matt is really going in for farming, thanks to the evil influence of your friend Evan Baldwin, who wouldn't know a farm if he met one on the road, a real farm, I mean. Poor Matt little knows the life of toil he is plotting for himself." "Is he coming to live at Elmnest?" asked Adam, in a voice of entire unconcern, as he took the black loaf from his gypsy pack and began to cut it up into hunks and lay it on the clean rock beside the pot. "He is not," I answered with an indignation that I could see no reason for. "Sooner or later, Woman, you'll have to take a mate," was the primitive statement that confronted me as I lifted the pot with the skirt of my blouse and poured the greens into two brown crockery bowls that Adam kept secreted with the pot on a ledge of the old spring-house. "Well, a husky young farmer is the only kind of a man who need apply. I mean a born rustic. I couldn't risk an amateur with the farm after all you've taught me," I answered as we seated ourselves on the warm earth side by side and began to dip the hunks of black bread into our bowls and lift the delicious wilted leaves to our mouths with it, a mode of consumption it had taken Pan several attempts to teach me. Pan never talks when he eats, and he seems to browse food in a way that each time tempts me more and more to reach out my hand and lift one of the red crests to see about the points of his ears. "Do you want to hear my invocation to my ultimate woman?" he asked as he set his bowl down after polishing it out with his last chunk of bread some minutes after I had so finished up mine. "Is it more imperative than the one you give me under my window before I have had less than a good half-night's sleep every morning?" I asked as I crushed a blade of meadow fern in my hands and inhaled its queer tang. "I await my beloved in Grain fields. Come, woman! In thy eyes is truth. Thy body must give food with Sweat of labor, and thy lips Hold drink for love thirst. I am thy child. I am thy mate. Come!" Pan took my hand in his as he chanted, and held my fingers to his lips, and ended his chant with several weird, eery, crooning notes blown across his lips and through my fingers out into the moonlit shadows. "I feel about you just as I do about one of Mrs. Ewe's lambkins," I whispered, with a queer answering laugh in my voice, which held and repeated the croon in his. "I am thy child. I am thy mate. Oh, come!" again chanted Pan, and it surely wasn't imagination that made me think that the red crests ruffled in the wind. The light in his eyes was unlike anything I had ever seen; it smouldered and flamed like the embers under the pot beside the rock. It drew me until the sleeve of my smock brushed his sleeve of gray flannel. His arms hovered, but didn't quite enclose me. "And the way I am going to feel about all the little chickens out of the incubator," I added slowly as if the admission was being drawn out of me. Still the arms hovered, the crests ruffled, and the eyes searched down into the depths of me, which had so lately been plowed and harrowed and sown with a new and productive flower. "And the old twin fathers," I added almost begrudgingly, as I cast him my last treasure. Then with a laugh that I know was a line-reproduction descended from the one that Adam gave when he first recognized Eve, Pan folded me into his arms, laid his red head on my breast, and held up his lips to mine with a "love-thirst" that it took me more than a long minute to slack to the point of words. "I knew there was one earth woman due to develop at the first decade of this century, and I've found her," Pan fluted softly as he in turn took me on his breast and pressed his russet cheek against the tan of mine. "I'm going to take her off into the woods and then in a generation salvation for the nation will come forth from the forest." "My word is given to the Golden Bird to see his progeny safe into the world, and I must do that before--" but my words ended in a laugh as I slipped out of Pan's arms and sprang to my feet and away from him. "We'll keep that faith with Mr. Bird to-night, and then I can take you with me before daylight," said Pan as he collected his Romney bundle with his left hand and me with his right and began to pad up the path from the spring-house towards the barn under a shower of the white locust-blossoms, which were giving forth their last breath of perfume in a gorgeous volume. "To-night?" I asked from the hollow between his breast and his arm where I was fitted and held steadily so that my steps seemed to be his steps and the breath of my lungs to come from his. "Yes; most of the eggs were pipped when I went in the barn to put away the tools," answered Adam, with very much less excitement than the occasion called for. "Oh, why--why didn't you tell me?" I demanded as I came out of the first half of a kiss and before I retired into the last half. "Too hungry--had to be fed before they got to eating at your heart," answered Pan in a way that made me know that he meant me and not the dandelion greens and brown bread. "You are joking me; they are not due until day after to-morrow," I said as I took my lips away and began to hurry us both towards the barn. "All April hatches are from two to three days early," was Adam's prosaic and instructive answer that cut the last kiss short as we entered the barn-door. CHAPTER VIII Quickly I released myself from his arm and flew to kneel in front of the metal mother, with the electric torch aimed directly into the little window that revealed all her inmost processes. The Peckerwood Pan hovered just at my shoulder, and together we beheld what was to me the most wonderful phenomenon of nature that had ever come my way. No sunset from Pike's Peak or high note from the throat of Caruso could equal it in my estimation. Behold, the first baby Bird stepped forth into the world right before my astonished and enraptured eyes! It was in this manner. "Look, right here next to the glass," said Adam, as he put his finger against the lower left-hand corner of the peep window, and there I directed my torch. One of the great white pearls had a series of little holes around one end of it, and while I gazed a sharp little beak was thrust suddenly from within it. The shell fell apart, and out stepped the first small Leghorn Bird with an assurance that had an undoubted resemblance to that of his masculine parent. For a moment he blinked and balanced; then he stretched his small wings and shook himself, an operation that seemed to fluff about fifty per cent. of the moist aspect from his plump little body, and then he deliberately turned and looked into my wide-opened eyes. I promptly gasped and sat down on the barn floor, with my head weakly cuddled against Adam's knee. "Two more here on the right-hand side, Woman," said Adam, as he knelt beside me, took the torch, supported me in my reaction of astonishment, and showed me where a perfect little batch of babies was being born. "Whew, Farmer Craddock, but those are fine chickens! Heaven help us, but they are all exploding at one time! Only eggs of one hundred per cent. vigor and fertility hatch that way. Look at the moisture gathering on the glass. If you put your hand in there you would find it about a hundred and ten." "Oh, look! G. Bird Junior, the first, is almost dry. Please, please let me take him in my hand!" I exclaimed as that five-minute-old baby pressed close up against the glass and blinked at the light and us bewitchingly. "You mustn't open the door for at least twelve hours now. Come away before the temptation overcomes you," commanded Pan. "Wait twelve hours to take that fluff-ball in my hands? Adam, you are cruel," I said, as he pocketed the torch and left the drama of birth dark and without footlights. As he padded away towards the moonlit barn-door, I followed him in reluctant protest. "Do you see that tall pine outlined against the sky over there on Paradise Ridge, Woman?" asked Adam, with the Pan lights and laugh coming back into his farmer eyes and voice. "I have got to be there an hour before dawn, and it is fifteen good miles or more. I want to roll against a log somewhere and sleep a bit, and it is now after ten o'clock. Go get your bundle, and I'll hang it on my stick, and we will disappear into the forest forever. I know a hermit who'll put us in marriage bonds. Come!" As he held out his arms Adam began to chant the weird tune to that mate song of his own invention. "You know I can't do that," I said as I went into his embrace and drank the chant down into my heart. "There are so many live things that I must stay to watch over. I--I'm their--mother as well as--as yours. They must be fed." "God, there really is such a thing as a woman," said Adam as he hid his smouldering eyes against my lips. "You'll be waiting when I come back, and you'll go with me the minute I call, if it's day or night? You'll be ready with your bundle?" "You don't mean at daylight to-morrow, do you, Pan, dear?" I asked, with one of the last laughs that my heart was to know, for sometimes, it seemed forever, rippling out past his crimson crests. "No; listen to me, Woman," said Adam, as he held me tenderly on his right arm and took both my hands in his and held them pressed hard against my breast. "I am going away to-night, and I don't know when I can get back. I only knew to-day I'd have to go; that's why I--I took you and put my brand on your heart to-night. I can leave you aloose in the forest and know that I'll find you mine when I can come back. But, oh, come with me!" "I wouldn't be your earth woman, Adam, if I left all these helpless things. I'll wait for you, and no matter when you come I'll be ready. Only, only you'll never take me quite away from them all, will you?" "No; I'll build a nest over there in the big woods, and you can go back and forth between my--my brood and Mr. G. Bird's," promised Adam with Pan's fluty laugh. "Branded, and I don't even know the initials on the brand," I said to myself as I stood on the front steps under a honeysuckle vine that was twining with a musky rose in a death struggle as to the strength of their perfumes, and watched Adam go padding swiftly and silently away from me down the long avenue of elms. A mocking-bird in a tree over by the fence was pouring out showers of notes of liquid love, and ringdoves cooed and softly nestled up under the eaves above my head. "I'm a woman and I've found my mate. I am going to be part of it all," I said to myself as I sank to the step and began to brood with the night around me. I think that God gives it sometimes to a woman to have a night in which she sits alone brooding her love until somehow it waxes so strong and brave that it can face death by starvation and cold and betrayal and still live triumphant. It is so that He recreates His children. "Now, of course, Ann, everybody admires your pluck about this retiring from the world and becoming a model rustic, but it does seem to me that you might admit that some of your old friends have at least a part of the attraction for you that is vested in, well, say old Mrs. Red Ally, for instance. Will you or will you not come in to dine and to wine and to dance at the country club with Matthew Saturday evening?" Bess delivered herself of the text of her mission to me before she descended from her cherry roadster in front of the barn. "Oh, Bess, just come and see old Mrs. Red and never, never ask me to feel about a mere friend of my childhood like I do about her," I answered with welcome and excitement both in my voice. "Do come quick and look!" "Coming," answered Bess, with delightful enthusiasm and no wounded pride, as she left the car in one motion and swept into the barn with me in about two more. "Now, just look at that," I said as I opened the top of the long box that is called a brooder and is supposed to supplement the functions of the metal incubator mother in the destiny of chicken young. It has feed and water-pans in it, straw upon the floor as a carpet, and behind flannel portières is supposed to burn a lamp with mother ardor sufficient to keep the small fledglings warm, though orphaned. Did the week-old babies Leghorn have to be content with such mechanical mothering? Not at all! Right in the middle of the brooder sat the old Red Ally, and her huge red wings were stretched out to cover about twenty-five of the metal-born babies and part of her own fifteen, and spread in a close, but fluffy, circle around her were the rest of her adopted family all cosily asleep and happy at heart. "I left the top of the brooder open while I went for water the second day after hers and the incubator's had hatched, and when I came back she was just as you see her now, in possession of the entire orphan-asylum." "Oh, look, she's putting some out from under her and taking others in. Oh, Ann!" exclaimed Bess as she dropped on her knees beside the long box. "Yes; she changes them like that. I've seen her do it," I answered, with my cheeks as pink with excitement as were those of my sympathetic friend, Elizabeth Rutherford. "And you ought to see her take them all out for a walk across the grass. They all peep and follow, and she clucks and scratches impartially." "Ann," said Bess, with a great solemnity in the dark eyes that she raised to mine, "I suppose I ought to marry Owen _this_ June. I want to have another winter of good times, but I--I'm ashamed to look this hen in the face." "Owen is perfectly lovely," I answered her, which was a very safely noncommittal answer in the circumstances. "He carries one of the chickens he bought from you in his pocket all the time, with all necessary food, and it is much larger than any of mine or his in my conservatory. Owen is the one who goes in to tend to them when he brings me home from parties and things and--and--" "Matthew took off all of his and Polly's little Reds yesterday, and I've never seen him so--so--" I paused for a word to express the tenderness that was in dear old Matt's face as he put the little tan fluff-balls one at a time into Polly Corn-tassel's outstretched skirt. "Matthew is a wonder, Ann, and you've got to come to this dance he is giving Corn-tassel Saturday--all for love of you because you asked him to look after her. He is the sweetest thing to her--just like old Mrs. Red here, spreads his wings and fusses if any man who isn't a lineal descendant of Sir Galahad comes near her. He's going to be awfully hurt if you don't come." "Then I'll tear myself away from my family and come, though I truly can't see that I wished Polly Corn-tassel upon all of you. You are just as crazy about the apple-blossom darling as I am, you specially, Bess Rutherford," I answered, with pleased indignation. "Ann, I do wish you could have seen her in that frilled white thing with the two huge blue bows at the ends of the long plaits at my dinner-dance the other night, standing and looking at everybody with all the fascination and coquetry of--of--well, that little Golden Bird peeping at us from the left-hand corner of Mrs. Red Ally's right wing. Where _did_ she get that frock?" "Do you suppose that a woman who runs a farm dairy of fifty cows, while her husband banks and post-offices and groceries would be at all routed by a few yards of lace and muslin and a current copy of 'The Woman's Review'? Aunt Mary made that dress between sun-up and -down and worked out fifty pounds of butter as well," I answered, with a glow of class pride in my rustic breast. "All of that is what is seething in my blood until I can't stand it," said Bess as we walked towards the barn-door. "The reason I just feel like devouring Polly Corn-tassel is that somehow she seems to taste like bread and butter to me; I'm tired of life served with mayonnaise dressing with tabasco and caviar in it. "Yes, a Romney herb-pot is better," I said, as a strange chant began to play itself on my heartstrings with me alone for a breathless audience. "And if you come in on Saturday you can--" Bess was saying in a positive tone that admitted of no retreat, when Matthew's huge blue car came around the drive from the front of Elmnest and stopped by Bess's roadster. On the front seat sat Matthew, and Corn-tassel was beside him, but the rest of the car was piled high with huge sacks of grain, which looked extremely sensible and out of place in the handsomest car in the Harpeth Valley. "Oh, Miss Ann, Mr. Matthew and I found the greatest bargain in winter wheat, and the man opened every sack and let me run my arm to the elbow in it. It is all hard and not short in a single grain. We are going to trade you half." And Polly's blue eyes, which still looked like the uncommercialized violet despite a six weeks' acquaintance with society in Hayesville, danced with true farmer delight. "It's warranted to make 'em lay in night shifts, Ann," said Matthew as he beamed down upon me with a delight equal to Polly's, and somehow equally as young. "Where'll I put it? In the feed-room in the bins?" "Yes, and they are almost empty. I was wondering what I would do next for food, because I owe Rufus and the hogs so much," I answered gratefully. "What did you pay?" asked Bess, in a business-like tone of voice. "Only a dollar and a quarter a bushel, all seed grade," answered Matthew, with the greatest nonchalance, as if he had known the grades of wheat from his earliest infancy. "Why, Owen bought two bags of it for our joint family and paid such a fortune for it that I forgot the figures immediately; but I took up the rug and put it all in my dressing-room to watch over, lest thieves break into the garage and steal. Also I made him send me plebeian carnations instead of violets for Belle Proctor's dinner Tuesday," said Bess, with covetousness in her eyes as she watched Matthew begin to unload his wheat. I wonder what Matthew's man, Hickson, at one twenty-five a month, thought of his master's coat when he began to brush the chaff out of its London nap. "Oh, Owen Murray is just a town-bred duffer," said Matthew, as he shouldered his last sack of grain. "Well, you are vastly mistaken if you think that--" Bess was beginning to say in a manner that I knew from long experience would bring on a war of words between her and Matthew when a large and cheerful interruption in the shape and person of Aunt Mary Corn-tassel came around the corner of the house. "Well, well, what sort of city farming is going on to-day amongst all these stylish folks?" she asked as she skirted the two cars at what she considered a safe and respectful distance, and handed me a bunch of sweet clover-pinks with a spring perfume that made me think of the breath of Pan O'Woods as I buried my lips in them. "You, Polly, go right home and take off that linen dress, get into a gingham apron, and begin to help Bud milk. I believe in gavots at parties only if they strengthen muscles for milking time." "May I wait and ride down with Mr. Matthew and show him where to put our wheat, Mother?" asked Polly as she snuggled up to her mother, who was pinning a stray pink into Matthew's button-hole per his request. "Yes, if he'll put his legs under old Mrs. Butter to help you get done before I am ready to strain up," answered Aunt Mary, with a merry twinkle in her eye as she regarded Matthew in his purple and fine linen. "Put an apron on him," she added. "Lead me to the apron," said Matthew, with real and not mock heroics. "But before you go I want to tell all of you about an invitation that has come over the telephone in the bank to all of Riverfield, and make a consultation about it. Now who do you suppose gave it?" "Who?" we all asked in chorus. "Nobody less than the governor of the State called up Silas, me answering for him on account of his deafness, and asked everybody to come in to town next Saturday night to hear this new commissioner of agriculture that he is going to appoint make the opening address of his office, I reckon you could call it. You know Silas is the leading Democrat of this district, and the governor has opened riz biscuits with me many a time. I told him 'Thank you, sir,' we would all come and hear the young man talk about what he didn't know, and he laughed and rang off. Yes, we are all going in a kind of caravan of vehicles, and I want you to go, Nancy, in the family coach and take Mrs. Tillett with you on account of her having to take all the seven little Tilletts, because there won't be a minder woman left to look after 'em. Bud will drive so as not to disturb Cradd or William in their Heathen pursuits or discommode Rufus' disposition. Now, won't it be nice for the whole town to go junketing in like that?" As she spoke Aunt Mary beamed upon us all with pure delight. "But Saturday evening is the night that Mr. Matthew is going to have that dance for me, Mother," said Polly, with the violets becoming slightly sprinkled underneath the long black lashes. "Well, dancing can wait a spell," answered Aunt Mary, comfortably. "The governor said that all the folks at Cloverbend and Providence and Hillsboro are going, and Riverfield has got to shake out a forefoot in the trip and not a hind one." "Oh, we'll have the dance next week, Corn-tassel," promised Matthew, promptly enough to prevent the drenching of the violets. "It will be great to hear Baldwin accept his portfolio, as it were." "And after his term begins I suppose he'll have offices at the capitol and will be in town most of the time. Then we can have him at all the dances. Polly, he dances like nothing earthly. Still Matthew won't let him come near you; he's deadly to women. We are all positively drugged by him," exclaimed Bess, delighted at the idea of Hayesville society acquiring the new commissioner of agriculture for a permanent light. "Then I can count on you to help Mrs. Tillett and the children in and out, Nancy?" continued Aunt Mary, with the light of such generalship in her eye that I was afraid even to mention my one-sided feud with the hero of the hour. "You can take Baby Tillett and sit a little way apart from her so she won't have to feed him all the time to keep him quiet." "I can take eight people in my car, Mother Corn-tassel," said Matthew, with the most beautiful eagerness. "I can get in five," added Bess, with an equal eagerness. "Can I have the Addcocks?" Bess and the pessimistic Mrs. Addcock had got together over some medicine to prevent pip in the conservatory young Leghorns. "Yes, and Matthew can take all the eight Spains if I can sit down Mrs. Spain to a bolt of gingham in time to get them all nicely covered for such a company," decreed the general, as she ran over in her mind's eye the rest of the population of Riverfield. "I'll make all the men hitch their best teams to the different rigs, and by starting early and taking both dinner and supper on the way we can get there in plenty of time. Twenty miles is not more than a half day's trip." "I can sit by you and hold two Spains in my lap," I heard Polly plan with Matthew. "Sure you can," he answered her. "I think the loveliest thing about Matthew Berry is the way he speaks to women and children." As he answered, he piled Aunt Mary and Polly in beside the rest of the wheat-bags and motored them away down the avenue. "Ann, please come to town with me," pleaded Bess as she got into her car and prepared to follow in the wake of the wheat-bags. "I miss you so, and Belle weeps at the mention of you. She and I are having dinner at the Old Hickory Club with Houston Jeffries and Owen to-night. Matt will come, and let's have one good old time. I came all this way to get you." "I honestly, honestly can't, Bess," I said as I took her hand stretched down from her seat behind the wheel to me, and put my cheek against it. "I've got this whole farm to feed between now and night. Both incubators must have their supper of oil or _you_ know what'll happen. Mrs. Ewe and family must be fed, or rather she must be fed so as to pass it along at about breakfast time, I should say, not being wise in biology or natural history; the entire Bird family are invited to supper with me, and I even have to carry a repast of corn over the meadows to my pet abhorrences, Rufus' swine, because he has retired to the hay-loft with a flannel rag around his head, which means I have offended him or that father has given him an extra absent-minded drink from the decanter that Matthew brought him. Peckerwood Pup is at this moment, you see, chewing the strings out of my shoes as an appetizer for her supper. How could I eat sweetbreads and truffle, which I know Owen has already ordered, when I knew that more than a hundred small children were at home crying for bread?" "Ann, what is it that makes you so perfectly radiantly beautiful in that faded linen smock and old corduroy skirt? Of course, you always were beautiful, but now you look like--like--well, I don't know whether it is a song I have heard or a picture I have seen." Bess leaned down and laid her cheek against mine for a second. "I'm going to tell you some day before long," I whispered as I kissed the corner of her lips. "Now do take the twin fathers for a little spin up the road and make them walk back from the gate. They have been suffering with the Trojan warriors all day, and I know they must have exercise. Uncle Cradd walks down for the mail each day, but father remains stationary. Your method with them is perfect. Go take them while I supper and bed down the farm." "I know now the picture is by Tintoretto, and it's some place in Rome," Bess called back over her shoulder as she drove her car slowly around to the front door to begin her conquest and deportation of my precious ancients. "Not painted by Tintoretto, but by the pagan Pan," I said to myself as I turned into the barn door. CHAPTER IX When I came out with a bucket of the new wheat in my hand, I heard Bess and her car departing, with Uncle Cradd's sonorous speech mingling with the puff of the engine. "We are all alone, Mr. G. Bird, and we love it, because then we can talk comfortably about our Mr. Adam," I said to the Golden Bird as he followed me around the side of the barn where a door had been cut by Pan himself to make an entry into my improvised chicken-house. Suddenly I was answered by a very interesting chuckling and clucking, and I turned to see what had disengaged the attention of Mr. G. Bird from me and my feed-bucket. The sight that met my eyes lifted the shadow that had lain between the Golden Bird and me since the morning I had taken him in to see his newly arrived progeny and had not been able to make him notice their existence. Stretching out behind me was a trail of wheat that had dripped from a hole in the side of the bucket, and along the sides of it the paternal Bird was marshaling his reliable foster-mother, Mrs. Red Ally's and all his own fluffy white progeny. With exceeding generosity he was not eating a grain himself, but scratching and chortling encouragingly. "I knew you were not like other chicken men, Mr. G. Bird, 'male indifferent to hatches,' as the book said," I exclaimed as he caught up with me and began to peck the grains I offered from my hand. "You are just like Owen and Matthew and Mr. Tillett and--and--" but I didn't continue the conversation because the chant began rending my heartstrings again. "Oh, Mr. G. Bird, it is an awful thing for a woman to have an apple orchard and lilac bushes in bloom when she is alone," I sighed instead, as I went on to my round of feeding, very hungry myself for--a pot of herbs. Later I, too, was fed. Long after the twin fathers had had supper and were settled safely by their candles, which were beacons that led them back into past ages, I sat by myself on the front doorstep in the perfumed darkness that was only faintly lit by stars that seemed so near the earth that they were like flowers of light blossoming on the twigs of the roof elms. In a lovely dream I had just gone into the arms of Pan when I heard out beyond the orchard a soft moo of a cow, and with it came a weak little calf echo. "Somebody's cow has strayed--I wish she belonged to me and could help me with this nutrition job," I said to myself as I rose and ran down under the branches of the gnarled old apple-trees, which sifted down perfumed blow upon my head as I ran. Then I stopped and listened again. Over the old stone wall that separated the orchard from the pasture I heard footsteps and soft panting, also a weak little cow-baby protest of fatigue. "I'll get over the wall and see if there is any trouble with them," I said and I suited my actions to my words. I suppose in the dark I forgot that cows have horns and that I had never even been introduced to one before, for with the greatest confidence and sympathy I walked up near the large black mass that was the cow mother, with a very small and wavering body pressed close at her side. "Did you call me, Mother Cow?" I asked softly. The question was taken from my lips as Pan came out of the darkness behind her and took me into his arms. "Yes, she called you. I didn't think I'd see you. I was just going to leave her for you and go my way; but trust women for secret communication," he said as my arm slipped around his bare throat. "Not see me?" I questioned. "I never wanted to see you again until I came for you, Woman. I didn't think I could stand it--to put you out of my arms again. I can't take you with me to-night. I came miles out of my way to bring her to you, and I've hurried them both cruelly. The calf is only two days old, but you do need her badly to feed the chickens. Milk-fed chickens show a gain of thirty per cent. over others. You can churn and get all the butter you need and feed them the buttermilk." "Do you suppose I can learn to milk and churn her?" I asked as I shrank a bit closer in his arms from this new responsibility. "Milk her and churn the milk," laughed Pan as he bent my head forward on his arm, set his teeth in the back of my neck, and shook me like Peckerwood Pup shakes the gray kitten when I'm not looking. "Will you show me in the morning?" "Woman, I have to run ten miles through the forest before daybreak, and I don't know when I can come back to you. I know I ought to tell you things, but I--I just can't. I demand of life that I be allowed to come for you and take you into the woods with only your Romney bundle. Will you be here ready for me when I come, and keep the bundle tied up?" "Yes," I answered as I drew his head down and pressed it to my breast, hoping that he might hear the chant on my heartstrings. I think he did hear. "I am thy child. I am thy mate. Come!" he made response, as he slipped from my arms and away into the darkness, leaving me alone with only the mother now for company. She licked my arm with a warm, rough tongue, and I came back into my own body and led her to the barn and supper. There are two kinds of love, the cultivated kind that bores into a woman's heart through silk and laces in a hot-house atmosphere and brings about all kinds of enervating reactions until operated upon by marriage; the other kind a field woman breathes into her lungs and it gets into her circulation and starts up the most awful and productive activity. I've had both kinds. I moped for months over Gale Beacon, and made him and Matthew and father completely unhappy, lost ten pounds, and was sent to a rest-cure for temper. The next morning after Adam gave me the cow and calf and passionate embraces out in the orchard I began to work like six women, and what I did to Elmnest not ten women could have accomplished in as many days. I weeded the whole garden and I picked three bushels of our first peas, tied up sixty bunches of very young beets with long, tough orchard grass, treated fifty bunches of slender onions the same way, half a dozen of each to the bunch, and helped Bud Corn-tassel load a two-horse wagon with them and everything eatable he could get out of Aunt Mary's garden. Then I got up at two o'clock in the night and fed the mules so Bud could start at half-past two in order to be in the market at Hayesville long before the break of day, so as to sell the truck at the very top of the market to the earliest greengrocers. I gave Bud coffee and bread and butter and drove the team down to the gate while he went ahead to open it. I stood up while I drove, too, because Bud had not had room to put a seat in for himself and expected to stand up all the way to town. Talk about Mordkin and Pavlova! To stand up and drive a team hitched to a jolt-wagon over boulders and roots requires leg muscles! I hope I will be able to restrain myself from driving the team into market some day, but I am not sure I can. With the eggs and the "truck" Bud brought back sixteen dollars, eleven of which were mine. I bought a peck of green peas for myself from myself and ate most of them for dinner by way of blowing in some of the money. Then the chant on my heartstrings speeded me up to white-washing all the chicken paraphernalia on the place, and I dropped corn behind Rufus' plow for a whole day, even if it was to produce food for the swine. I went to bed at night literally on time with the chickens. I could only stay awake to kneel and reach out the arms of prayer and enfold Pan to my heart for a very few seconds before I vaulted into the four-poster and tumbled into the depths of sleep. My activities were not in any way limited by the stone walls that surround Elmnest, but they spread over entire Riverfield, which had very nearly quit the pursuit of agriculture and gone madly into a social adventure. Everybody was getting ready for the trip into the capital city to answer the governor's invitation, and clothing of every color, texture, and sex was being manufactured by the bolt. For every garment manufactured I was sponsor. "I sure am glad you have come down, Nancy," said Mrs. Addcock, with almost a moan; "that Mamie there won't let me turn up the hem of her dress without you, though I say what is a hem to a woman who has set in six pairs of sleeves since day before yesterday!" "I want shoe-tops and Ma wants ankles," sniffed Mamie Addcock. "Polly Beesley wears shoe-tops and she's seventeen and goes to the city to dance. And Miss Bess' and yours are shoe-tops, too." "Now you see what it is to raise a child to be led into sin and vanity," said Mrs. Addcock, looking at me reproachfully from her seat upon the floor at the feet of the worldly Mamie. "I'll turn up the hem just right, Mrs. Addcock, while you get the collars on little Sammie's and Willie's shirts," I said soothingly as I sank down beside her at Mamie's feet. "I had to cut Sammie's shirt with a tail to tuck in, all on account of that Mr. Matthew Berry's telling him that shirt and pants ought to do business together. And there's Willie's jeans pants got to have pockets for the knife that Mr. Owen gave him. I just can't keep up with these city notions of my children with five of 'em and a weak back." As she grumbled Mrs. Addcock rose slowly from her lowly position to her feet. "I'll make Willie's trousers, Mrs. Addcock, this afternoon, if he'll come and help me feed and bed everything at Elmnest," I offered, with my mouth full of pins. "No, child, but thank you for your willing heart. Mrs. Spain told me how you made Ezra's pants so one leg of him came while the other went, and I guess a mother is the only one to get the legs of her own offspring to match. I'll work it out myself now that Miss Mamie is attended to." "But now I know how to trouser boys normally. I turned Joe Tillett out in perfect proportion as well as in strong jeans," I answered, without the least offense at finding my first efforts as a tailor thus becoming the subject of kindly village gossip. "Well, I hope this junket will turn out as Mary Beesley expects, with enjoyment for everybody. However, I'm going to risk my back with Mr. Silas' mules rather than with that Bessie Rutherford's wheels that are not critter-drawn. I only hope she don't spill all my children, that I've had such a time getting here on earth, back into Kingdom Come." "Would you rather go in my carriage with Mrs. Tillett, and let me go with Bess to hold in the children?" I asked with unconcealed eagerness. "No, I don't believe so," answered Mrs. Addcock, cannily. "Sallie Tillett is having her dress made buttoned up in the back, and she has been in the habit of feeding the baby whenever he cries for it, though he can 'most stand alone. She is going to depend on you and a bag of biscuit to manage him through the show, and I'd rather not take your place." "No; perhaps you would enjoy it more behind Uncle Silas and the mules," I answered cheerily, feeling perfectly capable of handling Baby Tillett and his bag of biscuits, because the memory of the times his little head with its tow fuzz had cuddled down on my linen smock, when I had carried him back and forth for long visits in the barn to the Peckerwood Pup so his mother could have a little vacation from his society, accelerated the movement of the chant on the cardiac instrument in my breast. "He stays hours and hours with me in a basket in the barn and is perfectly satisfied with the biscuits." "All the same I told Sallie I could make that dress by another pattern, and you'd better sit with him a good distance during the show," said Mrs. Addcock, as I finished shoe-topping Mamie and picked up my pink-lined white sunbonnet, which had been a present from Mrs. Addcock herself and was astonishingly frilly and coquettish emanating from such a source, and began to depart. "I'll take him on the other side of the auditorium," I answered, with respect for advice that I knew must be good through experience. And thus that pink and white, cooing, obstreperously hungry baby was made an instrument of cruel fate and-- "Come over and see the little cap I've made Bennie so as to do you honor," called rosy Mrs. Tillett as I went down the street towards the grocery. "I ain't got but six more yards of gingham to sew up for the two littlest," Mrs. Spain called cheerily as she looked past a whirring sewing-machine out through a window that was wreathed with a cinnamon rose-vine in full bloom. "Want any help?" I called from the gate, which was flanked on both sides by blooming lilacs. "No; you go on down to the store. Mr. Silas have brought out ten suits of clothes for the men to pick from, and they are a-waiting for your taste. Persuade Joe Spain to get that purple mixed. I do love gay colors, and it'll go with my pink foulard." The scenes into which I entered in the post-office-bank-grocery was comedy in form, but serious in interpretation. The counter was piled high with men's garments of every color that is bestowed upon woolen cloth in the dyers' vats. Uncle Silas stood behind it with his glasses at a rampant angle on his nose, and Aunt Mary stood in the center of a shuffling, embarrassed, harassed group of farmers in overalls. Before her stood Bud, attired in a light gray suit of aggressively new clothes, and she was using him hard as a dummy upon which to illustrate her vigorous and persuasive remarks. "Now, I am glad you have come down, honeybunch," she exclaimed at sight of me. "Here's a bale of clothes and a bale of men, and nobody can seem to match 'em up suitable. I have at last got Bud Beesley here into a dead match for his beauty, if I do say it of my own son. Just look at him!" As she spoke she stood off from him and folded her plump hands across her wide waist in motherly rapture. And Bud, with his violet eyes and yellow shock, _was_ beautiful in the "custom-made," fifteen-dollar gray cheviot, despite his red ears. All the Harpeth Valley farmer folk have French Cavalier, English gentle, and Irish good blood in them, with mighty little else and, as in the case of Bud and Polly Corn-tassel, when clothed in garments of the world, it comes to the surface with startling effect. Bud could have put on a gray slouch hat with either a crimson or an orange band and walked into any good Eastern college fraternity or club he might have chosen. "Shoo, Mother," said Bud as he turned around for my admiration, not surfeited with that of his mother. "I only hope some town girl won't catch him like your mother did William," said Aunt Mary, with a laugh that ended in a little sigh that only I heard. Somehow I _will_ feel psychically akin to Bud and Polly. [Illustration: And Bud was beautiful in the "custom-made" fifteen-dollar gray cheviot with his violet eyes and yellow smock, in spite of his red ears] "Town girls are all movie-struck and don't want a man if a butter-paddle goes along with him," said Bud, with a laugh that was echoed from the overalled group. "Yes, but Miss Nancy here has outsold any woman in Riverfield for cash on eggs and chickens before May first," said Mr. Spain as he picked up a gray purple coat from the top of the pile on the counter. "She'll marry and go away in a big car, too," said Bud, as he looked down and flecked an imaginary speck from the sleeve of his new coat. Something in his voice made me determine to introduce Belle Proctor's little sixteen-year-old sister to Bud in the near future. The kiddie spends half her time away from school in Bess's conservatory with Mr. G. Bird's non-resident family, and I think it will do her good to come out in the field and play with Bud. She is frail and too slight. "Say, Miss Nancy, what do you think of this here purple to set me off?" asked Mr. Spain, as he held up the garment of his wife's desire. "Betty says it'll match out her dimity, and I 'low to match Betty as long as I can." "It'll be the very thing, Mr. Spain," I said, as I controlled my horror at the flaring-colored coat and reminded myself that harmony of domestic relations is greater than any harmony of art. "Now, pick your coats and slip 'em on, all of you, so Nancy can judge you," commanded the general. In a very short time each man had got out of his overall jumper and into his heart's desire. A stalwart, comely, clean-eyed group of American men they were as they stood on parade, clothed for the most part in seemly raiment, chosen with Uncle Silas's quiet taste, except in the case of Mr. Spain, where he had let his experience of the past lead his taste. "Please, dear God, don't let them ever have to be put into khaki," I prayed with a quick breath, for I knew, though they did not seem to recognize the fact, that this rally of the rural districts in the city hall was a part of the great program of preparedness that America was having forced upon her. I knew that the speech of the governor would be about the State militia and I knew that Evan Baldwin would talk to them about the mobilization of their stocks and crops. Quick tears flooded across my eyes, and I stretched out my hands to them. "You all look good to me," I faltered in some of Matthew's language, because I couldn't think of anything else to say but the prayer in my heart, and I didn't want to repeat that to them. "Now, you have all passed your city examinations, so you can get back to work. Remember, that day after to-morrow is the junket, and one day won't be any too much to bank up your fires to run until you come back," said Aunt Mary in the way of dismissal. "Talk about vanity in women folks? The first peacock hatched out was of the male persuasion," she remarked as we stood at the emporium door and watched the men dispersing, their bundles under their arms, each one making direct for his own front door. "Every woman in Riverfield will have to put down needle and fry-pan and butter-paddle to feed them so plum full of compliments that they'll strut for a week. Bless my heart, honeybunch, we have all got to turn around twice in each track to get ready, and as I'm pretty hefty I must begin right now." With this remark, Aunt Mary departed from the back door to her house on the hill and sent me out the front to Elmnest opposite. "I thought that there was some reason why Pan and I both chose to wear Roycroft clothes. Mr. and Mrs. Spain are in love after eight children," I remarked to myself happily. "I am in agony in any shoes Pan doesn't make. I wonder if any woman ever before was as much in love with a man about whom she knew so little--and so much as I do about Adam." "I don't want to know about him--I want to love him," I answered myself as I walked up the long elm avenue. Afterwards I recalled those words to myself, and they were bitter instead of sweet. CHAPTER X Friday, the twenty-first of April, I shall always remember as the busiest day of my life, for, as Aunt Mary had said, it takes time to bank fires enough to keep a farm alive a whole half day even if it is not running. I did all my usual work with my small folk, and then I measured and poured out in different receptacles their existence for the last half of the next day. After breakfast on Saturday I finally decided upon Uncle Cradd as the most trustworthy person of the three ancients, one of whom I was obliged to depend upon for substitution. Rufus, I felt sure, would compromise by feeding every ration to the hogs, and I knew that he could persuade father to do likewise, but Uncle Cradd, I felt, would bring moral force to bear upon the situation. "Now, Uncle Cradd, here are all the different feeds in different buckets, each plainly marked with the time to give it. Please, oh, please, don't let father lead you off into Egypt or China and forget them," I said as I led him to the barn and showed him the mobilization of buckets that I had shut up in one of the empty bins. "Why not just empty it all out on the ground in front of the barn, Nancy, my dear, and let them all feed together in friendly fashion. I am afraid you take these pretty whims of yours too seriously," he said as he beamed affectionately at me over his large glasses. "Because Peckerwood Pup would eat up the Leghorn babies, and it would be extermination to some and survival to the most unfit," I answered in despair. "Oh, won't you please do it by the directions?" "I will, my child, I will," answered Uncle Cradd, as he saw that I was about to become tearful. "I will come and sit right here in the barn with my book." "Oh, if you only will, Uncle Cradd, they will remind you when they are hungry. Mr. G. Bird will come and peck at you when it is time to feed his family, and the lambs and Mrs. Ewe will lick you, and Peckerwood Pup will chew you, so you can't forget them," I exclaimed in relief. "That will be the exact plan for action, Nancy. You can always depend upon me for any of the small attentions that please you, my dear." "I can depend on the fur and feathers and wool tribes better than I can on you, old dear," I said to myself, while I beamed on him with a dutiful, "Thank you, sir." Then as Bud Corn-tassel had arrived to begin to hitch up the moth-eaten steeds to the ark, I ascended to my room to shed my farmer smocks, for the first time since my incarnation into them, and attire myself for the world again. The only garb of fashion I possessed, having sold myself out completely on my retirement, was the very stylish, dull-blue tailor suit in which I had traveled out the Riverfield ribbon almost three months before. But as that had been mid-February, it was of spring manufacture, and I supposed would still be able to hold its own. "It's perfectly beautiful, but it feels tight and hampering," I said as I descended to enter the coach Bud had driven around to the front door. "Will you give me a guarantee that you aren't just a dream lady I'll lose again in the city, Miss Nancy?" asked Bud, as he handed me into the Grandmother Craddock coach with great ceremony. Gale Beacon couldn't have done any better on such short notice. "I'll be in smocks at feeding-time in the morning, Bud, just as you will be in overalls," I answered laughingly. "My, but you are a sight!" said Mrs. Tillett, as she handed up Baby Tillett to me, with such a beaming countenance that I knew she meant a complimentary construction to be placed upon her words. "Now, just take up them little girls and set 'em down easy, Mr. Bud, on account of their ruffles, and ram the boys in between to hold 'em steady. Now, boys, if you muss up the girls I'll make every one of you wear your shoes all day to-morrow to teach you manners. Go on, Mr. Bud." Thus nicely packed away, we started on down the Riverfield ribbon at the head of the procession, followed by Uncle Silas driving Aunt Mary's rockaway, with his beautiful, dappled, shining, gray mules hitched to it, and beside him sat Mrs. Addcock in serene confidence in being driven by a man who could drive a bank and a post-office and a grocery. Mamie and Gertie Spain were spread out carefully on the back seat, with only one small masculine Spain for a wedge. The Buford buggy, all spick and span from its first spring washing and polishing, came next, with Mr. and Mrs. Buford cuddling together on the narrow seat. They were a bride and groom of very little over a year's standing, and the blue-blanketed bundle that the bride carried in her arms was no reason, in Mr. Buford's mind, why he shouldn't drive with one hand while he held a steadying and affectionate arm around them both. Buford Junior was less than a month old, but why shouldn't he begin to adventure out in the big world? Parson and Mrs. Henderson came next, he with snow-white flowing beard, and she, beside him, in a gray bonnet with a pink rose, while beside her sat his mother, Granny Henderson, now past eighty, but with a purple pansy nestled in her waterwaves. Others followed, and the remainder waited on the steps of the emporium, with Aunt Mary and Polly, for Matthew and Bess to come for them. It was hard for them to realize that the powerful engines in both cars would take them into town in little over an hour, when the journey as they before had made it had always consumed six, and they were becoming impatient even before we left. So when we met Bess and Matthew half an hour later down the Riverfield ribbon, I hurried them back. I afterwards learned that they had had to persuade Mrs. Spain to reclothe herself in the pink foulard, because she had decided that they were not coming and had gone back to work. In reality I didn't draw a perfectly free breath until I saw the entire population of Riverfield seated in advantageous seats on the middle aisle in the town hall at six-thirty, and beginning to get out their lunch-baskets to feed themselves and the kiddies before the opening of the convocation at eight o'clock. According to the advice of Mrs. Addcock and Mrs. Tillett herself, I had taken a stuffed egg, a chicken wing, and a slice of jelly-cake for my own supper, along with Baby Tillett's bag of hard biscuits, over on a side aisle, and from that vantage-point I could see the whole party. "They are lovely--the loveliest of all, mine are," I said to myself as I surveyed them proudly and compared them with other lunching delegations, which I knew to be from Providence and Hillsboro and Cloverbend. Baby Tillett crowed a proud assent as he stuck a biscuit in his mouth and looked at the lights with the greatest pleasure. I took off his new cap with its two blue bows over the ears, unbuttoned his little piqué coat, which I had almost entirely built myself, and which was of excellent cut, and settled down to dine with him in contentment. Then it happened that I was so weary from the day of excitement that I had hardly finished my supper before I snuggled Baby Tillett closer in my arms, as I felt him grow limp very suddenly, and with him I drifted off into a nap. I was sitting in a corner seat, but I don't yet see how I slept as I did and cuddled him too unless it was just the force of natural maternal gravitation that held my arms firmly around him, but the first thing I knew I opened my eyes on the whole hall full of people, who were wildly applauding the governor as he stepped forward on the platform. Hurriedly straightening my drooping head and looking guiltily around to see if I had been caught napping, I discovered Matthew Berry at my side in a broad chuckle, and I immediately suspected his stalwart right arm of being that force of gravitation. "He's dead to the world; let him lie across your knees and listen to the governor's heroics of introduction to Baldwin," said Matthew as he settled the limp baby across my lap with his bobbing head on my arm. And he adjusted his own arm less conspicuously along the seat at my back. "I was up at four," I whispered, as the applause died away and the governor began to speak. The Governor of the State of Harpeth is a good and substantial man, who was himself born out on Paradise Ridge, and he had called in all of his people from their fields to talk to them about a problem so serious that the world of men, who had hitherto considered themselves as competent to guide the great national ship of state through peaceful waters, had been impelled to turn and call to council the men from the plows and reapers, to add their wisdom in deciding the best methods of safeguarding the nation. His speech was a thoughtful presentation of the different methods of preparedness which the whole of America was weighing in the balance. He explained the army policy, the Congressional policy, and then that of the State guard, and he asked them to weigh the facts well so that if it should come to the vote of the people of the nation, they would vote with instructed wisdom. There was a strained gravity on all the listening faces, and I could see some of the women in the groups of farmer folk draw nearer against the shoulders of the men, who all sat with their arms along the back of the seats as Matthew sat beside me. Young Mrs. Buford held the precious, limp, blue bundle much closer in her arms, and hid her head on the broad shoulder next her own, but on Mrs. Spain's comely face I saw a light beginning to dawn as she proudly surveyed the four sturdy sons with shining faces who flanked her and Mr. Spain. "And now," said the governor, "I have asked you here to-night to introduce formally to you one of the great sons of Old Harpeth, who has come back from the world, with his wealth and honors and wisdom and science, into his own valley, to show us how to make the plowshare support the machine-gun with such power that the world will respect its silence more than any explosion. A year or more ago he came home and asked me for his commission, and since then he has lived among you so as to become your friend, in hopes that he might be your chosen leader in this food mobilization. Gentlemen and ladies of the Harpeth Valley, I present to you Mr. Evan Baldwin, who will speak to you to-night on the 'Plowshare and the Machine-gun.' Friends, Evan Adam Baldwin." For a second there was expectant silence, and then from the back of the platform from behind a group of State officials stepped--my Pan! For a long second the whole hall full of people held their breath in a tense uncertainty, because it was hard to believe in the broadcloth and fine linen in which he was clothed, but the brilliant hair, the ruffling crests, and the mocking, eery smile made them all certain by the second breath, which they gave forth in one long masculine hurrah mingled with a feminine echo of delight. For several long minutes it would not be stilled as he stood and smiled down on them all and mocked them with his laugh mingling with theirs. Finally Aunt Mary, the general, could stand it no longer, and forgetful of her Saint Paul, she arose with all the dignity of her two hundred pounds and raised her hand. "All be still, neighbors, and let Adam tell us the same things he's been saying for these many months, and then we'll let him shuck his fine clothes and come on home in my rockaway with us." "No, with us!" fairly yelled Cloverbend in unison of protest with Providence. "Thank you, Aunt Mary," said Pan in the fluty tenderness with which he had always addressed her. "The governor doesn't know it, but I can't make a speech to you to-night. I am going to catch that ten o'clock train for Argentina, to get some wheat secrets for all of us, and I want all of you to begin right away to plow good and deep so you'll be ready for me when I get back in a few months. We'll have to inoculate the land before we sow. Only here are just one or two things I will say to you before I have to start." For about ten minutes Adam stood there before those farmer folk and, with his fluty voice and the fire glow in his eyes, led them up upon a high mountain of imagination and showed them the distant land into which he could lead them, which, when they arrived, they would find to be their own. The baby on my lap stirred, and I lifted him against my throbbing breast as I listened to this gospel of a new earth, which might be made into the outposts of a new Heaven, in which man would nourish his weaker brother into a strength equal to his own, so that no man or nation would have to fight for existence or a place in the sun. Then while we all sat breathless from his magic, Pan vanished and left us to be sent home rejoicing by the governor. Sent home rejoicing? Suddenly I realized that when Evan Adam Baldwin had gone, my Pan had also vanished without a word to me. What did it mean? His eyes hadn't found me sitting apart from my delegation with another woman's baby in my arms. Would there be a word for me in the morning? "In Baldwin emerges the new American," said Matthew, with a light in his face I had never seen before, as we all rose to go. "Do you blame every woman in the world for being mad about him when you saw that look in his eyes when he held out his hands and chanted that food plea to us? I'm glad he doesn't beckon to me, or I am afraid Owen Murray and Madam Felicia would be disappointed about that June decision of mine," said Bess as she and Owen helped Bud pack the Tilletts and me into the ark for our return trip. "Will there be word for me in the morning?" the old wheels rattled all the way out the Riverfield ribbon, and I thought an old owl hooted the question at me from a dead tree beside the road, while I felt also that a mocking-bird sang it from a thicket of dogwood in ghostly bloom opposite. "Will there be word in the morning?" The next morning I awoke with the same question making a new motive in the chant on my heartstrings. "Uncle Cradd will bring his letter when he comes back from the post-office, and I know he'll send a message to you, Mr. G. Bird," I said happily, as I watered and fed and caressed and joyed in the entire barn family. "I hate him for being what he is and treating me this way, but I love him still more," I confided to Mrs. Ewe as I gave her an extra handful of wheat out of the blouse-pocket which I kept filled for Mr. G. Bird from pure partiality. Uncle Cradd did not bring a letter from the post-office for me. The blow in the apple orchard and the purple plumes on the lilac bushes looked less brilliant in hue, but the tune on my heartstrings kept up a note of pure bravado. I weeded the garden all afternoon, but stopped early, fed early, and went up-stairs to my room before the last sunset glow had faded off the dormer windows. Opening my old mahogany chest, I took out a bundle I had made up the day after the advent of Mother Cow and the calf, spread it out on the bed, and looked it over. In it was an incredible amount of lingerie, made of crêpe de chine and lace, folded tightly and tied with a ribbon into a package not over a foot square. A comb and a brush of old ivory, which had set in its back a small mirror held in by a silver band, which father had purchased in Florence for me under a museum guaranty as a genuine Cellini work of art, were wrapped in a silk case, and a toothbrush and soap had occupied their respective oil-silk cases along with a tube of tooth paste and one of cold cream. Two pairs of soft, but strong, tan cotton stockings were tucked underneath the ribbon confining the lingerie, and a small prayer-book with both mine and my mother's name in it completed the--I hadn't exactly liked to call it a trousseau. It was all tied up in one of Adam's Romney handkerchiefs, which he had washed out one day in the spring branch and left hanging on a hickory sapling to dry, and which I had appropriated because I loved its riot of faded colors. "It is just about the size of his," I had said to myself as I had tied up its corners that day after my love adventure in the orchard under the chaperonage of Mother Cow, and I had laughed as I imagined Pan's face when he discovered that I had been so entirely unfemininely subservient to his command about light traveling. Suddenly I swept the bundle together and back in the chest, while a note of genuine fear swept into the song in my heart. "He'll write from New Orleans--he doesn't sail until to-morrow," I whispered as I quieted the discord and went down to prayers. "I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul:" intoned Uncle Cradd, and somehow the tumult in my heart was stilled for the night, and I could as usual take Pan into my prayer arms and ask God to keep him safe. I wonder how many women would really pray if there weren't men in the world to furnish them the theme! Also I wonder how it is possible for me to write about that following first week of May when I had to feel the chant die out of my heart and still live and help a lot of other live creatures, both people and animals, to go on breathing also. Each day Uncle Cradd failed to bring me a letter from the post-office, and after a week I ceased to look for one. I knew that Evan Adam Baldwin was on the high seas and that if he had not written before he sailed he never intended to write. My common sense kindly and plainly spoke this truth to my aching heart: Pan had been simply having a word adventure with me in character. CHAPTER XI The beginning of the twentieth century has witnessed many startling inventions, reforms, evolutions, and revolutions, but mankind generally is not aware that the most remarkable result of many combined new forces is a woman whose intellect can go on functioning at the same time that her heart is aching with either requited or unrequited love. Just ten days after I had been jilted, instead of lying in a darkened room in hysterics, I went into a light corner of the barn, sat down on an upturned seed-bucket, took my farm-book on my knee, wet my pencil between my lips, and began to figure up the account between Evan Adam Baldwin and myself. First, I sat still for a long second and tried to set a price on myself the hour before I had first encountered him out on the Riverfield ribbon on the day I had made my entry into rural life. And think as hard as I could I couldn't think up a single thing I had done worth while to my race; so I had to write a great cipher against myself. Then in another column I set down the word "assets," and after it I wrote, "The Golden Bird and family, eight hundred dollars." Then I thought intently back into the past and into the haircloth trunk and wrote, "Clothes, one hundred and fifty dollars." Then I sat for another long time and looked out the door to the Paradise Ridge across the Harpeth Valley, after which I smoothed the page, dated it, and again began to take stock of myself and the business. I listed the original investment of Mr. G. Bird and the ladies Leghorn, one of which was at that moment picking wheat from my pocket, on through their fifty progeny, for which I had established a price of twenty dollars per head, through the two lambkins I had bought from Rufus for ten dollars, Mother Cow and the calf, the hundred and fifty pearls in the incubators, half of which I had sold to Owen and Bess and ten of which I had sold to a real chicken dealer who knew Mr. G. Bird's pedigree and had come all the way from Georgia to buy them. The whole inventory, including the wheat I had paid Matthew for and the improvements I had made on the barn, or rather Adam had made, also including the prospects in the garden, amounted to eighteen hundred dollars. Then I thought still longer and finally after my own name wrote one hundred and fifty dollars' worth of "education." The total was nineteen hundred and fifty dollars, thus making a profit on my investments of about eight hundred dollars. After this calculation I sat and chewed the pencil a long time, then turned a fresh page, wrote, "Evan Adam Baldwin," on the one side, "Profit" in the middle, and a large cipher opposite. Then I closed the book forever with such decision that the Leghorn lady and Mrs. Ewe, who was helping her explore me, both jumped, and I rose to my feet. "I got eight hundred and fifty dollars out of the deal, and Evan Adam Baldwin only got a few mediocre and amateur kisses, which he shared with me, for all his hard labor in plowing and tilling and restoring Elmnest and me to the point of being of value in the scheme of things. I got the best of that deal and why should I sulk?" I said to myself in a firm and even tone of voice. I didn't. If I had worked like a couple of women when speeded up by a weird chant on my heartstrings, which I now recognized was just a part of the system used in my reorganization, I worked like five when my heart became perfectly dead and silent. I got out of my bed the very minute that the first gleam of consciousness came into my mind, before I could have a second to think about anything unprofitable, plunged into the old brass-bound cedar tub of cold water, which I had carried up from the spring in a bucket that matched it the night before, got into my corduroys and smock, and was out in the barn and at work before it would seem possible for a woman to more than open her eyes of understanding upon the world. All day long I weeded and hoed and harvested and fed and cleaned and marketed that farm until I fell dead between the posts of the old bed at night. I didn't pray. I knew God would understand. And through it all there was Matthew! The first week or two he remonstrated with me; then when he saw that I was possessed by the demon of work he just rolled up his sleeves, collected Polly and Bud, and helped. He promoted his best clerk in the office to a junior partnership, refused several important cases, bought the hundred-acre forest which joins Elmnest, which Aunt Mary had had in her family for generations, and which had been considered as waste land after the cedars had been cut off, and began to restore it. He never bothered me once in a sentimental way, and when he brought the plans of his house over on the knoll opposite Elmnest, Polly helped me enthuse and criticize them, and he went away seemingly content. His and Polly's Rhode Island Reds were rivaling my Leghorns in productiveness, and all of Riverfield seemed to have gone chicken mad. Mr. Spain traded a prize hog for a cock, and twelve black Minorca hens, and Mr. Buford brought the bride two settings of gray "Rocks" to start a college education for the bundle. "Do you know what the whole kit and biling is so busy about?" said Aunt Mary as she surveyed with pride a new hen-house that Bud had just finished, in which I saw the trap nests over which she had disputed with the commissioner of agriculture. "They were just woke up by that speech of Adam's, and they are getting ready to show him what Riverfield can do when he gets back. When did you say you expect him, honeybunch?" "I don't," I answered quietly. "Why, I thought Silas said you did," she answered absent-mindedly. "Now, you can have Bud, but not for keeps, because as I borned him I think I am entitled to work him." We all laughed as Bud and I betook ourselves and a large farm-basket full of late cabbage plants across to Elmnest. "Miss Ann, please ma'am, make mother let me go to town to-night with Mr. Matthew and stay with Miss Bess. All her linen chest has come, and I want to see it," Polly Corn-tassel waylaid us and pleaded. I went back and laid the case before her mother. "Well, I suppose it won't hurt her if all this marriage and giving in marriage don't get into her head. I aim to keep and work her at least two years longer to pay my trouble with her teething back," agreed Aunt Mary. "When did you say the wedding was going to be?" "June tenth," I answered. "I heard that Mr. Owen Murray talking to Mr. Spain about his wooded piece of land over by the big spring the other night. Looks like you are a pot of honey, sure enough, child, that draws all your friends to settle around you." "No, it's the back-to-the-land vogue, and this is the most beautiful part of the Harpeth Valley," I answered as I again began to depart with Bud and the cabbage plants. "Adam told me one night that he was going to prove that the Garden of Eden was located right here. It was when your locusts were in full bloom and I asked him if he had run down Eve anywhere. Are you sure you don't know when he'll come back to see us all?" Aunt Mary's blue eyes danced with merriment. "No," I answered, and went hastily back to Bud and left her muttering to herself, "Well, Silas _did_ say--" All afternoon I stolidly planted the gray-green young cabbage sprouts behind Bud's hoe and refused even to think about Bess's wedding-chest. But at sunset I saw I must go into town to her dinner for the announcement of her wedding, and wear one of my dresses that I had sold and then borrowed back from her--or have a serious crisis in our friendship. I hadn't strength for that, and I had hoped that the fun of it all would make noise enough to wake some kind of echo in my very silent interior, but it didn't, though there was a positive uproar when Owen brought the whole Bird collateral family, who now have wings and tails and pin feathers, into the dining-room and put them in the rose bed in the middle of the table so as to hear his oratorical effort as expectant bridegroom. "Why is it, Matt, that you have heart enough to drive me like mad out here in the dark and not make me say a word?" I asked him as he brought me home in the after-midnight hush. "You've trained my heart into silence, Ann," he answered gently. "No!" I exclaimed, for I couldn't bear the thought of Matthew's big heart being silent too. Just then Polly, who had gone to sleep on the back seat, fell off and had to be rescued. We put her out at home in a wilted condition from pure good times, and then Matthew took me on up to Elmnest. An old moon was making the world look as if mostly composed of black shadows, and Matthew walked at my side out to the barn to see if all was quiet and well. "Why, what's the matter?" I exclaimed as I ran to the side of the shed in which Mrs. Ewe and the lambs resided. "Strike your cigar-lighter quick, Matt." As Matthew shed a tiny light from a silver tube upon the situation, I sank to my knees with a cry. There upon the grass lay one of my lambkins, and red blood was oozing from its woolly white throat. As I lifted it on my arm, its little body gave a shudder and then lay so still that I knew it was dead. Mother Ewe stood near in the shadow and gave a plaintive bleat as she came to my side. "Oh," I sobbed as I looked up at Matthew, "it's dead. What did it?" "A dog," answered Matthew, as he knelt beside me and laid the tiny dead lamb back on the ground. "Not Peckerwood Pup!" I exclaimed. "No, she's too young; some stray," answered Matthew as he look savagely around into the shadows. "It's the littlest one, and she licked my hand the last thing before I left. I can't bear it all, Matthew--this is too much for me," I said, and I sobbed into my hands as I sank down into a heap against the side of the bereaved sheep mother, who was still uttering her plaintive moans of question. I say now and I shall always maintain that the most wonderful tenderness in the world is that with which a man who had known a woman all his life, who has grown with her growth, has shared her laughter and her tears, and knows her to her last feminine foible or strength, takes her into his arms. Matthew crouched down upon the grass beside me and gathered me against his breast, away from the dreadful monster-inhabited shadows, and made me feel that a new day could dawn upon the world. I think from the way I huddled to his strength that he knew that I had given up the fight and that his hour was at hand. "Do you want me now, Ann?" he asked me; gently as he pressed his cheek against my hair. "If you want me, take me and help me find that dog to-morrow," I answered as I again reached out my hand and put it for the last time on the pathetic little woolly head. I couldn't hold back the sob. "Go in the house to bed, dear, for you are completely worn out. I'll bury the lamb and look for any traces that may help us to find the savage," said Matthew as he drew me to my feet and with quiet authority led me to the back door and opened it for me. For a second I let him take me again into his strong arms, but I wilted there and I simply could not raise my lips to his. The first time I remember kissing Matthew Berry was at his own tenth birthday party, and he had dropped a handkerchief behind me that I had failed to see as all of the budding flower and chivalry of Hayesville stood in a ring in his mother's drawing-room. "Dear old Matt," I murmured to myself as I again fell dead between the posts of the ancestral bed. The next morning I awoke to a new world--or rather I turned straight about and went back into my own proper scheme of existence. At the crack of dawn I wakened and set my muscles for the spring from my pillows, then I stretched my arms, yawned, snuggled my cheek into those same pillows, and deliberately went to sleep, covering up my head with the old embroidered counter-pane to shut out from my ears a clarion crow from beyond my windows. When I next became conscious old Rufus' woolly head was peering anxiously into my room door, and I judged from the length of the shadows that the sun cast from the windows that it must be after ten o'clock. "Am you sick?" he inquired with belligerent solicitude. "No, Rufus, and I'm going back to sleep. Call me in time to have dinner with father and Uncle Cradd," I answered as I again burrowed into the pillows. "I give that there rooster and family a bucket of feed," said Rufus begrudgingly, and he stood as if waiting to be praised for thus burying the hatchet that he had been mentally brandishing over the neck of the enemy. I made no response, but stretched my tired limbs out between the silky old sheets and again lost consciousness. The next time I became intelligent it was when Polly's soft arm was slid under my neck and her red lips applied to my cheek. "Miss Ann, are you ill?" she questioned frantically. "Mr. Matthew and I have been here for hours and have fed and attended to everything. He made me come up because he was afraid you might be dead." "I am, Polly, and now watch me come back to life," I said as I sat up and blinked at the sun coming in through the western window, thus proclaiming the time as full afternoon. "We found Mr. G. Bird and all of the other--" Polly was beginning to say when I cut her short. "Polly, dear, please go tell Matthew to ride down to the bank and telephone Bess that I'm coming in to stay a week with her and to invite Belle and Owen and the rest to dinner. By the time he gets back I'll be ready to go." As I spoke I threw the sheet from me and started to arise, take up my life, and walk. "But who'll attend to the chickens and--" Polly fairly gasped. "I don't know and I don't care, and if you want to go in to dinner with us, Polly, you had better hurry on, for you'll have to beg your mother hard," I said, and at the suggestion Polly fairly flew. I don't exactly know what Polly told Matthew about me, but his face was a study as I descended elegantly clad and ready to go to town with him. "Good, dear!" he said as I raised my lips to his and gave him a second edition of that ring-around-rosy kiss. "I knew you would wear yourself out. I have telephoned Owen to motor out that young Belgian that Baldwin got down to run my farm, and he'll take charge of everything while you rest." "I don't care whether he comes or not," I said as I walked towards the library door to say good-by to my parent twins, who hardly noticed me at all on account of a knotty disagreement in some old Greek text they were digging over. "Well, you needn't worry about--" Matthew was continuing to say, with the deepest uncertainty in his face and voice. "I won't," I answered. "Did Bess say she could get enough people together to dance to-night?" "We'll all go out to the country club and have a great fling," said Matthew, with the soothing tone of voice that one would use to a friend temporarily mentally deranged. "Hope Mother Corn-tassel lets Polly go." "There she is waiting at the gate for us with her frills in a bundle. Swoop her up, Matt, and fly for fear she is getting off without Aunt Mary's seeing her. Aunt Mary is so bent on keeping Polly's milking hand in." "That young Belgian says he's a good milker, and you needn't worry about--" "I won't," I again answered Matthew, and there was snap enough in my eyes and voice to make him whistle under his breath as he literally swooped up Polly, and they both had the good sense to begin to talk about town affairs and leave unmentioned all rural matters. Half-way into town Matthew swapped me for his Belgian in Owen's car, and Polly and I went on in with Owen and Bess, while Matthew returned out the Riverfield ribbon to install the rescuer of Elmnest. "Oh, Ann, this is delicious," said Bess as she came back with me to cuddle me and ask questions. "But what are--" "Bess," I said, looking her straight in the face with determination, "I am going to marry Matt two days before you marry Owen, though he doesn't know it yet, and if you talk about Elmnest to me I'll go and stay with Belle this week." "How perfectly lovely, and how tired you are, poor dear!" Bess congratulated and exclaimed all in the same breath, then imparted both my announcement and my injunction to Owen on the front seat. I didn't look at Polly while Owen was laughing and exclaiming, but when I did she looked queer and quiet; however, I didn't let that at all affect the nice crisp crust that had hardened on me overnight. And I must say that if Corn-tassel wasn't happy that evening surrounded by the edition of masculine society that Matt had so carefully expurgated for her, she ought to have been. By that time I had told Matthew about his approaching marriage, accepted his bear-hug of joy, delivered before Bess and Polly and Owen and Belle, and I had been congratulated and received back into the bosom of my friends with great joy and hilarity. "Now I can take care of you forever and ever, Ann," whispered Matthew in his good-night, with his lips against my ear. And there in his strong, sustaining arms, even though limp with fatigue, I knew I never did, could, or would, love anybody like I loved him. I don't really suppose I did hear Polly sob on her pillow beside mine, where she had insisted on reposing. She must have been all right, for she was gone out into the rural district with Matthew before I was awake the next morning. After Annette had served mine and Bess's chocolate in Bess's bedroom we settled down to the real seriousness of trousseau talk, which lasted for many long hours. "Now if I sell you back all the things of yours I haven't worn for two hundred and fifty dollars that will leave you over three hundred in the bank to get a few wash frocks and hats and things to last you until you are enough married to Matthew to use his money freely," said Bess after about an hour of discussion and admiration of her own half-finished trousseau. "Yes; I should say those things would be worth about two hundred and fifty dollars now that they are third-hand," I answered Bess's excited eyes, giving her a look of well-crusted affection, for there are not many women in the world, with unlimited command of the material that Bess has, who would not have offered me a spiritual hurt by trying to give me back my thousand dollars' worth of old clothes which she had not needed in the first place when she bought them. "Now, that's all settled, and we'll begin to stretch that three hundred dollars to its limit. We won't care if things do tear, just so they look smart until you and Matthew get to New York. Matthew won't be the first bridegroom to go into raptures over a thirty-nine-cent bargain silk made up by a sixty-dollar dressmaker. I'm giving Owen a few deceptions in that line myself. That gray and purple tissue splits if you look at it, and I got it all for three dollars. Felicia made it up mostly with glue, I think, and I will be a dream in it--a dream that dissolves easily. Let's go shopping." As she thus led me into the maze of dishonest trousseau-buying, Bess began to ring for Annette. Of course most women in the world will refuse to admit that shopping can arouse them from any kind of deadness that the sex is heir to, but a few frank ones, like myself, for instance, will say such to be the case. For three weeks I gave myself up to a perfect debauch of clothes, and ended off each day's spree by dancing myself into a state of exhaustion. Everybody in Hayesville wanted to give Bess and me parties, and most of them did, that is, as many as we could get in at the rate of three a day between dressmakers and milliners and other clothing engagements. Owen got perfectly furious and exhausted, but Matthew kept in an angelic frame of mind through it all. I think the long days with Polly out in the open helped him a lot, though at times I detected a worried expression on the faces of them both, and I felt sure that they were dying to tell me that it had been a case of the razor from Rufus' shoe between him and the Belgian or that the oil was of the grade that explodes incubators, but I gave them no encouragement and only inquired casually from time to time if the parental twins were alive. Polly even tried me out with a bunch of roses, which I knew came from the old musk clump in the corner of the garden which I had seen rebudded, but I thanked her coldly and immediately gave them to Belle's mother. I saw Matthew comforting her in the distance, and his face was tenderly anxious about me all the rest of the evening. "Dear, are we going to be--be married in town at a church?" Matthew inquired timidly one afternoon as he drove me home from a devastated hat shop on the avenue, in which Bess and I had been spending the day. "No, Matt dear, at Elmnest," I answered kindly, as a bride, no matter how worn out, ought to answer a groom, though Bess says that a groom ought to expect to be snapped every time he speaks for ten days before the wedding. "As long as I have got a home that contains two masculine parents I will have to be married in it. I'll go out the morning of the wedding, and you and Polly fix everything and invite everybody in Riverfield, but just the few people here in town you think we ought to have, not more than a dozen. Have it at five o'clock." I thought then that I fixed that hour because everybody would hate it because of the heat and uncertainty as to style of clothes. "All right, dear," answered Matthew, carefully, as if handling conversational eggs. "Miss Ann, where do you want us to fix the wedding--er--bell and altar?" Polly ventured to ask timidly a few days later. "The parlor, of course, Polly. I hate that room, and it is as far from the barn as possible. Now don't bother me any more about it," I snapped, and sent her flying to Matthew in consternation. Later I saw them poring over the last June-bride number of "The Woman's Review," and I surmised the kind of a wedding I was in for. That day I tried on a combination of tull, lace, and embroidery at Felicia's that tried my soul as well as my body. "It's no worse than any other wedding-dress I ever saw; take it off quick, Madame," I snapped as crossly as I dared at the poor old lady, who had gowned me from the cradle to the--I was about to say grave. "Eh, la la, _mais_, you are _très deficile_--difficult," she murmured reproachfully. "Any more so than Bess?" I demanded. "_Non_, perhaps _non_," she answered, with a French shrug. With beautiful tact Matthew fussed with his throttle, which I couldn't see stuck at all, the entire time he was driving me home, and left me with a careful embrace and also with relief in his face that I hadn't exploded over him. Owen is not like that to Bess; he just pours gas on her explosions and fans the resulting flame until it is put out by tears in his arms. "Let's never get married at the same time any more, Ann," groaned Bess as Annette tried to put us both to bed that night before we fell dead on her hands. "Don't speak to me!" was my answer as nearly as I can remember. "I'll be glad to get Bess away from your influence," raged Owen at me the next day when I very nearly stepped on one of the little chickens that he was having run in and out from the conservatory. "You'll want to bring her back in a week if both your tempers don't improve," was my cutting reply as this time I lifted another of his small pets with the toe of my slipper and literally flung it across the room. "Great guns!" exploded Owen, as he retreated into the conservatory and shut the door. The next night was the sixth of June and the night of my wedding eve. All Bess's bridesmaids and groomsmen were dining with her to rehearse her wedding and to have a sort of farewell bat with Matthew and me. "What about your and Ann's wedding to Matthew, Miss Polly?" I heard Cale Johnson ask Polly as she and Matthew were untangling a bolt of wide, white-satin ribbon that I had tangled. "All the show to be of rustics?" "Nobody but Polly is going to stand by us," said Matthew, looking cautiously around to see if I was listening. "Ann doesn't believe in making much fuss over a wedding." "I didn't know I was to be in it until Miss Bess took me to be fitted--oh, it is a dream of a dress, isn't it, Mr. Matthew?" said Polly, with her enthusiasm also tempered by a glance in my direction. "It sure is," answered Matthew, with the greatest approval, as he regarded Polly with parental pride. "Well, I'm glad I'm invited to see it," said Cale as he glanced at Polly tenderly. "I mean to be at the wedding, Matt," he added politely. Cale was to be best man with Polly as maid of honor at Bess's wedding, and he had been standing and sitting close at Polly's side for more than ten days. "Let's try it all over again, everybody," called Bess's wearied voice, interrupting Polly's enthusiastic description of ruffles. The wedding day was a nightmare. Annette and the housemaid and Bess and a girl from Madame Felicia's packed up three trunks full of my clothes and sent them all to the station. "I wish I never had to see them again," I said viciously under my breath as the expressmen carried out the last trunk. "Now, dear, in these two suitcases are your wedding things and your going-away gown. Your dress is in the long box and we will send them all out early in the morning in my car. Matthew will drive us out as soon as we can get ready," Bess had said the night before, as she sank on my bed and spread out with fatigue. CHAPTER XII The next morning it took Annette until ten o'clock and a shower of tears to get Bess and me to sit up and take our coffee. She said the decorators were downstairs beginning on Bess's wedding decorations and that the sun was shining on my wedding-day. "Well, I wish it had delayed itself a couple of hours. I'm too sleepy to get married," I grumbled as I sat up to take the tray of coffee on my knees. "Owen is a darling," I heard Bess murmur from her bed, which was against the wall and mine as our rooms opened into each other. I also heard a rustle of paper and smelled the perfume of flowers. "This is for Mademoiselle from Monsieur Berry," said Annette, as she triumphantly produced a white box tied with white ribbons that lay in the center of a bunch of wild field-roses. "Take it away and let me drink my coffee," I said, and I could see Annette's French eyes snap as she laid down the offering from Matthew and went to attend upon Bess. "Dear Matt," I murmured when I had consumed the coffee and discovered the long string of gorgeous pearls in the white box. "Come on, Bess, let's begin to get married and be done with it," I called to her as I wearily arose. "What time did Polly say she and Matthew had decided to marry me?" I asked as I went into my bath. "Five o'clock, and it's almost twelve now," answered Bess in a voice of panic as I heard things begin to fly into place in her room. Despite the superhuman efforts and patience of Annette and two housemaids, directed from below by Owen and Judge Rutherford, it was half-past two o'clock before I was ready to descend to the car in which Matthew had been sitting, patiently waiting in the sunshine of his wedding day for almost two hours. "Plenty of time," he said cheerily, as I sank into the seat beside him, and Bess and Owen climbed in behind us. Owen's chauffeur took Judge Rutherford in Owen's car, and Annette perched her prim self on the front seat beside the wheel. "Oh, Matt, there is nobody in the world like you," I said as I cast myself on his patience and imperturbability and also the strength of his broad shoulder next mine. I could positively hear Bess and Owen's joy over this bride-like manifestation, which the wind took back to them as we went sailing out of town towards the Riverfield ribbon. And to their further joy I put my cheek down against Matthew's throttle arm and closed my eyes so that I did not see anything of the twenty-mile progression out to Elmnest. I only opened them when we arrived in Riverfield at about half after three o'clock. Was the village out to greet me? It was not. Every front door was closed, and every front shutter shut, and I might have felt that some dire disapproval was being expressed of me and my wedding if I had not seen smoke fairly belching from every kitchen chimney, and if I hadn't known that each house was filled with the splash of vigorous tubbing for which the kitchen stoves and wash boilers were supplying the hot water. "Bet at least ten pounds of soap has gone up in lather," said Matthew as he turned and explained the situation to Bess and Owen after I had explained it to him. At the door of Elmnest stood Polly in a gingham dress, but with both ends of her person in bridal array, from the white satin bows on the looped up plats to the white silk stockings and satin slippers, greeting us with relief and enthusiasm. Beside her stood Aunt Mary and the parent twins, also Bud, in the gray suit with a rose in his button-hole. Matthew handed me out and into their respective embraces, while he also gave Polly a bundle of dry-goods from which I could see white satin ribbon bursting. "Everything is ready," she confided to him. "I knew it would be, Corn-tassel," he answered, with an expression of affectionate confidence and pride. Then from the embrace of Uncle Cradd I walked straight through the back door towards the barn, leaving both Bess and Annette in a state of wild remonstrance, with the wedding paraphernalia all being carried up the stairs by Bud and Rufus. Looking neither to the right nor to the left, I made my way to the barn-door and then stopped still--dead still. It was no longer my barn--it was merely the entrance to a model poultry farm that spread out acres and acres of model houses and runs behind it. Chickens, both white and red, were clucking and working in all the pens, and nowhere among them could I see the Golden Bird. "I hope he's dead, too," I said as I turned on my heel and, without a word, walked back to the house and up to my room, past Polly and Matthew, who stood at the barn-door, their faces pale with anxiety. When I considered that I had been able for months to clothe myself with decency and leave my room in less than fifteen minutes, I could not see why time dragged so for me when being clothed by Annette and Aunt Mary. True, Aunt Mary paused to sniff into her handkerchief every few minutes or to listen to Annette's French raptures as she laid upon me each foolish garment up unto the long swath of heathenish tulle she was beginning to arrange when an interruption occurred in the shape of Rufus, who put his head in the door and mysteriously summoned Polly, who had come in to exhibit her silk muslin frills, in which she was the incarnation of young love's dream. "You are beautiful, darling," I had just said, with the first warmth in my voice I had felt for many days, when Rufus appeared and Polly departed to leave Annette and Aunt Mary to the task of the tulle and orange-blossoms. They took their time, and it was only five minutes to five when Bess came in to get her procession all marshalled. "Come down the back steps, darling, and let's all cool off on the back porch," she advised. "It is terribly hot up here under the roof, and Polly and Matthew say they have decided to come in from the back door so everybody will have a better view of you. How beautiful you are!" As directed, I descended and stood spread out like a white peacock on the back porch. "Now call Matthew and Polly," Bess directed Annette. For several minutes we waited. "Monsieur Berry is not here," finally reported Annette, with fine dramatic effect of her outspread hands. "Tell Owen to find him," commanded Bess. "It is five minutes late now, and they must make that seven-twenty New York train. Hurry!" Annette departed while Aunt Mary came to the back door and looked out questioningly. "Great guns, Bess, where is Matt?" demanded Owen as he came around the house with his eyes and hair wild. "Where is Polly? she'll know!" I answered tranquilly. "I searched Mademoiselle Polly, and she is also not here," answered Annette, again running down the back stairs. From the long parlor and hall came an excited buzz, and Aunt Mary came out upon the back porch entirely this time. "Every one of you go and look for them and leave me here quiet if you don't want me to have a brain storm," I said positively. "They have probably gone to feed the chickens." Not risking me to make good my threat, Bess and Annette and Aunt Mary and Owen and Bud disappeared in as many different directions. They left me standing alone out on the old porch, along the eaves of which rioted a rose, literally covered with small pink blossoms that kept throwing generous gusts of rosy petals down upon my tulle and lace and the bouquet of exotics I held in my hand. Across the valley the skyline of Paradise Ridge seemed to be holding down huge rosy clouds that were trying to bubble up beyond it. Suddenly I drew aside the tulle from my face, dropped my bouquet, and stretched out my arms to the sunset. "I will lift up mine eyes to the hills--Oh, Pan!" I said in a soft agony of supplication as I felt the crust around me begin a cosmic upheaval. "Well, this looks like a Romney bundle and my woman to follow into the woods. You know I won't have this kind of a wedding," suddenly fluted a stormy voice from the other side of the rose vine as Pan came up to the bottom of the steps. "Why--why," I began to say, and then stopped, because the storm was still bursting over my head from Pan, who was attired in his usual Roycroft costume and had in one hand the Romney bundle and in the other the usual white bundle of herbs. Also as usual he was guiltless of a hat, and the crests were unusually long and ruffled. "You look foolish, and I won't marry you that way. Go straight up-stairs and put on real clothes, get your bundle, and come on. I want to eat supper over on Sky Rock, and it is seven miles, and you'll have to cook it. I'm hungry," he stormed still more furiously. "Everybody is inside waiting, and it's not your--" "Well, tell 'em all to come out in the open. I won't take a mate in a house, even if it has to be done with this foolish paper," he continued to rage as he sought in the bandana bundle and produced an official document with a red tape on it. "You go and put on your clothes, and I'll break up this foolishness and get 'em in the yard." "But wait--you don't understand. You--" "You've got all the rest of your life to explain disobeying me like this when I expressly wrote you just what I wanted you to--" Pan went on with his raging. At this juncture Uncle Cradd appeared at the back door in mild excitement. "Nancy, my child, our friends are growing impatient, and is there anything the--" But here he was interrupted by a clamor of voices that fairly poured its volume around the corner of the house. In two seconds it explained itself by its very appearance. First came Matthew, walking slowly, and in his arms he carried a soaked bundle which he held to his breast as tenderly, I was sure, as young Mrs. Buford was holding the blue bundle in the parlor, and two long plaits hung down over his arm. From between him and the bundle there came a feeble squawking and fluttering of wings. From them all poured rivulets of water, and mingled with the squawks were weak gurgles. As I looked, Matthew stopped and lifted the bundle closer on his breast, disclosing its identity as that of Polly, and buried his face in the soaked hair while they all stood dripping together as the rest of us stood perfectly silent and still. "That fool Henri let the Golden Bird get away, and he flew across the river and fell in a tangle of undergrowth. Rufus called Polly, and she plunged right in after him. Her dress caught on the same snag and God, Ann, they were being sucked under just as I got to them. She's still unconscious." In some ways as unconscious as was the Corn-tassel, Matthew began to press hot kisses on the face under his chin which brought forth a feeble choke. "Lay her down on the porch, and I'll show you how to empty her lungs, Berry," said Adam, laying down his bundle and taking charge of the situation, as all the rest, even capable Aunt Mary, still stood helpless before the catastrophe. Reluctantly, Matthew obeyed. "Uncle Cradd, go in the house and tell them all what has happened, and ask them all to come out on the cool of the lawn until we can have the wedding. It will be in just a few minutes, tell them," I said, with the brain that had taken the incubator eggs to bed with Bess and me beginning to act rapidly. "Let me speak to you just a second, Matt," I said, and drew the dazed and dripping bridegroom to one side. "Matthew," I said very quietly and slowly so that I would not have to repeat the words, "I'm not going to marry you at all, but I'm going to marry Evan Baldwin. I'll tell you all about it when I come back from my honeymoon with him. You help me put it through and then stay right here and look after Polly. She may suffer terribly from shock." "Oh, God, Ann, my heart turned over in my breast and kicked when I saw her sink, and for a minute I couldn't find her," Matthew said as he gave a dripping shudder that shook some of the water off him and on my tulle. To the announcement of the loss of a bride he gave no heed at all, for at that moment, as Pan lifted the drenched bundle across his knees and patted it, a faint voice moaned out Matthew's name, and he flew to receive the revived Polly in his arms. "Now, hold her that way until I am sure I have established complete respiration," commanded Pan. "You women begin to take these wet rags off of her. Get two blankets." At which command the rest of the bridal party flew to work in different directions and I with them. Bess and I arrived in my room at the same moment, and she seized the two blankets I drew from the chest and departed without waiting for words. As I drew out the blankets, something else rolled to the floor, and I saw it was my Romney bundle, packed weeks before my death. Its suggestion was not to be denied. I stopped just where I was, and in two minutes my strong hands ripped that tulle and lace and chiffon from my back without waiting to undo hooks and eyes. In another three minutes I was into a pair of the tan cotton stockings and the flat shoes, which Pan had made me that rainy day in the barn, had on my corduroys and a linen smock, and was running down to my wedding with wings of the wind. When I reached the back porch I found Polly sitting up on the floor, with Matthew's arms around her, and the entire wedding-party standing beside the back steps, looking on and ejaculating with thankfulness. Old Parson Henderson stood near, beaming down benedictions for the rescue, and I decided that they were all in a daze in which anything could be put over on them. "Here's my bundle and me," I whispered to Pan, as he stood regarding the young recovered squaw proudly. "Hand the license to Parson Hendricks. I'll make him go on and marry us and get away before anybody puts me back into tulle." "As Polly is all right now we'll have the wedding, for it's getting late, and we want to get across to the Paradise Ridge to camp," said Adam, with the fluty command in his voice which always gets attention and obedience. As he spoke he put down his bundle, gave Parson Hendricks the document, and drew me beside him. I kept my bundle in my hand and stood with my other in his. "Why, I didn't know that--" the old parson began to splutter while a murmur of surprise and question began to arise among the hitherto hypnotized wedding-guests. Judge Rutherford stood apart with the twin parents showing them some book treasure he had unearthed for father, and I don't think that either one of my natural guardians was at my wedding except in body. At the critical moment dear old Matt did rise to the occasion, as did Polly also, with a crimson glow coming into her drenched cheeks, pallid only a second before, and a light like sunrise on a violet bank coming into her eyes. "She's always intended to marry Baldwin. I knew all about it. Go on!" Matthew commanded, as he supported Polly in her blankets on wobbly bare feet. During the resuscitation of Polly, Owen Murray, true to his new passion for the Leghorn family, had been reviving Mr. G. Bird and now with regard for decorum, he set him quietly upon his feet. Did the Golden Bird run like a coward from the scene of the catastrophe of his making? He did not. He deliberately stretched his wings, gave a mighty crow, and walked over and began to peck in my smock-pockets at corn that had lain there many long weeks for him. "Go on, Parson," commanded Pan again, impatiently, and then standing together in the fading sunlight, Pan, Mr. G. Bird, and I were married. Did Pan allow me to stay and make satisfactory explanations of my conduct to my friends and enjoy the wedding festivities so carefully copied out of the "Review" by Polly and Matthew? He did not. Immediately after the ceremony he picked up his two bundles and turned to all of our assembled friends. "We'll be back in a few weeks, and then I'll show you what I learned in Argentina. We have to hurry now to get across the valley. Some of the fine sheep over at Plunkett's are down with foot rash, and I want to be there by noon. Luck to you all." With these words Pan led me around the corner of the house, through the old garden, and out into the woods, Mr. G. Bird still following at the smock-pocket. "We'll have to go back and lock him up; he'll follow me," I said, as I paused and took the Golden Bird's proud head in my hand and let him peck at a dull gold circle on my third finger, which, I am sure, Pan himself had hammered out of a nugget for me. "No, let's take him. I want to show him over at Plunkett's and then in Providence and Hillsboro, to grade up their poultry. I doubt if there's his equal in America," answered Pan as he went on ahead of me to break the undergrowth into which he was leading me underneath the huge old trees. "I didn't write you to let that fool Belgian prune the whole place like that," Pan remarked as we paused at old Tilting Rock and looked down upon the orderly and repaired Elmnest in the sunset glow. "Write?" I murmured weakly, while my mind accused Uncle Cradd, and rightly too, as I learned later after a search in his pockets. "Wasn't any use sending any letter after that New Orleans one, because I traveled on the return trip all the way myself. Still you did pretty well to get the wedding and all ready at the hour I set, even if you did make that awful flummery mistake. I'll forgive you even that after I get over the shock of seeing you look that way." "The hour you set?" I again murmured a weak question. "I thought of writing you to get ready by nine o'clock in the morning, but I knew I'd have to stop in Hayesville for that bit of red tape, so I said five o'clock and had to hustle to make it. I knew you'd be ready. Now you'll have to travel, for we have five miles to go and it takes the pot two hours to simmer. Are you hungry?" I hadn't the strength to answer. I had just enough to pad along behind at his heels with Mr. G. Bird at mine. However, as I padded, I suddenly felt return that strength of ten women which I had put from me the morning I fled from the empty Elmnest, and I knew that it had come upon me to abide. I needed every bit of the energy of ten ordinary women to keep up with Pan's commands, as I helped him make camp beside a cool spring that bubbled out of a rock in a little cove that was swung high up on the side of Paradise Ridge. I washed the bundle of greens he had brought to the wedding and set them to simmer with the inevitable black walnut kernels in a pot that he produced from under a log in the edge of the woods, along with a couple of earthen bowls like the ones he kept secreted in the spring-house at Elmnest. "Got 'em all over ten States," he answered, as I questioned him with delight at the presence of our old friends. Then while I crouched and stirred, he took his long knife out, cut great armfuls of cedar boughs, threw them in a shadow at the foot of a tall old oak, and with a bundle of sticks swept upon them a great pile of dry leaves into the form of a huge nest. The golden glow was just fading as I lifted the pot and poured his portion in his bowl, then mine in the other, while he cut the black loaf he had taken from his bundle into hunks with his knife. It was after seven o'clock, and the crescent moon hung low by the ridge, waiting for the sun to take its complete departure before setting in for its night's joy-ride up the sky. It was eight before Pan finished his slow browsing in his bowl and came over to crouch with me out on the ledge of rock that overlooked the world below us. Clusters of lights in nests of gray smoke were dotted around over the valley, and I knew the nearest one was Riverfield; indeed I could see a bunch of lights a little way apart from the rest, and I felt sure that they were lighting the remaining revelers at my wedding-feast at Elmnest. The Golden Bird had gone sensibly to roost on one of the low limits of the old oak, and he reminded me of the white blur of Polly's wedding bell, which I had caught a glimpse of as I ran through the hall at Elmnest. "_I am thy child_," crooned Pan, with a new note to his chant that immediately started on my heartstrings. "And I'm tired," he added as he stretched himself on the rock beside me, laid his head on my breast, and nuzzled his lips into my bare throat. "I'm going to lift the crests and look at the tips of your ears, Pan," I said as I held him tight. "Better not," he mocked me. I did, and the tips were--I never intend to tell. The lights were twinkling out in the valley one by one, and the young moon made the purple blackness below us only faintly luminous when Pan drew me closer and then into the very edge of the world itself, and pointed down into the soft darkness. "We are all like that, we natives of this great land--asleep in the midst of a silvery mist, while the rest of the world is in the blaze of hell. We've got to wake up and take them to our breast, to nourish and warm and save them. There'll be just you and I and a few others to call the rest of our people until they hear and value and work," he said as he settled me against him so that the twain chants of our heartstrings became one. "I'll follow you through the woods and help you call, Adam," I said softly, with my lips under the red crest nearest to me. "And I'll bring you back here to nest and stay with you until your young are on their feet, with their eyes open," Pan crooned against my lips. "Dear God, what a force unit one woman and one man can create!" THE END * * * * * THE FIREFLY OF FRANCE _By_ MARION POLK ANGELLOTTI This is not a story of laughter or tears, of shock or depression. It has no manufactured gloom. It preaches no reform. It has not a single social problem around which the characters move and argue and agonize. No reader need lie awake at night wondering what the author meant; all she intends to convey goes over the top with the first sight of the printed words. The story invites the reader to be thrilled, and dares him (or her) to weep. Briefly, "The Firefly of France" is in the manner of the romance--in the manner of Dumas, of Walter Scott. It is a story of love, mystery, danger, and daring. It opens in the gorgeous St. Ives Hotel in New York and ends behind the Allied lines in France. The story gets on its way on the first page, and the interest is continuous and increasing until the last page. And it is all beautifully done. The Philadelphia Record says: "No more absorbing romance of the war has been written than 'The Firefly of France.' In a sprightly, spontaneous way the author tells a story that is pregnant with the heroic spirit of the day. There is a blending of mystery, adventure, love and high endeavor that will charm every reader." _12mo, 363 pages_ _Illustrated by Grant T. Reynard_ _Price $1.40_ At All Bookstores Published by THE NEW CENTURY CO. 353 Fourth Avenue New York City * * * * * FILM FOLK "Close-ups" of the Men, Women and Children who make the "Movies." _By_ ROB WAGNER A book of humor and entertaining facts. It is a sort of Los Angeles Canterbury Tales wherein appears the stories, told in the first person, of the handsome film actor whose beauty is fatal to his comfort; of the child wonder; the studio mother; the camera man, who "shoots the films"; the scenario writer; the "extra" man and woman, whose numbers are as the sands of the sea; the publicity man, who "rings the bells," etc., etc. All the stories are located in or near Los Angeles, a section more densely populated with makers of "movies" than any other section on earth. The author lives there, he has been in sympathetic contact with these votaries of this new art since its beginning, and his statements are entirely trustworthy. "Film Folk" is not a series of actual biographies of individuals; the author in each case presents an actor, a director or one of the other characters for the sake of concreteness and to carry out the story-form, and he contrives to set forth in the course of the book the entire movie-making world. The reader gets a clear idea of how the films are made and he is immensely entertained with the accounts of the manners and customs of the inhabitants of the vast movie villages--manners and customs unique in many respects. The stories are told in a style as easy to read as the author is good-humored. _8vo, 356 pages_ _Illustrated from photographs_ _Price $2.00_ At All Bookstores Published by THE CENTURY CO. 353 Fourth Avenue New York City 
7027	----	This eBook was produced by Joel Erickson, Charles Franks, Juliet Sutherland A HIVE of BUSY BEES Effie M. Williams TABLE OF CONTENTS How It Happened The Sting of the Bee Bee Obedient Bee Honest Bee Truthful Bee Kind Bee Polite Bee Gentle Bee Helpful Bee Grateful Bee Loving Bee Content Bee Prayerful Home Again How It Happened [Illustration: Children looking out a window.] "The sun's gone under a cloud," called Grandpa cheerily over his shoulder, as he came into the dining room. Grandma, following close behind, answered laughingly, "Why, my dear, this is the brightest day we've had for two weeks!" "But look at Don's face," said Grandpa soberly, "and Joyce's too, for that matter"--glancing from one to the other. "Children, children," said Grandma kindly, "do tell us what is wrong." No answer. "Only," said Daddy at last, "that they are thinking about next summer." Grandpa threw back his white head, then, and laughed his loud, hearty laugh. "You little trouble-borrowers," he cried, "worrying about next summer! Why, only day before yesterday was Christmas; and by the looks of the dolls, and trains, and picture-books lying all over the house--" "But, Grandpa," said Don in a small voice, trying not to cry, "summer will be here before we know it--you said so this morning yourself; and Daddy says he's going north on a fishing trip--" "--And so," added Joyce sorrowfully, "Don and I can't go to the farm and stay with you as we did last year, and the year before last, and every year since we can remember." Joyce looked anxiously from one face to another. Daddy's eyes were twinkling. Mother looked rather sorry, and so did Grandma. But she knew at once, by the look on Grandpa's face that _he_ understood. He only nodded his white head wisely. "I see," he said. And some way, after that, Joyce felt that it would come out all right. It did. On the last morning that Grandpa and Grandma were there, Daddy said at the breakfast table--quite suddenly, as if he had just thought of it-- "Mother, suppose we let the children choose for themselves. You and I will go to the lake next summer, and catch the big fish; but if they would be happier on the old farm, why--" "Oo-oo-ooh!" cried Joyce delightedly. "Don, you and I may go to Grandpa's house next summer, if we like!" "How do you know?" said Don rather crossly. "Daddy hasn't said that we could." "Why, he said it just now--didn't you, Daddy?" "Not exactly; but that's what I was going to say," said Daddy, smiling into Joyce's shining eyes. After that, it wasn't a bit hard to tell Grandpa and Grandma good-by. "Only until next summer," whispered Joyce when she kissed Grandma for the last time. Long months followed, but June came at last. One happy day the children came home and threw their books down on the table; and Don raced through the house singing the last song he had learned at school: "School is done! school is done! Toss up caps and have a run!" "And now," said Mother that night, "we must begin to get ready for our trips. Are you sure, children, that you still want to go to Grandma's?" "Sure!" whooped Don, dancing about the room; while Joyce answered quietly, "You know, Mother, that nothing could ever change my mind." "Very well," said Mother. "Tomorrow we must go shopping, for you will need some new clothes--good, dark colored clothes to work and play in, so Grandma won't have to be washing all summer." What fun they had in the days that followed! Mother's sewing machine hummed for many hours every day. And at last she got out the little trunk and began to carefully pack away the neatly folded gingham dresses, the blue shirts and overalls, a few toys and other things she knew the children would need. A letter had already been written to Grandma, telling her when to meet them at the station. And she had written back, promising to be there at the very minute. When the great day came, the children were so excited they could hardly eat any breakfast. Mother wisely remembered that when she packed their lunch-box. The last minute, they ran across the street to tell their playmates good-by. When they came back, Daddy had brought the car to the front of the house and was carrying out the little trunk. Mother was already waiting in the car. It was getting near train time, so Daddy quickly drove off to the station. He bought the children's tickets, had the trunk checked, and then he gave Joyce some money to put into the new red purse Mother had given her as a parting gift. He slipped a few coins into Don's pocket, too, and the little boy rattled and jingled them with delight. How grown-up he felt! The children were very brave, until the train whistled and they knew they must say good-by. Joyce could not keep the tears back, as she threw her arms around her mother's neck; but she brushed them away and smiled. "Joyce, dear," Mother was saying, "I am expecting you to be my good, brave little daughter. Take care of Don. Remember to pray every day--and be sure to write to Mother." Joyce promised; and then, almost before the children knew what was happening, they were aboard the train, the engine was puffing, the wheels were grinding on the rails, and they were speeding along through the green countryside. Joyce was trying very hard to be brave, for Don's sake. But a lump _would_ keep coming in her throat, when she thought of Mother standing beside the train and waving her handkerchief as it moved away. Although Joyce was only twelve herself, she really began to feel quite like a mother to eight-year-old Don. She must try to help him forget his loneliness. Soon they were looking out the window; and what interesting sights were whirling past! First there was a big flock of chickens; then some calves in a meadow, running away from the train in a great fright. A flock of sheep with their little lambs frolicked on a green hillside; and a frisky colt kicked up its heels and darted across the pasture as the train went by. By and by, in her most grown-up way, Joyce looked at the watch on her wrist. It was just noon, so she opened the lunch-box; and dainty sandwiches and fruit soon disappeared. But they saved two big slices of Mother's good cake--to take to Grandma and Grandpa. After lunch, the train seemed to creep along rather slowly. But at last it stopped at the station where Grandma had promised to meet them. And sure enough, there stood Grandpa with his snowy hair and his big broad smile. Grandma was waiting nearby in the car. It was late afternoon when they reached the old farmhouse, and Grandma soon had supper ready. After supper, Joyce helped to clear away the dishes; and then the little trunk was unpacked. Grandma was watching keenly, to see if the children were lonely. "Now," she said briskly, "it is milking time. Run down the lane, children, and let the bars down for the cows to come through the lot; and we will give them a good drink of water." Away scampered Joyce and Don; and soon the cows were standing at the trough and Grandpa was pumping water for them. "Let us pump!" cried Joyce. "Fine!" said Grandpa--"that will be your job every evening--to water the cows." After that, they watched the foaming milk stream into the shiny pails; and then they all went into the house together. It was almost dark now; two sleepy children said their prayers, and Grandma soon had them tucked snugly in bed. The Sting of the Bee [Illustration: The Sting of the Bee.] "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" called Don in a shrill voice, dancing into his sister's room. Joyce opened her eyes and looked about her. The bright morning sunlight was streaming in through the little pink-and-white curtains. "Wh--where am I?" she asked sleepily, seeing Don standing there. "Where _are_ you?" cried Don merrily. "Why, on the farm, of course! Don't you hear that old rooster telling you to get up? There he is," he added, pulling aside the curtain. "He is stretching himself, and standing on his tiptoes. Grandpa says he's saying, 'Welcome to the farm, Don and Joyce!' Do hurry and get up! We must go out and help Grandpa do the milking." Half an hour later, Grandma called two hungry children in to breakfast. After that, they were busy and happy all the morning long. Joyce helped Grandma to wash the dishes and tidy the house, and Don followed close at Grandpa's heels as he did his morning's work about the farm. He felt very grown-up indeed when a neighbor came by, and Grandpa told him he had a "new hand." After dinner, Grandma settled down for her afternoon's nap. Grandpa went to help a neighbor with some work, and so the children were left alone. They began to run races in the wide grassy space in front of the old farm house. But they made so much noise that soon Joyce said, "I'm afraid we will wake Grandma, Don. We'd better be quiet." "Let's go to the orchard," said Don. "We can be as noisy as we like there, and she won't even hear us." So away they scampered, to play in the shade of the old apple trees. But Grandma's nap was not to last long; for soon she was awakened by a scream from the orchard. Hurrying out, she found Joyce dancing up and down, with her hand pressed tightly over one eye. Don stood watching her with round, frightened eyes. He could not imagine what had happened, to make his sister act like that. But Grandma knew. Away back in the orchard, Grandpa had several hives of bees. Joyce had gone too near one of the hives; and a bee had done the rest. Grandma did not say much. Quietly she took the little girl's hand and led her back to the house. Soon Joyce was lying on the couch, and Grandma was wringing cold water out of a cloth, and gently placing it on her eye. Before long the pain was gone; but the eye began to swell, and soon she was not able to see out of it at all. "It's all my fault that we went to the orchard," said Don, looking sober. "No, it's mine," said Joyce. "I was afraid we would wake Grandma." "Well," laughed Grandma, "I guess it was mine, because I forgot to tell you about the bees." When it was time to get ready for bed that night, Grandma bathed the swollen eye again. "I wish there were no bees, Grandma," said the little girl suddenly. "Why, you like honey, don't you, dear?" asked Grandma. "Ye-es, I like honey; but I don't like bees--they sting so!" "Bees are very interesting and hard-working little creatures," said Grandma; "and if they are let alone, they will not harm anyone." "I didn't mean to bother them," said Joyce, "but one stung _me_." "That's so," said Grandma; "but they have certain rules, and you must have broken one of them. A bee's sting is the only thing she can use to protect the hive against intruders--and the bee that stings you always dies. That's the price she has to pay to do her duty." "Oh!" said Joyce, "I'm sorry I went too near. But please, Grandma, tell me some more about bees." "There are lots of things to learn about them," said Grandma. "They live in queer little houses called hives. They have a queen; and if she is stolen, or dies, they will not go on working without her. Only one queen can live in each house; when a new queen is about to come out of her cell, the old queen gathers her followers and they swarm. "The queen bee lays the eggs; and when the eggs hatch, the hive is so full of bees that it cannot hold them all. As soon as they find another queen, some of them must move out. "When the bees are swarming, they always take good care of their queen. Sometimes they settle on a limb of a tree; and while they are there, they keep their queen covered, so no one can find her. They send out scouts to find a new home; and as soon as it is found, they all move the re. "Sometimes Grandpa finds the queen, and puts her in the hive. Then she makes a sort of drumming noise, and the other bees follow her inside." "Was it the queen bee that stung me?" asked Joyce. "No, the queen never uses her sting except when in battle with another queen bee; but the other bees take care of her, even if they must die for her sake. There are different kinds of bees in the hive. Drone bees cannot sting; and they will not work--they are lazy fellows. In the fall they are all killed, so that during the long winter months they cannot eat the honey which the workers have gathered. "Bees are busy all the time. On sunny days, they gather honey; and on cloudy days they make little wax cells in which to store the honey." "That's why they say, 'busy as a bee,'" said Joyce. "It means 'busy all the time.' I didn't know there was so much to learn about bees." "I have been thinking about another kind of bee," said Grandma. "Do they sting, like the bees in the orchard?" asked Joyce with a little shiver. "Their stings are much sharper," answered Grandma, "and the pain lasts much longer. There is a hive full of these bees, and they are always very busy. But it is bedtime now. Wait till tomorrow night, and perhaps I shall tell you about one of them." Ten minutes later Don fell asleep, wondering what the strange sort of bee was like, and hoping it would never sting him as the cross bee had stung Joyce. Bee Obedient "I have something to show you," said Grandma after breakfast the next morning. "Come with me." "Oh, a little calf!" exclaimed Don a moment later. "Isn't he cute?" cried Joyce. "See how wobbly his legs are. What's his name, Grandma?" "Grandpa says he's not going to bother naming him, when he has two bright grandchildren here on the farm," answered Grandma, smiling. "Does he mean that _we_ can name him?" asked Joyce. "Yes," replied Grandma, "he means just that." "Oh, Don," cried Joyce, "what shall we call him?" "I think Bruno is a nice name," said Don. "So do I; we'll call him Bruno," agreed Joyce. "I wonder if he would let me pet him," said Don, gently touching the calf on his small white nose. The little fellow tossed his head and wobbled over to the other side of his mother. The children laughed merrily; and they were so interested in watching the little creature that Grandma had to leave them and go back to her work. The hours passed by very quickly and very happily--there were so many new things to do! Of course Joyce had to write a long letter to Mother, telling her about the sting of the bee, the new little calf, and many other interesting things. Late in the afternoon the children remembered about the cows, and they thought they would pump the trough full of water ahead of time. It was such fun that they kept on pumping until the trough overflowed, and the ground around it was all muddy. After supper, they let down the bars for the cows to come through. The cows had just finished drinking, when Don slipped in the mud and fell backward right into the trough. He kicked and splashed about, trying to get out; and Joyce got a good drenching when she tried to help him. Grandpa had to come to the rescue, and fish him out; and then they all had a good laugh--even Don. The children could not watch the milking that night, because they had to go to the house and put on dry clothes. Later in the evening, they reminded Grandma that she had promised to tell them a story. They drew their chairs close to hers, and she began: "It was to be a story about a bee, wasn't it? Well, this bee has a sharp sting, and it goes very deep." "I hope it will never sting me, then," said Joyce. "I hope not," said Grandma. "The boy and girl in my story were stung severely; but it was all their own fault, as you shall see. "Anna and her brother lived near a pond, and when the cold weather came it was great fun to skate on the ice. Oftentimes they would slide across it on their way to school. One morning, as their mother buttoned their coats, she said, 'Don't go across the ice this morning, children. It has begun to thaw, and it is dangerous.' "'No, we won't,' they promised. "When they reached the pond, Willie said, 'Why, see, Anna, how hard and thick the ice looks. Come on, let's slide across it.' "Instantly the bee began to buzz about Anna's ears. 'Bz-z-z-z-z! Don't do it!' said the bee. 'It's dangerous. You promised Mother.' "'We'd better not, Willie,' said Anna quickly. 'We promised Mother, you know.' "'But Mother'll never know,' said Willie. "'But you _promised_,' buzzed the bee again. "'Mother thought the ice was thawing,' added Willie. 'She won't care, when she knows it isn't. You may do as you like, Anna; but I'm going to slide across right now.' "When Anna saw her brother starting across the pond, she followed, in spite of the bee. But they had gone only a little way when the ice began to crack, and then to give way under them. "Anna turned and hurried back to the bank; but Willie had gone too far. She saw him go down in the icy water; and she ran to the road, screaming at the top of her voice. "A man was passing by at that moment. He picked up a board and ran to the pond as fast as he could. And he reached it just in time to save little Willie. "Dragging the lad up on to the bank, he called loudly for someone to come and help him. Two or three men came running; and they worked over Willie, until at last he opened his blue eyes and asked faintly, 'Where am I?' Then they took him home to his mother. "She thanked God for saving the life of her disobedient boy, but the danger was not yet past. For many weeks, Willie was a very sick little boy. When at last they carried him downstairs, he lay on the sofa day after day, pale and quiet--sadly changed from the merry, romping Willie of other days. The springtime came; but it was a long time before he could go into the woods with Anna to hunt for wild flowers or sail his toy boats on the pond. "There was no more school for Willie that year. As Anna trudged off alone day after day, she seemed to hear again and again the buzzing of the bee about her ears--'Bz-z-z-z! You promised Mother!' "'I heard it so plainly,' she would say to herself. 'It must have been my conscience. But I wouldn't listen--and I _almost_ lost my brother.'" The old farmhouse kitchen was very quiet for a moment, after Grandma had finished her story. Nothing was heard but the ticking of the old-fashioned clock. "I'm so glad it didn't happen--_quite_!" said Joyce at last. "What was the bee's name, Grandma?" "Bee Obedient," answered Grandma. "It has sometimes stung boys and girls so deeply that the hurt has never been healed. "But," said Grandma cheerily, "this bee will never bother you, if you listen to its first little buzz." "We will, Grandma, we will!" cried the children as they drifted off to the Land of Dreams. Bee Honest [Illustration] It seemed to Don that he had just fallen asleep when he heard Grandma's cheery voice calling, "Breakfast!" He dressed as quickly as he could; but when he got downstairs, all the others were waiting for him. After breakfast Joyce dried the dishes for Grandma; and then she helped with the sweeping and dusting. Don helped Grandpa to grease the wagon and oil some harness; and he handed staples to Grandpa, while he mended some broken places in the fence. The children were kept busy until dinner time; but in the afternoon they were free to do anything they liked. Today, they decided to play house in the orchard; so they got out some of the things that Mother had packed in the little trunk, to fix up their house. But Don soon grew tired of that sort of play. "Let's play hide-and-seek," he said. "All right," answered Joyce. "I'll run and hide, while you count to one hundred." Away she ran, and Don began to count. Just as he said, "Ninety-five," she ran to the chicken-house door. It was standing open, so she stepped inside. Now there was something in the chicken-house that Joyce did not expect to find. One of Grandpa's pigs was there, rooting around in the loose straw. The pig was not looking for company; and he was so frightened that he ran toward the door pell-mell. Joyce, standing just inside, was in his way; and as he ran against her, she was lifted off her feet and thrown on to his back. Mr. Piggy dashed wildly out of the chicken-house. Just outside the door was a large, shallow pan full of water, which Grandma kept there for the chickens. Joyce fell off the pig's back into the pan of water; and then she rolled over in the dirt. Don stopped counting when he heard her screams, and Grandma came hurrying out. Poor Joyce! What a sight she was! And she was so frightened that it took Grandma quite a while to quiet her sobs. But a bath and a change of clothes made the little girl feel quite like herself again. That evening when Grandma came up from the milking, she found the children on the porch waiting for another story. "Very well," said Grandma, "I shall tell you a story tonight about Bee Honest. "Many years ago there lived three little boys--Joe, Henry, and Charles. They all started to school at the same time. For a long while they kept together in their classes; and they were very good friends. "But when they were about fourteen, two of the boys--Joe and Henry--began to go out nights; and it was always late when they got home. Charles stayed at home in the evening and studied his lessons for the next day, as he had always done. "Of course, the difference soon showed up in their school work. Charles always knew his lessons, while Joe and Henry fell far behind. "When examination time came, the boys begged Charles to help them. "'No,' said Charles firmly, 'I will never do anything like that. My mother says that my father wanted me to be honest; and I mean to be.' "'Aw,' said Henry, 'your father has been dead a long time; and your mother'll never know.' "'I say there's no harm in giving a fellow a lift in his examinations,' grumbled Joe. "'It would be cheating,' said Charles quietly; 'or helping you to, and that would be just as bad.' And with that he turned to his own work, and began to write diligently. "Of course Charles passed all his examinations with honors; and of course Joe and Henry failed. "After that, the boys tormented Charles in every way they could. They called him 'Mother's honest little darling'; and when they saw him coming they yelled, 'Go home and hang on to your mother's apron string.' "Mother knew, by Charles' sober face, that something had gone wrong. 'What is it, son?' she asked; and Charles told her what had happened. She told him how glad she was that he would not do wrong; and how proud his father would be of such a son. "'I shall never be ashamed of you,' she said, 'as long as you are perfectly honest. Sometimes you will find it rather hard; but just wait a few years, and you will see that it pays.' "Charles had been almost discouraged; but Mother's words made him feel quite strong and brave again. The next time he saw the boys, his honest blue eyes looked straight into their faces, unashamed and unafraid. They dropped their eyes, and hurried away as quickly as they could. They did not bother Charles again; for the principal had heard of their actions, and had punished them severely. "When school was out, the boys began to think about doing something to earn a little money. Henry was passing the drug store one day when he noticed a sign in the window--'Boy Wanted, Apply in Person.' He went into the store at once, and asked for the job. "The druggist took him to a little room back of the store. 'Here,' he said, 'is a chest of nails and bolts. You may sort them.' "The boy worked for a while, and then he said to himself, 'What a queer job this is!' He went back into the store and said to the druggist, 'If that is all you have for me to do, I don't believe I want the job.' "'Very well,' said the druggist, 'that is all I have for you to do just now.' He paid Henry for the work he had already done, and the boy went home. "The druggist went back to the little room, and found bolts and nails scattered all over the floor. He put them back in the chest; and then he hung his sign in the window again. "The next day Joe passed by and saw the sign; and he too went in and asked for the job. The druggist took him to the little room and showed him the chest of nails, and told him to sort them. "When the boy had worked only a little while, he went back to the druggist and said, 'Those rusty old nails are no good. Why don't you let me throw them all away? I don't like this kind of job, anyway.' "'All right,' said the druggist; and he paid Joe for what he had done, and let him go. As he put the nails and bolts back in the chest he said to himself, 'I am willing to pay more than this to find a really honest boy.' "Later Joe and Henry, sauntering down the street together, saw the same sign in the window--'Boy Wanted. Apply in Person.' "'Guess he doesn't want a boy very bad,' said Joe. 'That's no job--sorting those old rusty things. Did you find anything in the chest besides bolts and nails, Henry?' "'I'm not telling _everything_ I found,' said Henry with a laugh. "Joe looked up, puzzled and a little alarmed. 'Now I wonder--' he began--but broke off suddenly and started to talk about something else. "A few days later Charles passed by the drug store and saw the sign in the window. He went in and told the druggist he would like to have the job. "'Are Joe and Henry friends of yours?' asked the druggist, looking at him sharply. "'Oh, no, sir.' replied Charles quickly. 'We used to be good friends; but something happened between us that I don't like to tell; and they wouldn't have anything to do with me afterward.' "'I'm glad to hear that,' said the druggist. 'I rather think you're the boy I want.' "For two or three hours Charles worked steadily, now and then whistling a snatch of tune. Then he went to the druggist and said, 'I have finished the job you gave me. What shall I do next?' "The druggist went to the little room to see how Charles had done his work. The boy had found some boxes lying about; and he had placed the bolts in one, the nails in another, and the screws in a third. "'And see what I found!' exclaimed Charles. 'It was lying under those old crooked bolts in the bottom of the chest.' And he handed the druggist a five-dollar gold-piece. "The druggist took the money and said with a smile, 'Now you may place the bolts and screws back in the chest just as you have them arranged in the boxes.' "After he had done that, Charles was sent on a few errands; and then he was dismissed for the day. "A few days later the druggist gave Charles a key and said, 'You may come early in the morning and open the store, and do the sweeping and dusting.' "At the end of the first week, when Charles received his pay-envelope, he found the five-dollar gold-piece along with the week's wages. "One morning not long afterward, when Charles was sweeping the floor, he found a few pennies lying near the counter. He picked them up and laid them on the shelf, and told the druggist about them. Another day he found some pennies, a dime, and two nickels. These too he laid on the shelf, telling the druggist where he had found them. "About a month later, when he was sweeping one morning, he found a bright, shiny new dollar. How he did wish he might keep it for himself! "'The druggist would never know it,' whispered a tiny voice. "But just at that instant, Bee Honest began to buzz around his ears. 'Don't forget what Mother told you,' said the bee. 'She said she would never be ashamed of you, as long as you were perfectly honest.' "Charles turned the shiny dollar over and over in his hand. The bee kept on buzzing--'Never do anything that will make your mother ashamed of you. Be honest! Be honest!' "'Yes,' said Charles at last, 'I will.' He laid the dollar up on the shelf; and when the druggist came in, he told him about it. "The druggist smiled and patted him on the shoulder. 'You are an honest boy,' was all he said. And at the end of the week, Charles found the shiny dollar in his pay-envelope, beside his usual wages. "A few weeks later, the druggist began to give Charles large sums of money to take to the bank for him. 'I have found that I can trust you, my boy,' he would say. "Charles worked in the store all that summer; and when school opened again, he helped the druggist mornings and evenings. His tired mother did not have to take in so many washings now; for Charles always gave her his money at the end of the week. "After he had finished school, the druggist gave him a steady job in the store, with good wages. "'Charles,' said the druggist one day, 'do you remember the day you sorted bolts and nails for me?' "'Indeed I do,' answered Charles. 'How glad I was to find work that day, so I could help my mother a little! And I shall never forget how surprised I was when I found a five-dollar gold-piece at the bottom of the chest.' "'I put it there on purpose,' said the druggist. 'I wanted to find out what sort of boy you were.' "'You did!' exclaimed the astonished boy. "'Yes; and when you brought it to me I was pretty sure that I had found an honest boy. But I wanted to be able to trust you with large sums of money, so I tested you still further. I left pennies and nickels and a dime on the floor; and last of all, a dollar. When you picked them all up, and laid them on the shelf, and told me about them--I knew then that I could safely trust you.' "'I should like to ask you,' said Charles suddenly--'was there a gold-piece lying in the bottom of that chest when Joe and Henry sorted the nails, too?' "'Yes,' said the druggist, 'each of them found a gold-piece there; and each of them kept it for himself.' "'So you lost ten dollars!' exclaimed Charles. "'Yes, lost ten dollars hunting for an honest boy. But it was worth it--for I found one at last!'" "Is that the end of the story?" asked Joyce, as Grandma paused. "Not quite," said Grandpa, who had been listening. "Tell them what happened to Henry and Joe." "Oh yes; I must not forget to tell you about them," said Grandma. "Soon after Charles started working for the druggist, Henry was caught stealing some things from a department store. He was arrested; but his father paid the fine, so he was allowed to go free. "But his dishonest habits soon got him into trouble again. He broke into a house while the family was away, and stole some money. He was sent to a reformatory for boys; and he had to stay there a long time. After that, he never could keep a job long; for he was so dishonest that no one could depend on him. "Joe did not get into so much trouble in his boyhood; but after he became a man he forged a check, and was sent to the penitentiary." "How much better it would have been," said Joyce thoughtfully, "if Henry and Joe had only listened to the bee in the first place." "Yes indeed;" said Grandma, "I have often thought of that; for I am sure the bee talked to them, as well as to Charles." "Maybe," said little Don softly, "they didn't have a Grandma to tell them how to be good." "Maybe not," said Grandpa, smiling as he rose to take the little fellow in to bed. "Didn't they ever change into good men?" asked Joyce. "I'm afraid not," answered Grandma. "That's the saddest part of the whole story. They felt the sting of the bee as long as they lived." Bee Truthful [Illustration] Every day Joyce and Don went out to meet the mailman; and how glad they were this morning when he brought them a letter from Mother! Mother and Daddy were having a good time at the lake; and there was a picture of Daddy smiling at them, as he held up a day's catch of fish. "What a string of fish!" exclaimed Grandpa, when they showed it to him. "And what fine big ones they are!" "I wish," said Don, "that we could go fishing, Grandpa." Grandpa whispered something in his ear; and the little fellow began to dance about and clap his hands. "What is it?" asked Joyce excitedly. "Only that we're going fishing tomorrow," said Grandpa. "We'll start out bright and early in the morning, take our lunch, and spend the day at the river." Joyce and Grandma were busy all morning about the house; and in the afternoon they baked cookies, and got the lunch as nearly ready as they could for the trip. Grandpa and Don went out to the garden to dig bait. They soon had a can full of worms; and then Don found a larger can, and filled that, too. When Grandpa said they had enough, Don covered the worms with loose dirt and set the cans out in the shed. Then they got out the fishing tackle. Late in the afternoon, Grandma called the children and asked them to catch a chicken for her, so she could get it ready for their picnic lunch. The children asked if they might pick off the feathers. They had watched Grandma do it so many times, they thought it would be an easy job. But when they tried it, they found it was not so easy after all. They turned the chicken round and round, picking first in one place and then in another. It took them a long time to get all the feathers off. Then Grandma cut up the chicken and put it in a crock, and took it to the spring house to keep it cool. "I will fry it in the morning," she said. How quickly the day passed by! It was already time to do the evening chores. Grandma was trying to teach the brown and white calf to drink milk from a pail. Grandpa was busy in the barn, so she called the children to come and help her. The calf was kept in a lot near the orchard. "I want you to drive him to the corner of the fence for me," said Grandma. "Then I will try to coax him to drink the milk." But the little creature was not so easy to manage. As soon as they had driven him into the corner, he would back away; and off he would go again, across the lot. After this had happened several times, Don said, "Just wait, Grandma; when we get him into the corner again, I will hold him there." So the next time, he grabbed the calf about the neck and jumped on his back. Instantly the calf turned and galloped across the lot. When he reached the farther side, he turned again, and Don rolled off on the soft grass. Just then, Grandpa came to the rescue. He drove the calf to the corner and held him there, while Grandma coaxed him to drink from the pail. "We must go to bed early tonight," said Grandpa as they started for the house. "We want to reach the river by the time the sun comes up." "But you'll tell us a story first, won't you, Grandma?" asked Don. "Yes," said Grandma, as she sank into her comfortable old rocking chair in the kitchen. "About another bee?" asked Joyce. "Which one?" "Bee Truthful," answered Grandma. "Boys and girls who will not listen to him often come to grief--as the boy did that I shall tell you about. "Little Milton lived on a farm. His father had a number of mules, which he used in plowing his fields. Two of the young mules were very ill-tempered. Milton's father was very careful to keep the little pigs and calves out of their way, for fear the mules would paw them to death. "When Milton was almost nine, a little baby brother came into his home. His name was Marion. Milton loved the baby dearly, and never grew tired of playing with him. "Their father built a fence around the yard. They were careful to keep the gates of the fence closed, so little Marion could not wander away; especially after the two ill-tempered mules were put out to pasture in the lot just back of the house. "Late one afternoon, Milton was helping his father in the back lot. Daddy had to go and do something else, so he left the boy to finish the job. "'As soon as you have finished,' said Daddy, 'you may go to the house. But be sure to latch the back yard gate.' "Daddy did not get home until after dark. 'Milton,' he said, 'did you latch the gate when you came in this afternoon?' "Milton knew he had forgotten, but he thought to himself, 'If I tell the truth, I shall have to go out and latch the gate now; and I am afraid of the dark.' "Aloud, he said, 'Yes, Daddy, I did.' "'Are you sure?' asked Daddy. "'Yes,' said Milton again. "The little boy suddenly heard a bee buzzing in his ears--'Tell the truth, Milton; tell the truth!' But he said to himself, 'It won't matter if the gate stands open all night; I will latch it the first thing in the morning.' And so he soon forgot all about it. "The next morning, right after breakfast, Milton's mother sent him on an errand. Marion was still asleep. "'Where's Marion?' asked Milton when he came back. "'He woke a little while ago,' said Mother. 'After I gave him his breakfast, I let him go out in the yard to play--it's such a bright morning.' "Instantly Milton thought of the gate; and he went to look for Marion. "A moment later he heard his father cry out in alarm; and looking toward the pasture where the two young mules were kept, he saw little Marion just inside the fence. "Daddy ran toward the baby as fast as he could; but he was just too late. One of the mules kicked Marion, and he fell over in a little heap. The mule, seeing Daddy coming, ran toward the other end of the pasture. "Daddy picked up the limp little body and carried it to the house. The baby lay so still that at first they thought he was dead. "Milton was terribly frightened, and he cried almost all day; for he knew this dreadful thing had happened because he did not latch the back yard gate--and because he had told Daddy a lie about it. "Poor little Marion was taken to the hospital. His spine had been injured, and it was many, many months before he could sit up. And never again was he able to run about like other children. "It was a long time before Mother and Daddy found out how the baby came to be in the pasture with the mules. But one day, after little Marion had been brought home, Milton told Daddy the whole, sad story. "'I'm very sorry,' said Daddy kindly, when he had finished. 'I wish you had told me the truth. I wouldn't have sent you out alone in the dark, son. I would have gone out and latched the gate myself.' "It was almost more than Milton could bear, to have his father talk to him so sadly and yet so kindly. The sting of the bee went deeper and deeper, as he watched his pale-faced little brother day after day. Always after that, he was careful to listen to the buzzing of little Bee Truthful." Two very sober children said good-night to Grandma just as the clock struck half-past eight. Bee Kind [Illustration] "Don," said Grandma, shaking the little sleeper, "it's time to wake up!" Don turned over, rubbed his eyes, and with a deep sigh settled back to sleep. "Here, here!" cried Grandma, shaking him again. "Do you want us to leave you at home all alone? We're going fishing today!" Instantly Don was wide awake. He bounced out of bed and began to dress as quickly as he could. In five minutes he was in the kitchen; but Joyce was there ahead of him, helping Grandma to pack the lunch basket. Don was so excited that Grandma could coax him to eat only a few bites of breakfast. He was the first one in the car, ready to start for the river. The sun was just peeping over the hills, when they drove into a pretty, shady nook on the bank of the river. "This is always a good place to fish," said Grandpa. They stopped under a tree whose great, spreading branches leaned far out over the water; and soon they were untying the fishing poles and baiting their hooks. "I'll give a nickel to the one who catches the first fish," said Grandpa. Suddenly Don's cork began to bob up and down in the water. Joyce felt a strong pull on her line, too. Almost at the same instant each of them lifted a fish from the water. Grandpa took the little perch from Don's hook, and a catfish from Joyce's; and with his big, hearty laugh he gave them each a nickel. The hours passed so quickly that before the children knew it, it was time for lunch. But when Grandma spread out the chicken and sandwiches and cookies and lemonade in the shade of the big tree, they found that they were as hungry as bears. After lunch, Grandma lay down in the shade and tried to take a nap, while the others went back to their fishing. But the fish did not bite so well as they had done in the morning. They had already caught a great many fish, so they decided to go home early. Grandpa had been stringing the fish one by one, as they had caught them; and he had let the line hang down in the water. Now, when he lifted it out, the children were delighted to see how many fish they had caught. "That is a longer string of fish than Daddy has in the picture!" cried Don. "We cannot use so many fish ourselves," said Grandpa. "We shall have to share with the neighbors." When they reached home, Don helped Grandpa to clean the fish. Grandpa skinned the catfish, and Don scraped the scales from the perch. When they had finished, Don had fish scales all over him--even in his hair. But this trouble was all forgotten at supper time, when Grandma set a large platter of fish on the table. Grandpa said it tasted better than the fried chicken. In the evening, the children came to Grandma for their usual story. They sat down on the porch, with the soft summer dusk gathering about them. "I shall tell you a story tonight," began Grandma, "about a bee that every child should listen to and obey. Its name is Bee Kind. "James and Richard lived near each other, and they were playmates. One day they were flying their kites in a vacant lot, when they saw a dirty little puppy. Richard began to stamp his feet and try to scare it; but as he could not chase it away, he threw stones at the poor little thing. "A stone struck the puppy on his head, and hurt him very badly; for he began to turn round and round, whining and howling pitifully. Richard laughed, as if he thought it a great joke. "'Shame on you!' cried James, 'for treating a poor little puppy like that!' "'You're a sissy,' said Richard, 'or you wouldn't care.' "'You may call me what you please,' said James, 'but I shall never hurt a poor little dog that can't help himself. Maybe he's lost.' "With that, he lifted the little creature in his arms and carried him home. The puppy's head was bleeding where Richard had struck him with the stone. James washed the blood away and gave the little dog something to eat, talking to him kindly and petting him all the while. "When his father came home that evening, he told James that the puppy showed marks of being a very good dog; and that if the owner never came, he might keep him for his own. "James was delighted. He named the dog Rex, and at once began to teach him to do all sorts of tricks. Rex learned to walk on his hind feet, sit up straight and beg for something to eat, play 'dead dog,' roll over, chase his tail, and run through a hoop. "In a few months, Rex had grown to be quite a large dog. By this time, James had taught him how to swim; and when the boy would throw a stick into the water and say, 'Go get it, Rex,' the dog would bring it back in his mouth. "All the boys in the neighborhood liked Rex; and he liked them all-- except Richard. Whenever he came around, the dog would growl and show his teeth. "Two years later, one warm Saturday afternoon in April, James called Rex and started for the pond. Oftentimes fishing parties visited this pond, so a number of small boats were tied among the willows fringing the shore. On this particular afternoon, Richard and his little brother Harry had also gone to the pond; and Richard untied one of the boats to take a ride. Of course he had no right to use a boat that did not belong to him; but he thought that no one would ever know. "Just as James came around a clump of willows, he saw the little boat tip over; and Richard and Harry fell in, at the deepest place in the pond. James knew they could not swim; so he began to call for help as loudly as he could. Rex ran back and forth whining, looking first at James, then at the boys in the water. Suddenly a happy thought struck James. Pointing to the two boys, he said, 'Go get them, Rex!' Immediately the dog jumped into the water and began to swim toward the boys. He soon had Harry's collar between his teeth, and was swimming back to shore. "James helped Harry to his feet; and then, pointing to Richard, he said, 'Go get the other one!' "Richard had gone down the second time when Rex reached him; but as he came up to the surface of the water, the dog caught him and began to swim back. It was a hard task, as Richard was heavier than Harry; but at last Rex brought him safely to shore. "All this time James had been calling for help; and now several men came running toward the pond. They began working with Richard, and after some time he came back to consciousness. "'Who got me out of the water?' he asked, as soon as he could speak. "'Rex,' answered James. "Tears rolled down Richard's face as he said brokenly, 'Just think! I almost killed him when he was a little puppy! I know one thing--I'll never do such a thing again.' "Everybody petted and praised Rex for what he had done. Richard's father bought a beautiful new collar for him. But although the dog had saved Richard's life, he never would have anything to do with him afterward. He could not forget how cruelly the boy had treated him in his puppyhood." "Daddy promised to get a puppy for me soon," said Don. "I shall name him Rex, after the good dog in the story." "And I'm quite sure," said Grandma, "that you'll always be as kind to him as James was to Rex. But I know a little man that will be asleep in about five minutes. Hustle him off to bed, Grandpa, or you'll have to carry him upstairs." Don said a sleepy good-night; and sure enough, five minutes later he was fast a-sleep. Bee Polite [Illustration] When the children came down to the kitchen in the morning, they found that Grandpa had eaten his breakfast, and had gone out to build a pig-pen behind the barn. Don hurried out to help him; and Joyce went to the spring house to do the churning for Grandma. The little girl plunged the dasher into the thick cream, lifted it, and plunged it again, until her arms ached. At last the dasher began to look clean, and tiny particles of golden butter clung to it and she knew that the butter had "come." Then she took the butter paddle and the bowl and cooled them in the spring, just as she had seen Grandma do. She lifted the butter from the churn with the paddle and began to work it to get the milk out. She had watched Grandma do this many times, and it had looked very easy; but she found it quite another thing, when she came to doing it herself. After she had worked for some time, she had a solid roll of butter. She salted it, and worked it some more; and then she called Grandma to come and see it. "I could not have made better butter myself!" said Grandma. So Joyce had something new to write about, in her next letter to Mother. After dinner the children went to the orchard to play. They found an ant hill; and it was very interesting to watch the ants as they worked. One ant was carrying a bread crumb several times larger than herself, and the children were watching eagerly. The old turkey gobbler came strutting toward them; but they did not notice. Joyce was bending over, watching the industrious little ant, when suddenly the gobbler perched upon her back and began to beat her with his wings. "Grandma!" screamed Joyce. It was a comical sight that Grandma saw when she came to the door. There was Joyce, running toward the house, with the gobbler after her, and Don coming behind. The gobbler was right at Joyce's heels, when suddenly the little girl dodged behind a tree and began to go round and round it, keeping the tree between her and the gobbler. At last Don found a stick and chased him away. When Grandma had comforted Joyce, she explained that it was the little girl's red dress that the gobbler didn't like. Joyce declared that she would never wear that dress again while she was on the farm. She never did; and so the gobbler did not bother her any more. At bedtime, the children were ready for their usual story. They clambered up on to the arms of the old rocker on the porch, while Grandpa sat down on the step. "What do we hear about tonight?" asked Grandpa. "I believe I like to hear the stories as well as Don does." "All boys are just alike--big and little," said Grandma with a smile. "My story this time is about Bee Polite." "Oh," said Don, "I know a little verse about politeness. I learned it at school: "'Politeness is to do and say The kindest thing in the kindest way.'" "Then politeness means kindness, doesn't it, Grandma?" asked Joyce. "Yes--and more than that," replied Grandma. "A polite person is never rude. The story is about two children who were stung by Bee Polite just once--but they never forgot it. "Daisy and Dan were twins. When they were babies, their mother took them from their home in the East to live in a far Western state. They could not remember their grandmother, who still lived back in the old home town. All they knew about her was what their mother had told them; and she often wrote long letters, and sent them lovely presents. "One day they received a letter from Grandma, saying that she was coming to spend a few weeks with them. They could hardly wait for Thursday to come when she was to arrive at the station. "The train was due at six o'clock in the evening, and Mother promised the twins that they might go to meet Grandma. After school she sent them to the store to buy some things for supper, and she gave them ten cents to buy candy. "Now there were some children living in the neighborhood who were very rude. For this reason the twins were never allowed to play with them. But today, on their way to the store, they met these children, and all went on together. "They crossed a vacant lot, where there was a pile of crushed rock. Near the rock pile, they met an elderly woman carrying a small satchel. She spoke kindly to them; but one of the boys answered her very rudely, and then stuck out his tongue at her. The lady turned to him and said, 'My boy, you need someone to teach you how to be a gentleman.' "'Oh, do I?' said the boy roughly. And picking up a stone from the rock pile, he threw it at her. Another lad did the same, and still another. "Now the twins had been taught to be polite--especially to old people. Just now little Bee Polite began to buzz about them. But when children are in bad company, it is always hard for them to hear the small voice of conscience. For a moment they stood and watched the boys throw rocks at the old lady; and then they began to throw them too. "No matter how hard she tried, Daisy could not throw a stone straight. But Dan had a better aim, and he threw a rock which struck the old lady's hand. "When the twins reached the store, there were several customers ahead of them; so they had to wait their turn. It was nearing supper time when they came out of the store with their bundles. The rude boys had waited outside for them all that time; and the twins gave them some of their candy. "When Daisy and Dan reached home, they were much surprised to find a visitor there. It was the old lady whom they had treated so unkindly. Mother was crying, as she bathed the hand that had been hurt by Dan's rock. "'Children,' she said, 'this is your dear grandmother who has come to see you. She came on an earlier train than she expected; and she inquired the way, and walked out from the station alone. Some rude children treated her very unkindly on the way. You will have to very good to her, to make up for it.' "'Well, well,' said Grandma kindly, 'is this Daisy and Dan? I should never have taken them to be my grandchildren.' "The twins expected her to add, 'So _you_ are the naughty children who threw stones at me.' But she did not say it; and Daisy and Dan hurried out of the room as quickly as they could. "So the good times the children had expected to have with their grandma were spoiled in the very beginning. After that, whenever they went into the room where she was, they felt very uncomfortable. "'I don't understand why the twins act so strangely,' said Mother one day, as she and Grandma sat mending together. 'I am really ashamed of them. They had planned to do so many things to make you happy during your visit. But they seem to keep away from you all they can.' "Daisy, who was passing outside just under the window, heard every word distinctly. Her heart pounded like a hammer, and she held her breath, to hear what Grandma would say. "Grandma went on mending, without saying a word. 'Dear Grandma! She won't tell on us for throwing stones at her,' said Daisy to herself. 'Then I'll tell, that's what I'll do!' she added with a sob. "An instant later, Mother was surprised to see the little girl dash into the room with tears running down her cheeks. She threw herself down by the chair and laid her head in her mother's lap. She was crying so hard that for a moment she could not speak. "'There, there, little girl,' said Mother, 'what has happened? Tell Mother all about it.' "Then Daisy told the whole story. When she had finished, she threw her arms around Grandma. "'I'm so sorry, dear Grandma!' she cried. "Just then Grandma looked up and saw Dan standing there. He had come in so softly that no one had noticed. "Grandma held out her hands to him; and he burst into tears. 'It was my fault, lots more than Daisy's,' he sobbed. 'I threw a stone before she did; and besides, it was my stone that hit your hand.' "Grandma talked to the twins for a long time, then, in her own quiet way. She told them that children who were in bad company were almost sure to do wrong themselves; and that polite boys and girls usually grew up to be the best men and women. "'I know that such a thing will never happen again,' she said, kissing them both; 'so now it is all forgiven and forgotten.' "But the twins could not forget. Two or three weeks later, Grandma went home. She still wrote letters and sent presents, just as if nothing had ever happened. But for many years--long after Daisy and Dan had grown up--every time they thought of their dear grandmother, they felt the sting of their rudeness and cruelty to her." Joyce winked the tears out of her eyes, as she threw her arms around her grandma's neck. "I could never treat you like that, dear Grandma!" she cried. "Neither could I," said Dan soberly, kissing her good-night. Bee Gentle [Illustration] In the morning, another letter came from Mother. "Daddy and I are getting lonesome for you," she wrote. "We're having a better time than Mother and Daddy are," laughed Don. "If they had come with us to Grandpa's, they would not have been so lonesome, would they, Joyce?" "I should say not!" answered Joyce. "The days go by too fast for that; and besides, something is always happening. If it's nothing else, the old turkey gobbler chases me around the tree." Don and Grandma laughed heartily and Joyce joined in. Grandma had promised to make some cookies this morning; so with Joyce on one side of her and Don on the other, she mixed up the dough and rolled it out on the large board. Then she got some cutters from the pantry, and cut out the cookies in all sorts of shapes. There were different kinds of animals: a bird for Joyce, and a queer little man for Don. His eyes, nose, and mouth were made out of raisins; also the buttons on his vest. Then she put the cookies in the oven to bake. When they were done and Grandma took them out, Joyce's bird stuck to the pan and its tail came off. And Don's man had grown so fat that he had burst one of the buttons off his vest. A long time ago, when the children's mother had been Grandma's little girl, she had lived on this very farm. In those far-off days she had planted a lilac bush and a cluster of prickly pear. Grandpa did not like the prickly pear, but he had let it grow all these years because his little girl had planted it. "Isn't the grass nice and soft here?" said Don. "It feels just like a velvet carpet. Watch me turn somersaults on it." With that, he began to turn somersaults, going in the direction of the prickly pear. Joyce called to him to be careful, but it was too late; he came down right in the middle of the cactus plant. The long thorns pierced him like sharp needles; and although he tried to be brave, he could not keep back the tears. There was nothing to do but pull out the thorns one by one, and it took Grandma quite a while to do that. And although Don turned many somersaults afterward, he was always careful to keep away from the prickly pear. When story time came, Grandma, gently rocking back and forth, began: "I shall tell you tonight about a bee that it is very necessary to have in the home; and it is also much needed by those who have anything to do with animals. Its name is Bee Gentle. Have you ever noticed how gentle Grandpa is with all his animals?" "Yes, I have noticed it," said Joyce. "And the horses love him for it, too. Whenever he goes to the pasture, they trot up to him and begin to nose about his pockets." "He usually carries something in his pockets to give them," said Grandma. "He has raised all his horses from little colts; and he has always treated them kindly. Some men think they must treat animals roughly, to make them obey; but that is not so. "Jake and Jenny were a brother and sister who loved each other dearly, but they were quite different in disposition. All the animals about the place were afraid of Jake, for he treated them roughly, and sometimes beat them. But they loved Jenny because she was gentle with them. The dog would follow her about, and the cat would curl up on her lap and purr itself to sleep. When she went to the pasture, the horses would trot up to her and rub their noses on her shoulder. She often gave them lumps of sugar, or other dainties that horses like. No matter how wild or shy they were with others, Jenny could always catch them easily. "Of all the horses in her father's pasture, Jenny loved best a beautiful swift-footed mare called Fanny. Sometimes she would ride about the country on Fanny's back. But as gentle as the mare was with Jenny, she was afraid of Jake and would not let him catch her in the pasture. "'It would be much better,' Jenny would often say to her brother, 'if you would not treat the animals so roughly. See how easily I can handle Fanny--just because I am always gentle with her.' "'Oh,' Jake would answer with a laugh, 'that is all right for a woman, Jenny; but a man, you know, must show his authority.' "Very early one morning, Jake's father came into his room. 'Jake,' he said, shaking the boy, 'wake up, son! Mother was taken very ill in the night. Catch Fanny and go for the doctor as quickly as you can.' "The hired man was sleeping in the next room, and he heard what Jake's father said. He also got up and dressed, and hurried out to the pasture to help Jake catch the mare. "The two were gone quite a while. At last they came back to the house, and Jake said, 'I can't catch Fanny, Father. She has jumped the ditch a dozen times. What shall I do?' "'Try again,' said his father. 'I can't leave Mother long enough to go to the pasture; and she must have help soon.' "Just then Jenny came in. 'I will catch Fanny for you, Father,' she said, and hurried out to the pasture. "'Fanny, O Fanny!' she called; and the beautiful creature turned her head and trotted toward her. But an instant later, to Jenny's surprise, she galloped away across the field. Glancing behind her, Jenny saw Jake and the hired man coming up the lane." "'She sees you coming,' called Jenny; 'that's why she won't let me catch her. Go back to the house and wait; I'll bring her to you.'" "Jake and the man went back; and Jenny went further into the pasture, calling, 'Fanny, O Fanny!' Instantly the mare turned and trotted toward her. She came close; and when Jenny gave her a lump of sugar, she rubbed her nose against the little girl's shoulder." "Quickly she put the bridle on the mare, and led her through the lane to the barn. Then she harnessed her and hitched her to the buggy, and called to Jake. The boy hurried out, looking rather pale and worried; and as he stepped into the buggy Jenny stroked the mare's neck, saying gently, 'Now go along, dear Fanny, and do your best for Mother.'" "Fanny rubbed her nose against Jenny's shoulder again, as if to say, 'I will, little mistress; you may depend on me.' Then as Jake lifted the reins, she trotted down the road at a rapid gait." "Jake found the doctor just sitting down to breakfast. When he heard the boy's story, he did not stop to eat. He rode right back with Jake, and in a short time he was at the mother's bedside. She was indeed very ill. 'If I had been a little later,' said the doctor in a low tone, 'I could have done nothing for her at all.' "When Jake heard that, he went into the kitchen, sank down on a chair, and leaning his head on the table, he sobbed like a child. Jenny found him there a little later. "She stood there beside him, gently stroking his hair. 'Jake,' she said at last, very softly, 'don't cry any more, because God was very kind to us and didn't let it happen. But just think what might have been, if I hadn't been able to catch Fanny this morning. Don't you think it would pay to always be kind to the animals?' "Jake nodded; he could not trust himself to speak. "The sting of little Bee Gentle went very deep. Never again was Jake cruel to animals. He tried hard to make friends with Fanny; but she would have nothing to do with him. She remembered how roughly he had treated her in the past; and being only a horse, she did not understand that he never would do so again." "How glad Jenny must have been," said Joyce, "that she had treated Fanny kindly! Because Fanny brought the doctor, the doctor saved her mother's life." "And besides," added Grandma softly, "people are always glad when they know they have done right." Bee Helpful [Illustration] "What are you going to do with that rope?" asked Don, as Grandpa came from the shed with a coil of rope on his arm. "Come with me, and you will find out," answered Grandpa. "And you may call Joyce, too, if you wish." Don ran to the house to get Joyce, and soon the two came back together. They followed Grandpa down the lane toward the pasture where he kept his pigs. The children kept asking him what he intended to do, but he would only answer, "Wait and see." Grandpa had a good many grown hogs, and ten little pigs. He opened the pasture gate and called to them, and they all came out into the lane, grunting and squealing. Then he coaxed them toward the pig-pen that he had been building. He closed the gate, and turning to the children said, "Now if you watch me, you will see what I intend to do with the rope." When the children were both safe on the other side of the fence, Grandpa climbed into the pig-pen and coiled the rope a number of times in his hands. Then he cast it from him, and it fell over one of the little pigs. He drew it in, and the pig was caught. Then he lifted him and placed him in the pen. How the little fellow squealed, and how hard the old hogs tried to get to him! Some of the larger ones started toward the fence where Don and Joyce were perched on posts. Grandpa laughed to see how quickly the children scrambled down. "Now," said Grandpa, "you see why I wanted the fence between you and those hogs, don't you? If they could get to you, they might tear you in pieces; for they want to take care of the little pigs." Grandpa coiled the rope again, caught another of the little pigs, and then another and another, until all ten of them were in in the pen. Then he opened the gate and turned the others back into the pasture. Grandpa had caught the pigs so easily--only once or twice had he had to try a second time. "I don't see how you could catch them when they were running away from you," said Don. "I couldn't catch them if they were standing still." "Perhaps not," said Grandpa. "But I can catch you if you try to get away from me. Just try it." At that, Don began to run as fast as he could; but he had not gone far when he felt the rope slip over his shoulders, and he was lifted off his feet. "What fun!" shouted Joyce. "Now try it on me." Grandpa spent quite a while catching first one and then the other. Joyce was the hardest to catch, for after a few times she learned how to dodge the rope. "Why did you put those little pigs in the pen?" asked Don, following close at his heels. "They are getting in the cornfield," answered Grandpa, "and eating too much of my corn." "But can't you keep them out?" asked Don. "No," said Grandpa; "for when I mend one place in the fence, the little pigs are sure to find another place big enough to squeeze through. So the only way I can keep them out is to pen them up. Don, you may carry water for the little pigs--and they will need plenty, too, because it is so warm." That pleased Don, and he began at once to fill the trough which Grandpa had placed in the pen. That evening, Grandpa and Grandma and the children sat on the porch, listening to the chirp of the katydids and the call of the whippoorwills. "Grandma," said Don, "what kind of bee will you tell us about tonight?" "Bee Sleepy, and go to bed," said Grandpa, with a wink at Grandma. The children laughed. "No," said Don, "I don't want to hear about that bee--not yet." "All right," said Grandma, "we'll have our story first; but we must begin right away, because it is almost bedtime. The bee I am thinking about tonight comes often to us all--especially to little children. "Once there was a boy named Alfred who was the only child in his home. He was very selfish; and often he was determined to have his own way. But he had his good points, too. "Alfred lived in the country; and during the Christmas holidays, he visited a friend of his who lived in the city. Then his friend in turn visited him during the summer vacation. "As soon as his company came, Alfred thought it was quite too much for his mother to ask him to help her. He forgot how very ill she had been, and how frail she still was. Indeed, it was hard for him to think of anything but having a good time with his friend. "The two boys had planned to spend a certain day at the creek, fishing. Of course they were eager to start as early as they could that morning. After they had gathered together everything that they needed for their trip, they went out to the kitchen and found Alfred's mother packing a lunch for them. "'Alfred,' she said, 'I wish you would help me a little with the work before you go. I am afraid that I shall not be able to do it all alone. Would you mind stopping long enough to wash the dishes and clean up the kitchen for me?' "Alfred began to pout, but his mother continued, 'I really wish you were not going fishing today. Your father will be away all day; and I would rather not be left alone, for I do not feel as well as usual. But I will not keep you, if you will wash the dishes before you go.' "'Now, Mother,' said Alfred angrily, 'why do you ask me to do that, when you know I want to get started early? If I have to wait half the day, I don't care to go at all.' "Just then the bee began to buzz about Alfred's ears. 'Help your mother! Help your mother!' it said. But Alfred did not pay any attention. 'Let the dishes go,' he cried. 'I don't care whether they are ever washed or not.' And picking up the lunch which his mother had packed so nicely for him, he started toward the creek. He did not even look back to say 'good -by.' "The boys found fishing very good that day. They caught a fine string of trout, ate their lunch, and in the middle of the afternoon were ready to start for home. Alfred was much pleased with their catch, and on the way home he said over and over, 'Won't Mother be glad we went fishing today, when she sees our string of trout? She is so fond of trout.' But even while he was saying it, he could not forget the tired look on his mother's face, or the hurt look in her eyes when he had refused to wash the dishes for her. "When the boys reached the house, it seemed strangely quiet. They found the dishes cleared away, and the kitchen neatly swept. Alfred's mother was lying on the couch, and she seemed to be resting very comfortably. "'See, Mother,' said Alfred, 'isn't this a nice string of trout?' "But Mother did not answer. Alfred spoke to her again. Still no answer. He touched her hand then, and found it icy-cold. "Then the awful truth dawned upon him--his mother was dead! She had died while he was fishing; but she had done the work that she had asked her boy to do. "All his life, poor Alfred felt the sting of the bee that had buzzed about him on that summer morning. What hurt him most deeply was that he would never again have a chance to help his frail little mother who had done so much for him." "I'm so glad," said Joyce, "that I still have my mother, and that I can do things for her when she is tired." "It's a sad story, Grandma," said little Don, "but I'm glad you told it to us. I'm going to remember it always." Bee Grateful [Illustration] Another morning came to the farm--another day for the children to roam about the fields and enjoy themselves in God's big, free out-of-doors. How much more pleasant than having to play in their own yard in the city, these hot summer days! In that long-ago time when the children's mother had lived on the farm, Grandpa had given her a pony of her own to ride to school in the village. Old Ned was still on the place. Grandpa was always ready to saddle and bridle him, whenever the children wished to go for a ride. Today, as the children wandered to the back of the orchard, wishing for something to do, Ned stood on the other side of the fence and neighed at them. That gave Don an idea. "O Joyce!" he cried, "let's ride Ned around in the pasture." "Without a saddle?" exclaimed Joyce. "Of course," answered Don in his most grown up tone. "Why not?" "All right," said Joyce a little doubtfully. They went out through the barn lot, leaving the gate open behind them. Then, letting down the bars, they soon found themselves in the pasture. Joyce led old Ned to the fence, holding to his mane. She climbed up on the fence, and then onto the horse's back. Don quickly climbed on behind her. In his younger days, Ned had been taught a number of tricks, which he still remembered. He would shake hands, and nod his head, and ride up the steps. And when a rider was on his back, if he gripped his knees in Ned's sides, the old horse would gallop away as fast as he could. Always, before this, the children had ridden with a saddle; and so they had never had to hold fast with their knees. But today Joyce knew she would have to hold on tightly, so she pressed her knees hard against old Ned's sides. Instantly he started to gallop across the pasture. He went up the lane, through the open gate into the barn lot, and on to the watering trough. Joyce still held to his mane with all her might, gripping him tightly with her knees. Don bounced up and down behind her, with his arms about her waist. When Ned reached the watering trough, he stopped. Suddenly he lowered his head, and both children slipped off into the trough. It was about half-full of water, and Joyce fell in face downward. Such sputtering, puffing, and blowing, as they scrambled out of the trough! And there stood old Ned, looking at them as if to say, "How did you like your bath?" Grandpa came hurrying up to see if they were hurt. He told them that old Ned was only doing as he had been taught when he was a colt; and that they could not expect him to do otherwise, if they rode him like that. That evening, as twilight settled down, Grandpa and Grandma and the children sat on the porch and listened to the lonely call of a whippoorwill from the neighboring woods. "I see the Big Bear," said Don--"and the Little Bear, too." "What is the Milky Way, Grandma?" asked Joyce. "When men look through telescopes they find millions of stars--so close together and so far away that not one star can be seen by the naked eye. The Indians used to say it was the path which all Indians must travel after they died, to reach the Happy Hunting Grounds." "See how bright the stars are in the Dipper!" exclaimed Don. "When I was just a little girl," said Grandma, "I learned a rhyme about the Milky Way: "The Man in the Moon that sails through the sky Is known as a gay old skipper. But he made a mistake, When he tried to take A drink of milk from the dipper. "He dipped it into the Milky Way, And was just prepared to drink it, When the Big Bear growled, And the Little Bear growled, And it scared him so that he spilled it." The children liked the queer little rhyme, and said it over until they knew it by heart. At last Grandpa said, "I guess it's about time to turn in for tonight." "Oh, no," said Don--"not till Grandma tells us our story." "All right," said Grandma; "I shall tell you this time about a little bee called Bee Grateful. It has a very sharp sting, as you will see. "Far away, under sunny Italian skies, there is an old, old town by the name of Atri. It is built on the side of a steep hill. "A very long time ago, the king of Atri bought a great golden-toned bell and hung it in the tower at the market-place. Fastened to the bell, there was a long rope that reached almost to the ground. "'We shall call it the bell of justice,' said the king. "He proclaimed a great holiday in Atri, and invited everyone to come to the marketplace and see the bell. It shone like gold in the bright sunlight. When the king came riding down the street, the people whispered to one another, 'Perhaps he will ring the bell.' "But he did not. Instead, he stopped at the foot of the tower and raised his hand. All the whispering and talking stopped; for the people knew that the king was about to speak. "'My good people,' he said, 'this bell belongs to you. No one must ever pull the rope unless he is in trouble. But if any one of you--man, woman, or child--is ever treated unjustly, you may come to the marketplace and ring the bell. The judges will come together and listen to your story; and the one who has done wrong will be punished, whoever he may be. That is why this is called the bell of justice.' "Year after year passed by, and the great bell still hung in the tower. Many people who were in trouble had rung the bell; and in every case, the judges had been perfectly fair, and had punished the one who had done wrong. "The rope had hung there so long in the sun and rain, and had been pulled by so many hands, that it was almost worn out. Some of the strands were untwisted; and it had grown shorter and shorter, until only the tallest man or woman could reach it. "'We must have a new rope,' said the judges at last. 'If a little child should be wronged, he could not reach high enough to ring the bell. That would never do.' "At once the people of Atri set about to look for a new rope; but there was none to be found in all the town of Atri. They would have to send someone to a country across the mountains to get the rope. But that would take quite a while; and what should they do, while they were waiting? "One man thought of a plan. He ran to his vineyard and came back with a grapevine. Then he tied the vine to the rope. "'There!' he said, 'the smallest child will be able to reach it now, and ring the bell'; for the vine, with its leaves and little tendrils, trailed on the ground. "The judges were pleased. 'Yes,' they said, 'that will do very well, until we can get a new rope from the country beyond the mountains.' "Near the village of Atri, higher up on the hillside, there lived an old soldier. When he was a young man, he had traveled in far-distant countries, and had fought in many wars. And he was so brave that his king had made him a knight. "He had had one true and faithful friend all through those hard and dangerous years. It was his horse. Many a time the brave steed had saved his master's life. "But now that the knight was an old man, he no longer wished to do brave deeds. He cared now for only one thing: gold, _gold_, GOLD. He was a miser. "One day, as he passed his barn, he looked in and saw his faithful horse standing in his stall. The poor creature looked almost starved. "'Why should I keep that lazy beast any longer?' said the miser to himself. 'His food costs more money than he is worth. I know what I will do. I will turn him out on the hillside, and let him find his own food. If he starves to death--why, he will be out of the way!' "So the brave old horse was turned out to graze as best he could on the rocky hillside. He was sick and lame, and he grew thinner every day; for all he could find was a tiny patch of grass or a thistle now and then. The village dogs barked at him and bit at his heels; and naughty boys threw stones at him. "One hot afternoon, the old horse limped into the market-place of Atri. No one was about the streets; for the people were trying to keep as cool as they could in the shelter of their homes. As the horse went picking about trying to find a few blades of grass, suddenly he discovered the long grapevine trailing on the ground at the foot of the tower. The leaves were still green and tender, for it had been placed there only a short time before. "The horse did not know that the bell would ring if he pulled the vine. He only knew that here was a juicy bit of dinner for him, and he was hungry. "He nibbled at the end of the vine; and suddenly, far up in the belfry, the huge bell began to swing back and forth. From its great throat, golden music floated down over the town of Atri. It seemed to be saying: "'Some--one----has--done----me--wrong! Ding--dong----ding--dong!' "The judges put on their robes, and hurried out of their cool homes into the hot streets of the village. Who was in trouble, they wondered? "When they reached the market-place, no one was there; but they saw the starving old horse, nibbling at the tender grapevine. "'Ho, ho!' cried one, 'it is the miser's brave old steed. He rings the bell to plead for justice.' "'And justice he shall have!' cried another. "'See how thin he is,' said a lad with a kind heart. "By this time, many people had gathered in the market-place. When they saw the old horse, a murmur of astonishment swept through the crowd. "'The miser's steed!' cried one to another. 'He has waited long; but he shall have justice today.' "'I have seen the old horse wandering on the hillside day after day, in search of food,' said an old man. "'And while the noble steed has no shelter,' said his neighbor, 'his master sits at home, counting his gold.' "'Bring his master to us!' cried the judges sternly. "And so they brought him. In silence he waited to hear what the judges would say. "'This brave steed of yours,' they said, 'has served you faithfully for many a long year. He has saved your life in times of danger. He has helped you to hoard your bags of gold. Therefore, hear your sentence, O Miser! Half of your gold shall be taken from you, and used to buy food and shelter for your faithful horse.' "The miser hung his head. It made him sad to lose his gold; but the people laughed and shouted, as the old horse was led away to a comfortable stall and a dinner fit for the steed of a king." "Hooray!" cried Don. "Good for the brave old horse! Grandpa, I'm so glad you aren't a miser!" He was thinking of old Ned, with his sleek, shining black coat. "Bedtime!" announced Grandma, as she led the way into the house. "Good-night, children--and happy dreams to you!" Bee Loving [Illustration] When the children ran down to meet the mailman in the morning, he handed them another letter from Mother. She and Daddy were going home next Friday, she said; and they must be there Saturday, to start school on the following Monday. "Only three more nights to be here," said Joyce, taking the letter in to Grandma. "I want to go home and see Mother and Daddy, but I wish I could stay on the farm, too." "And only three more stories about bees," added Don. "We must remember them all, Joyce, so we can tell them to Mother." "What do you want to do today, children?" asked Grandma. "After our morning work is done," said Joyce, with her most grown-up air, "we must finish weeding the flower-bed." "Grandma," called Don a little later, "come and see how nice it looks where we pulled the weeds yesterday." Grandma stood a moment thoughtfully looking down at the half-weeded bed of flowers. "Children," she said suddenly, "If you wanted a flower this morning, where would you pick it--in the part of the bed that is full of weeds, or in that patch over there that you have weeded so nicely?" "I would pick my flower where there aren't any weeds," answered Don, wondering why she asked. "I would take that pretty big red one right over there." "And so would I!" declared Joyce, pulling up a stubborn weed. "But why wouldn't you take this one?" said Grandma, as she parted the weeds and showed another red beauty. "Well," answered Don, "I s'pose it's just as pretty, but some way the weeds make it look ugly." "That's just what I was thinking about," said Grandma. "I have seen children who were like this flower in the weeds. They had beautiful faces; but they let the weeds of disobedience, selfishness, deceit, and pride grow all about them until you could not see their beauty for the ugly weeds. "This garden makes me think of two cousins that I knew once. One was obedient, unselfish, and kind to everybody; and although she did not have a beautiful face, she was loved by all who knew her. The other girl had a beautiful face; but she had such an unlovely disposition that nobody cared for her, and so she was left very much to herself. Her beauty, like this lovely flower, was quite hidden by the ugly weeds growing up all around her. "These weeds in the flower-bed were very small in the beginning; but they grew and grew, until now they are taller than the flowers. And the weeds in God's child-gardens are small at first, too. To begin with, there springs up the weed of telling a story that is not quite true. If it is not pulled up at once, soon it grows up into a big ugly lie weed. Other weeds--disobedience, selfishness, and unkindness--spring up around it; and soon the beautiful flower is hidden by the tall weeds. And when the Master of the Garden wants a lovely flower-child to do a kind deed for Him, He never thinks of choosing one that is surrounded by weeds." "What a nice story!" exclaimed Joyce. "But it wasn't about a bee, Grandma." "Yes, it was," said Don--"Don't Bee Weedy." "But there haven't been any Don't Bee's in the stories before," said Joyce. "Besides, I wouldn't call that Don't Bee Weedy; I'd call it Bee Clean." "That's a good name for it," said Grandma. "I hope you'll always keep your lives clean from the weeds that children so often allow to grow up around them." Grandma went back to the house, while the children set to work weeding the rest of the flower-bed. They were very careful not to pull up any of the flowers with the weeds. When they had finished, the flower-bed looked beautiful, cleared as it was of all weeds and grasses. "I surely don't want any ugly weeds to grow in _my_ garden, so I shall always listen to Bee Clean," said Joyce softly, as she walked slowly toward the house. "Will you make us a kite, Grandpa?" asked Don after dinner. "Yes, do!" cried Joyce. "It will be such fun to fly it." "Well," said Grandpa, "you children hunt around and find some sticks. Then ask Grandma for some paper and paste and string; and bring them out to the woodshed, and I'll try my hand at making a kite." After it was made, they had to let it lie in the sun for a while, to dry. Then they took it out to the pasture. There was a soft breeze blowing, and Grandpa said the kite ought to fly. Don took the string and ran along with it for quite a distance. The wind lifted it a little; but after it had darted back and forth, it fell on the ground. This happened several times, and at last Grandpa said, "It's too bad, children, but my kite won't fly. But I'll see if I can make something else for you." Then Grandpa took some thin boards and whittled out darts. He took a short stick, and tied a string to it; and then he fitted the string in a notch which he had cut in one end of the dart. He threw the dart up in the air, ever so high. It came down just a few yards from Don. The sharp end stuck fast; and there it stood, upright in the ground. Don was as much pleased with this as he would have been with a kite that would fly. Soon he and Joyce were shooting darts into the air, to see whose would go the highest. They had so much fun that the afternoon flew by very fast. It was nearly suppertime when Don gathered up the darts and took them to the house with him. He carefully put them away in the little trunk, saying, "I'll show the boys how to throw darts when I get home." That evening, as they sat on the porch in the quiet twilight, they heard the faint tinkle of a cowbell in the distance. They talked a while, and then they sang some songs together. "It's story time, isn't it?" said Grandpa by and by. "And who is going to get stung tonight?" he asked, winking at Joyce. "I hope _I_ don't," she laughed, remembering the time the bee had stung her on the first day of her visit. "No one shall be stung tonight," said Grandma. "I have a very sweet little bee to tell you about. And because the little girl in my story listened to its buzz, it made honey for her all her life. Its name is Bee Loving; and it can do things that nothing else in the world can do. You know people can sometimes be _loved_ into doing things that they could not be persuaded to do in any other way. "Gene was a very little girl who had been left alone in the world. She had never seen her father; and her mother had died when she was only two and a half. Some kind people had taken care of the little girl when her mother was ill; and when she died, they tried to find her relatives, to ask what should be done with Gene. But they could not find any trace of them. "When Gene was three, these kind people wanted to go away for a couple of weeks, and they asked a lady to take care of the child while they were gone. The lady was very glad to do this, for she loved little children. And so Gene came to stay in the big mansion where the lady, her husband, and grown-up daughter lived. "The lady's husband did not like children very well, and it always annoyed him whenever little Gene came near him. She had a sunny disposition and a very sweet smile, and she tried to make friends with the man; but he would not pay any attention to her. "He always read his paper in the morning before he went to work, and in the evening after he came home. Little Gene would peep up at him under the paper, with her sweetest smile. He would lay the paper down, and walk away; but soon he would come back and pick it up and begin to read again. And in a moment, there little Gene would be, peeping up at him again with her lovely smile. "One day when Gene had been living in the home about a week, the man was reading his paper and she was peeping under it with her usual smile. Suddenly he laid the paper aside and took her in his arms. He kissed her on her forehead, saying tenderly, 'It doesn't matter how hard a man tries to keep from loving you; you just love your way right into his heart.' "Gene threw her small arms about his neck, and laid her curly head on his shoulder, saying in her pretty baby way, 'Gene woves oo, big man.' "That completely won his heart; and when the two weeks had passed and Gene's friends came after her, he did not want to give her up. So he decided to keep her and bring her up as if she had been his own little girl. This also pleased his wife and grown-up daughter very much, for they had loved little Gene from the beginning. "Gene is grown now, but she still has the same sunny disposition and the same sweet smile, which make her beloved by all who know her. Nothing but love could have won for her the beautiful home she has had all these years. And to this day, Bee Loving is still helping her to win her way through life. The greatest victories are always those that are won through love." "I know someone that I love," said little Don, throwing his arms round Grandma's neck. "So do I," said Joyce as she kissed Grandma good-night. Bee Content [Illustration] "Listen to the mocking bird!" exclaimed Joyce, early the next morning. "It sounds as if he would burst his throat. Sometimes his song is loud, and then again he whistles softly, like our canary." As they listened, the bird whistled shrilly, like the cardinal; then he trilled like the canary, and chirped like the sparrow. He gave a call like the hen quail's, and sang a song exactly like the song of the bluebird. Then he twittered like a number of smaller birds, sang the song of the robin, and came back to the whistle of the cardinal. "Did you ever hear such a wonderful song?" cried Joyce. "I could listen to him all day long." "I like to hear him sing in the daytime, too," laughed Grandma; "but during the night I don't enjoy it so much. Last spring the mocking birds built their nest in the same tree where that little fellow is singing now; and such music, all night long, during the time when they were nesting! It was beautiful, but it kept me awake many an hour when I should have been sleeping. Mocking birds usually build their nests near houses, to protect themselves from robbers." "Robbers! What kind?" exclaimed Don. "Sometimes larger birds; and sometimes cats, or snakes. You can always tell when a robber is about, by the fuss the old birds make. Last spring I heard a great commotion in that tree, and I went out to see what was the trouble. I looked about for quite a while before I discovered the nest; and all the time, the birds were darting here and there and giving their sharp little cries of distress. When at last I found the nest, I saw a big black snake crawling toward it. I got the garden rake and pulled him loose from the limb; and when he fell to the ground, I killed the cruel thief." Joyce stepped out into the yard, to get a better look at the little songster as he sat swinging at the top of the old apple tree. Just then he flew across the orchard and down to the creek, alighting among the willows along the bank. That afternoon the children went to the creek, to see if there were any water lilies in bloom. As they neared the clump of willows, Don said, "Let's be quiet, and see if we can find the mocking bird." So they walked softly, and talked in whispers; but they did not catch a glimpse of the lovely songster. Suddenly Don stopped and pointed to a big green frog sitting on a lily pad in the middle of the creek. "Oh-h-h!" exclaimed Joyce. Instantly there was a splash, and the frog was gone. There were splashes all around, as other frogs disappeared in the water. The children hid behind the willows, and waited quietly for some time. Soon they saw a big green fellow swim toward the lily pad and climb up on it. Others began to swim about in the water, and a number of them came out along the bank. Suddenly Joyce caught sight of something else, which made her forget the frogs. Just beyond the spot where the frog sat perched on a lily pad, there was a lovely water lily in bloom. "O Don," she whispered, "do you think we can get it?" "I'd rather have the frog than the lily," answered Don. "Yes, but you can't get him, you know," said Joyce. "Will you help me to get to the lily?" Don nodded, and came out from behind the willows where he had been crouching. Instantly there was another splash, and Mr. Froggie was gone. In a moment there was not a frog to be seen anywhere. To get the lily, the children had to cross the creek and then step out on an old log. The creek was so shallow that they knew there was no danger of drowning, even if they should fall into the water; so Joyce steadied the log with her hands, while Don stood on it and reached for the lily. It took him some time to get it, for it had a tough stem which was very hard to break. But Joyce was so pleased when he handed her the beautiful lily, that he felt repaid for all his trouble. About three o'clock the children found some empty spools and went to the corner of the orchard, and sat down in the cool shade of the lilac bush. Soon they were blowing many-colored bubbles and flying them in the air. Tabby, Grandma's pretty Maltese cat, lay curled up in the shade. One of Don's bubbles lit on her back, and then burst. By and by another lit on her nose, and burst immediately. The old cat jumped to her feet and began to sneeze. Then she sat down and washed her face with her paw, as if to say, "Thank you, I'd rather wash my face without any soap." That evening, as they sat on the porch, Joyce said a little sadly, "It will not be long now before we shall hear the noisy street cars again, instead of the katydids and whippoorwills. Only one more night after this, and we shall be home." "Yes," added Don--"only two more stories about the bees." He clambered up on to the arm of Grandma's rocking chair, while Joyce sat down at her feet. "We're ready for our story, Grandma," said Don. "All right," answered Grandma. "I shall tell you this time about a little bee called Bee Content. Its buzz is often heard among children at play, when things happen that no one can help. Some will not listen to it, and so they complain and make everyone about them miserable. "Willie was a poor boy who lived on a farm. Although he had to work hard, helping his father, he always went about whistling or singing. His clothes were old and patched; and he did not have things to play with, as other boys have. But he did not mind being poor, because he had parents who loved him dearly. "One day when Willie was working in the field, he looked up and saw a great cloud of dust. A team was running away. The horses were hitched to a buggy; and as they came rushing toward him, the thought flashed into Willie's mind that he must try his best to stop them. A short distance down the road, there was a bridge. If the horses should run into the railing,' he thought, 'they would tear the buggy to pieces, and perhaps hurt themselves.' "The boy leaped over the fence, and braced himself; and as the horses came near, he grabbed one by the bridle and held on tightly. This was a very brave thing to do; for if he had missed catching hold, he might have been thrown under the horses' hoofs and trampled to death. His weight swinging on the horse's bridle soon stopped the team. "Soon a man came running along the highway; and when he learned what Willie had done, he said, 'You are a brave boy. What do I owe you for your trouble?' "Willie smiled his friendly smile as he answered, 'I did not stop the horses for pay, sir. I thought of the railing on the bridge; and I was afraid the horses would break the buggy, and hurt themselves.' "Noticing that Willie's clothes were badly worn, the gentleman said, 'Will you not let me give you some money to buy clothes?' "'I have a better pair of shoes than these--and a better suit of clothes, for Sundays,' answered Willie. 'And these clothes are all right to work in.' "'But you will need some new books for school this fall,' said the gentleman. "'I have some books that were given to me,' replied the lad; 'and Mother glued in the loose leaves, so that I can use them very well, thank you.' "'Wouldn't you like to have a ball and bat?' "'I made a ball from some old wool that Mother gave me,' answered Willie; 'and I whittled out a bat which answers the purpose very well.' "The gentleman laid his hand on Willie's shoulder, saying kindly, 'My boy, I understand now why you have that smile; for you have learned a secret which few people know--the secret of contentment. I shall have to call you The Contented Boy.' And with that, he drove away. "A few days later, a large box came to the village, addressed to Willie. The express agent sent word out to the farm, and Willie's father drove in to the village to get it. "When Willie opened the box, he found a large card lying on top on which were written the words: _To the Contented Boy, From a Grateful Friend and Debtor_. He knew then that the box had come from the man whose team he had stopped a few days before. "It contained a new suit of clothes, some shirts, overalls, stockings, a warm cap and mittens, and a new baseball and bat. When he lifted out the overcoat he felt in the pockets and discovered a five-dollar bill. "How pleased Willie was! As he went back to his work in the field, he whistled more cheerily than before. "But that was not all. At Christmas time, a wonderful bicycle came from his new friend. You will believe me when I tell you that he was the happiest boy in the country." "That's the best story you have told us yet," said Don. "I think Willie was a brave boy." "And he deserved everything he got," added Grandma; "for he had learned the secret of being content with a very little." Bee Prayerful [Illustration: Bee Prayerful] Another morning came; the morning of the last day Joyce and Don were to spend on the farm. They followed Grandma about the house, eager to do something to help. After the usual work was done, and they had taken turns at the churning, Grandma said she would make cookies to pack in their lunch-basket the next day. So she gathered together eggs, sugar, flour, milk, butter, baking powder, and spices. Quickly she made the dough and rolled it out on the board. The children stood close to her watching as she cut out the dough in different shapes. She made quite an army of cookie men; and after they were baked, she covered them with icing. She made their eyes out of cinnamon drops; also the buttons down their vests. "Aren't they lovely?" cried Joyce. "Put plenty of them in our lunch-basket tomorrow, won't you, Grandma? Then we can take some home to Mother and Daddy." "Yes," said Grandma, "and there will be enough for your little friends, too." In the afternoon the children's trunk was brought out, and Grandma helped them to pack. There were so many things they wanted to take home with them, that this was quite a task. At the last moment, just as Grandma was ready to close the trunk, Don ran and got the kite that Grandpa had made. "Maybe Daddy will know how to make it fly," he said. But there was no room for it in the trunk, so he had to take it back to the woodshed. "I can put it away in a safe place," he said. "It will be waiting for us when we come back next summer." That evening the children did all they could to help Grandpa with the chores. They gathered the eggs, pumped water, filled the wood-box, and did many other things. "You are certainly fine little helpers," said Grandpa when they had finished. "When you get home," added Grandma with a smile, "you must tell Mother and Daddy that we need you to help us on the farm." "We will," promised the children with beaming faces. When they had gathered on the porch for their last evening together, Joyce stole up to Grandma's chair and said softly, "Tonight you must tell us the very best bee story that you know." "It couldn't be better than the one about Bee Content," said Don. "I shall tell you about the bee that is perhaps the most important of all," said Grandma thoughtfully. "It does wonderful things for those who listen to its buzz; but those who refuse to listen are sure to be sorry afterward. It is called Bee Prayerful." The children were eager to hear the story, so Grandma began at once: "William Sutherland was a boy who lived in the state of Maryland. When he was thirteen years old, he gave his heart to God and became a Christian. After that he would often steal away alone and spend a few minutes talking to God. "When he was fourteen, Willie began to work in the bank as an errand boy. The banker soon found that he was honest, and trusted him with large sums of money. One of his errands was to carry the payroll to a mill town several miles away. He made this trip every two weeks; and he always set out in the afternoon, and returned the following morning. "There were no automobiles in those days, and no good roads. William had to ride a pony, leaving the main highway and riding over a trail that had been blazed through the forest. "As he started out one afternoon, his mother said to him, 'Son, I'm afraid to have you carry so much money over that lonely trail.' "'Oh, there is no reason to worry, Mother,' replied the lad cheerfully, as he swung into the saddle. 'You know I have always made the trip safely before.' "'Yes,' replied the good woman, 'but I feel fearful today. I shall be praying for you while you are on your way.' "William waved to her, as he turned his pony about and started on his journey. He had placed the payroll in his saddle bags; and as he looked at them he said to himself, 'How glad I am that my master trusts me with so much money.' "He whistled and sang, as he rode along; but as he neared the lonely forest trail, a strange feeling of fear came over him. He reined in his pony and sat still for some time, wondering just what he ought to do. Then Bee Prayerful began to buzz about his ears. He had heard its little voice many times before, and he had learned always to listen and obey. He rode on to the spot where he must leave the highway and set out upon the forest trail; and then he slipped from the saddle and knelt down beside the bushes growing there. "'Dear God,' he said aloud, 'I don't know why, but I feel very much afraid. Take care of me, as I ride through this lonely place. I believe You will, because You have written in Your Book, "I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee."' "And as William knelt there, alone with God, all feeling of fear melted away. He arose, mounted his pony, and rode on with a light heart. "The mill men knew he was coming, for they could hear his cheerful whistle before his pony came into view. He gave the payroll to the foreman, spent the night in the little town, and the next forenoon returned safely to his home. "His mother met him at the door. 'Son,' she said, 'something peculiar happened to me yesterday while you were away. I was very busy, but a little voice seemed to tell me that I ought to stop my work and pray for you. I felt that you were in danger, and that I should ask God to keep you safe. So I laid my work aside, went into my room and knelt down, and stayed there until I was sure that you were quite safe.' "Then William told her how he had felt just before he reached the lonely forest trail, and how he had knelt down among the bushes and asked God to protect him. After that, they often talked about this strange happening, and wondered what it could mean. "William worked in the bank for quite a long while, and then he went away to college. After he had graduated, he became a minister. Soon after this, God called away his good mother to her home in Heaven. "One day William received a letter stamped with the postmark of a town in a distant state. 'I am very ill,' said the writer, 'and the doctor says I shall never recover. I must see you, as I have something very important to tell you before I am called away to meet my God. Please come to me as quickly as possible.' There was no name written at the end of the letter. It was signed, 'A friend.' "William turned the letter over and over in his hand. He knew no one in that faraway place, and for a time he was very much puzzled. Then he did as he had been in the habit of doing for many years--he slipped away to spend a few moments alone with God. And a voice in his heart kept saying, 'Go; someone is in need, and your work is to minister to every soul who asks for help.' "'But whom shall I ask for, when I arrive?' asked William, still perplexed. And the voice answered, 'Only go; God will take care of the rest.' "Hastily packing a few things in his traveling bag, William boarded a train and started for the town in the far-distant state. Arriving at the end of his journey, he stepped out upon the station platform. He was astonished when a gentleman came up to him and said courteously, 'Is this Reverend Sutherland?' "'Yes,' replied the minister, 'I am he.' "'I have been sent to meet you, sir,' said the stranger. 'I have met every train during the past week. Will you come with me?' "A few minutes later, he led the minister into a darkened room where a sick man lay. As they tiptoed into the room, he looked up eagerly, and his breath came fast. Holding out his hand, he asked in a feeble voice, 'Is this Reverend Sutherland?' "'It is,' said the minister gently, clasping the thin white hand. 'Where have I met you before, my friend--and what can I do for you now?' "'You have never met me before,' said the sick man, and his voice sank to a whisper. 'I saw you only once and that was many years ago. But I have kept track of your whereabouts all these years. I have sent for you now, sir, because--I am dying.' "The sick man sank back upon his pillows and rested a moment; then, fixing his large eyes on the minister's face, he went on: "'Mr. Sutherland, one afternoon many years ago you were entrusted with a large sum of money to take to the foreman of a certain mill. In a wild and lonely spot, you slipped from your saddle and knelt down by some bushes and asked God to protect you. Do you remember it?' "'As if it had been yesterday,' said the minister. 'But, my good friend-what do you know about it?' "'Far more than you do,' said the sick man sadly. _I heard that prayer_. I was crouching among the bushes nearby, with my rifle pointed at your heart. I had planned to kill you, take the money, and ride away on your pony. But while you were praying something passed between us; I did not know what it was, but I believed that God had sent it to protect you. I sat in those bushes, too weak to pull the trigger, and watched you ride away--perfectly helpless to do any harm to you. But it has haunted me ever since--the thought of what I wanted to do, and what I should have done if God had not answered your prayer. I could not meet God without telling you all this. Can you forgive me?' "Again William grasped the hand of the dying man, saying in a husky voice, 'My friend, as God has forgiven my sins, I freely forgive you. Ask now for God's forgiveness, and be at peace.' "The minister stayed with the man for some time, talking and praying with him; until at last the light shone in his dark soul, and God forgave his sins. "He died soon after that, and William Sutherland was asked to preach his funeral sermon. He chose as his text those words from the book of Proverbs: 'Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.'" The children sat very still for some time, after Grandma had finished her story. "I think Bee Prayerful is the best of all," said Joyce at last. "I shall remember that story as long as I live." "I hope you will, dear," said Grandma. "No matter where you go--no matter how busy you are--always listen to the gentle buzz of Bee Prayerful." "We will, Grandma," said the children soberly. "And now," said Grandma, "it is bedtime for two little folks who will have to be up bright and early in the morning. You know the train leaves at eight o'clock." "Good-night, katydids and whippoorwills," murmured Don a little drowsily. "We shall come back to hear you sing again next summer." With that, two tired children crept upstairs and tumbled into bed; and very soon they were in the Land of Dreams. Home Again [Illustration: Home Again] The sunlight was streaming in at their bedroom windows, when Joyce and Don awoke the next morning. They dressed quickly, and ran down to watch Grandma pack their lunch for the trip home. At the breakfast table, they talked of all the nice times they had had during the past few weeks; and they promised to persuade Mother and Daddy to come with them to the farm next summer. When everything was ready, Grandpa lifted the little trunk to his shoulder and carried it out to the car; and soon they were on their way. When they reached the station Grandpa bought the tickets, checked the little trunk, and gave the children a story book to read on the train. Dear Grandpa and Grandma! They always knew just what to do to make the children happy. As the train whistled in the distance, Don caught Grandpa's hand and held it tight. Joyce threw her arms around Grandma and whispered, "Dear Grandma, I love you! And I've had such a happy time!" The train pulled up, and the conductor called, "All aboard!" After Grandpa had helped them on to the train, and had gone back to the station platform, the children waved and threw kisses through the window. As the train moved away, they pressed their faces to the window and watched Grandpa and Grandma as long as they could. But they soon were left behind, the train moved faster, and the little village passed out of sight. Happy vacation days on the farm had come to an end. For a few moments the children had to fight to keep back the tears. Then Joyce opened the book that Grandpa had given them, and soon their loneliness was forgotten. There was a story about a little lame dog that came to a man's house one cold winter night and whined about the door. He let it in, bound up its foot, and gave it some food and a comfortable place to sleep. The man liked the dog so well that he decided to keep it. One night, when everyone was asleep, the house caught fire; and the dog awakened the man in time to save the whole family from burning to death. There were stories about cows and horses; and a long, long one about the interesting animals to be seen at the zoo. One story was so funny that when Don read it, he burst out laughing; and the other passengers looked at him and smiled. It was about a mischievous monkey at the zoo. One day a gentleman who wore a wig came by, carrying his hat in his hand. The monkey reached through the bars and caught hold of the wig, pulling it off his head. When it was time for lunch, Joyce opened the basket that Grandma had packed for them. They spread out a napkin on the seat in front of them, and ate their lunch off this "table" in the most grown-up fashion. Grandma had tucked in several surprises; and how good the cookie-men tasted! In the middle of the afternoon they began to pass through the suburbs of the city, and soon familiar sights came into view. When the train backed into the station, there stood Mother and Daddy waiting for them. "O Mother," cried Joyce with a bear hug, "I've had a good time, but I'm so glad to see you again!" Don, big boy that he was, had jumped into Daddy's arms. Soon the little trunk had been placed in the car, and they were driving toward home. "What did you enjoy most of all, during your vacation?" asked Mother, as they were eating supper that evening. "Fishing," replied Don quickly. Joyce did not answer; she sat quite still, with a far-away look in her eyes. "And what did my little girl like best of all?" asked Mother at last. "O Mother," said Joyce, her eyes shining, "I was happy every minute-- even when the old turkey gobbler was chasing me around the tree. But what I liked best was to sit out on the porch in the evenings, and listen to the katydids and whippoorwills, and watch the stars come out one by one. And then it was so nice to sit close to Grandma's old rocking-chair 
35493	----	Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net The Black Fawn _Other books by_ Jim Kjelgaard THE LAND IS BRIGHT THE LOST WAGON BIG RED REBEL SIEGE FOREST PATROL BUCKSKIN BRIGADE CHIP, THE DAM BUILDER FIRE HUNTER IRISH RED KALAK OF THE ICE A NOSE FOR TROUBLE SNOW DOG TRAILING TROUBLE WILD TREK THE EXPLORATIONS OF PERE MARQUETTE THE SPELL OF THE WHITE STURGEON OUTLAW RED THE COMING OF THE MORMONS CRACKER BARREL TROUBLE SHOOTER LION HOUND TRADING JEFF AND HIS DOG DESERT DOG HAUNT FOX THE OKLAHOMA LAND RUN DOUBLE CHALLENGE SWAMP CAT WILDLIFE CAMERAMAN WOLF BROTHER RESCUE DOG OF THE HIGH PASS The Black Fawn by Jim Kjelgaard Dodd, Mead & Company New York © 1958 BY JIM KJELGAARD ALL RIGHTS RESERVED _Tenth Printing_ NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM WITHOUT PERMISSION IN WRITING FROM THE PUBLISHER _The characters, places, incidents and situations in this book are imaginary and have no relation to any person, place or actual happening_ LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER: 58-13083 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA To my wife because, in twenty years together, the longest days I've ever spent were those when we were not together The Black Fawn chapter 1 Evening shadows lowered like a cool, dark wing folding gently over the day, but the coming of night brought no change in the refrain that over and over again kept running through Bud Sloan's brain. "I must not let them know I'm afraid. I must remember my manners. I must not let them know I'm afraid! I must remember my manners! I must not . . ." He clenched his teeth as though somehow that would clamp down on the unwanted words and shove them back into the dark recesses where they belonged. But they were in his brain, not his mouth, and clenching his teeth only seemed to make the refrain ring all the more loudly. He opened his mouth and said before he could stop himself, "I must not . . ." "You must not what?" Gram Bennett asked. She sat at the side of the little table in the kitchen and not at the great one in the dining room as when all the Bennetts' eleven children were home. Then Gramps sat at the head of the table and Gram at the foot. But the little table was big enough now that there were only three of them for most meals. "Nothing." Bud choked. "I--I was just thinking out loud." "You needn't be afraid to speak up, Allan. If there's something you must not do, you have only to say so." Gram spoke very gently, but Bud squirmed. He did not wriggle on his chair for he had learned to hide as well as he could what he really felt. To show your feelings was to show your weakness, and there was always somebody ready to pounce on a weakness. He should have known better than to talk out loud. "Tell us, Allan," Gram coaxed. "There's nothing to tell," he said, looking down at his plate and feeling his cheeks flush. * * * * * He had come to live with Gram and Gramps only yesterday morning and it seemed an eternity since the bus driver had stopped on the blacktop road and pointed out the rutted drive leading to the Bennetts' huge old farmhouse. "That's it, son," he had said. With his little bundle of belongings wrapped in a spare shirt and tucked under his right arm--the orphanage did not furnish suitcases when they farmed you out--Bud started up the drive with his head high and with what he hoped was a fearless, manly tread. But his insides felt like jelly that has stood too long in a warm place and his feet seemed to weigh five hundred pounds each. If he had been sure no one was looking, he would have burst into tears. He could not be sure, and not for an instant must he forget that weakness made him an easy prey for whoever saw it. He did not think of running. Bud was twenty yards from the house when Gramps Bennett came around one corner. Bud stopped in his tracks and grasped his bundle so tightly that his knuckles whitened. At first glance Gramps seemed to be a huge man, but after a second look you saw that he merely seemed huge because he was short. He stood five feet six in his work-scuffed brogans, faded blue jeans and an equally faded denim work shirt. He seemed to be almost as big around as he was tall. Hamlike hands hung from his shirt sleeves, a short, thick neck rose from the collar. A stubby white beard almost hid Gramps' lips and he had an aquiline nose, piercing eyes and a leonine mane of white hair. Gramps' voice sounded like a lion's roar as he said, "You the boy from the orphanage?" "Yes, sir," Bud said, still trying to conduct himself as a man should. "Got a name?" Gramps asked caustically. "Yes, sir," the boy said. "Bud Sloan." "Bud, eh? I've heard worse names. Come meet Gram." Without another word or a backward look and with astonishing agility for his bulk, Gramps turned on his heel and led the way to the kitchen door at the back of the house. There was also a front door, but that was for company use. Bud felt better when he saw four cattle in a pasture near the barn. Two horses raised inquiring heads over the bars of the paddock, pigs grunted in their sty and chickens, ducks and turkeys roamed at will around the farmyard. Then a big and furry farm collie came trotting slowly toward the house. Bud almost smiled. He had always understood animals. He did not know why, unless it was because they always accepted him for what he was and never cared where he came from or who supported him. His most cherished memory of the orphanage was a pet kitten he had had there. His first heartbreak had come when that kitten had been killed by a passing car. Seeing the animals here seemed somehow to remove half his burdens. Bud turned for a last look at the dog before Gramps opened the door and he entered the kitchen to meet Gram. "Why, Allan! How wonderful you're here at last!" Bud writhed. For although his proper name was Allan, he hated it. Gram was taller than Gramps, and slim. Her hair was gray. Sixty years and eleven children had left their mark on her face and work-worn hands, but her tread was lithe and easy as she advanced on Bud. When she stooped to enfold him in her arms, she seemed taller than the Eiffel Tower. Gram planted a resounding kiss on his cheek. "Welcome, Allan, and may you be happy with us!" Bud sputtered and squirmed away from Gram. It was the first time he could remember being kissed and he considered it a degrading experience. He looked up to see Gramps regarding him balefully. "You told me your name was Bud," Gramps snorted. "It is!" "Pooh," said Gram. "It's Allan written on the card and it's Allan I'll call him. Have a tart, Allan." She gave him a crisp-baked tart filled with jelly. Bud meant to refuse it, for he neither asked for nor wanted favors. But a boy's hunger asserted itself and he accepted it, mumbled his thanks and began to eat it, looking around the kitchen as he did. He noticed only that it was much smaller than the kitchen at the orphanage and that the huge, old-fashioned wood-burning range, the wooden cupboards, the pantry off the kitchen and the worn furniture and scuffed linoleum looked shabby in comparison with the antiseptic, modern appointments of the orphanage kitchen. Bud finished the tart and, stealing a glance into the adjoining living room, saw a mounted buck's head peering glassily back at him. Hastily he wiped his hands on his trousers and looked away. "Do you think you'll like it here?" Gram asked. "Yes, ma'am," Bud said dutifully. "Will you have another tart?" "No, ma'am." "Yes, ma'am. No, ma'am," Gramps mimicked. "That all they taught you to say at that there orphanage?" "No, sir." "Well, if you've had all you want to eat, Bud," Gramps said, looking meaningfully at Gram as he emphasized the nickname, "we might as well put you to work." "Now, Delbert," Gram said, "I say that boy ought to rest his first day with us." "And I say he ought not," Gramps said firmly. "He might as well get the idea why he's here from the first, and why he's here is to work. Come on, Bud." Bud said nothing as he turned to follow Gramps out of the kitchen, but he was not worried. He had known he was coming to work. Tales from other farmed-out youngsters had drifted back to the orphanage and some of them were not pretty tales, but anything was better than continuing as an object of charity. He was a man and he could stand on his own two feet. Although he might not like what came, he could face it. He felt a little better when they came onto the back porch. The big dog that had been ambling toward the house when he arrived was now lying on the stoop. It rose, wagged its tail amiably and touched Bud's hand with a moist muzzle. No matter what happened, Bud thought, it couldn't be all bad now that he had a friend. Gramps did not stop or look back until they came to a broad cultivated field in which orderly rows of fledgling crops had been so carefully planted and so precisely spaced that they formed an exact pattern. The dog, who knew that he was not to walk on cultivated ground, sat down at the edge of the field. Bud asked his name. "Shep," Gramps said, and then he pointed to the field. "Do you know what those are?" "No, sir." "Beans," said Gramps, and the tone of his voice showed pity for anybody unable to identify a growing bean. "Now stoop down here 'longside me." Bud did as he was told and Gramps caught a bean, which had broad leaves and a fragile stem, between his forefingers and held it gently. "Have yourself a real good look." Bud concentrated on the bean until a full minute later when Gramps said, "Know what it looks like?" "Yes, sir." "Good. Now, everything in this field that ain't a bean is a weed. Every weed steals from the beans just like a bank robber steals from a bank." "I don't understand you, sir," Bud said. "Think, boy, and quit calling me sir," Gramps said impatiently. "What makes the beans grow big and strong, if not the goodness of the earth? And what else do the weeds live on? For every weed that steals the earth's richness, the beans suffer accordingly." "That's wonderful!" Gramps looked at him oddly, but Bud was too surprised and delighted to notice. He had never thought of nature in such terms and it _was_ wonderful. Gramps got down on his hands and knees and, supporting himself on both knees and with his left hand, deftly used his right hand to pluck a small weed from among the growing beans. He held the weed up for Bud to look at. "There you are. A pigweed, and a month from now it would be waist high to you. Its roots would be so big and grown so deep that when you pulled it out a half dozen beans would come with it. Now, between the rows we can hoe 'em out or cultivate 'em. But we can't use either a hoe or cultivator on the rows themselves, and I guess even you can see why." "Yes, sir." Gramps' tone remained caustic but Bud refused to be ruffled. He would earn his own way and the right to hold his head high. "Sure you know what a bean looks like?" Gramps asked. "Yes, sir." "Then I want you to work down all these rows and pick the weeds out from the beans." Bud got down on his hands and knees and started on the first row. He was more interested than he had thought he could be, for what otherwise would have been an onerous task took on new meaning in the light of what Gramps had told him. He was not just pulling weeds; he was destroying robbers bent on stealing for themselves the goodness from the earth that properly belonged to the growing beans. When he thought he was surely at the end of the row, he looked up to find that he was less than halfway down it. Then another sight caught his eyes. Beyond the barn and the pasture, where the cattle now stood lazily in the shade of a single tree and chewed placid cuds, the unbroken green border of the forest began. The trees were cutover hardwoods for the most part, but here and there a pine rose above them and an occasional gaunt stub towered over even the pines. Bud looked and wondered and promised himself that, as soon as he could, he would go into the forest and see for himself what was there. But now there were weeds to pull. After what seemed an eternity, he reached the end of the first row and turned back on the second one. He did not look up again, for he felt guilty about stopping work. He tried to forget the ache in his bent back and the strain on his legs, for he knew he must work. When at last he came to the end of the second row and turned back on the third, he heard Gram saying, "I've brought you a drink, Allan. Real, honest-to-goodness ice-cold lemonade. Come have some." Bud rose to his knees, trying hard not to wince, and saw Gram, who was wearing a faded gingham dress and a sunbonnet that had gone out of style a quarter of a century ago. She was carrying a pail from which the handle of a tin dipper protruded and in which chunks of ice tinkled. Cold droplets clung to the outer surface of the pail. Gram smiled as Bud came forward, and he looked at her warily. There was no telling what might happen when people smiled. But thirst triumphed over caution. He filled the dipper, drained it, and filled it and drained it again. Ice-cold lemonade was delicious in any case and it seemed twenty times better from a tin dipper. "More?" Gram said. "No thank you, ma'am." "How is it going?" "Very well, ma'am." "Don't you work too hard," she said, and went off to offer some lemonade to Gramps. Bud went back to his weeding, crawling slowly along the lines of beans with his eyes fixed on their lower stalks. Anything that was not a bean must be a weed, Gramps had said, and Bud acted accordingly. By now the romance of what he was doing had faded, but he kept on, determined to pay his own way. A sudden bellow from Gramps was as startling as the wail of a fire engine. "Hey, Bud. Don'cha eat at noon?" * * * * * Bud rose and turned to face the old man, who said, "Don't the sun tell you it's noon?" "No," Bud said. "When the sun's where she is, and when she don't cast 'nough shadow to hide a grasshopper, it's noon." Bud pondered this new and fascinating bit of lore. He looked at the sun and tried to fix its position indelibly in his mind so that forever afterward he would know when it was noon. Though the sun had never told him anything before, from now on it would. "Let's move!" Gramps bellowed. Bud followed. Shep, who had devoted the cool portion of the morning to sniffing out various creatures in their lairs and had then gone to lie in the tall grass when the sun became hot, joined them. Bud and Gramps washed at the old hand pump beside the stoop, rubbed their hands and faces dry with a rough towel that hung over the pump and went into the kitchen. Bud sank wearily into his chair and it seemed to him that he had never before known how good it could be just to sit down. But he had worked too hard not to be even hungrier than usual, and he could not ignore the smell of the food on the table. Gram's lunch began with pork chops and mashed potatoes and ended with a delicious chilled product of the kitchen's major concession to modern living, a big refrigerator. There was no time for conversation or anything else except eating. Gramps emptied his plate first, pushed it back and sighed contentedly. A moment later when Bud had drained his final glass of milk, Gramps said, "How about getting back to work?" "Yes, sir." "Delbert," Gram said sharply, "that boy should rest." "Pshaw. He'll rest better after he works harder. How 'bout it?" "Yes, sir," Bud said without enthusiasm. The morning had been hard and the afternoon was torture. But Bud stayed grimly with the weeds until the sun lowered and Gramps called to him that it was time for supper. Bud was almost reeling with fatigue and he was grateful when Gramps pumped a basin of water for him to wash in. Although he happily stuffed himself with Gram's supper, only his resolution to show no weakness kept him from dozing once supper was over. Evidently as brisk as he had been in the early morning, Gramps bounced from his chair. "If you're done, Bud, how 'bout giving me a hand with the milking?" "Delbert," Gram said, "you're a . . ." "I'm a what?" Gramps asked innocently. "A Simon Legree. You're working that youngster a sight harder than you ever worked yourself." Gramps said piously, "The Lord said there shall be a day and there shall be a night. Man shall work for as long as day shall last. Right offhand, I can't rightly recall if He said anything 'bout working nights, but I expect He didn't know much about farmers or He would have. Anyhow, those cows got to be milked." "Until now you've managed very nicely to milk them yourself." "But now I got a boy to help me with all the chores I used to do," Gramps said. "C'mon, Bud." Bud trailed the old man to the barn where Gramps flicked on the switch that lighted it. The first thing Bud noticed was the barn's odor, pungent and sweet, with only a faint suggestion of rancidness. Locked in their stanchions, the four cows were either nibbling grain from the boxes that stood beside each of them or lustily chewing hay. Bud stood back. Pulling weeds had been strange enough. The cows in their stanchions were as alien as visitors from another planet. Gramps went to the end of the stable, opened a small door and disappeared through it. He returned with two milking pails. He kept one and thrust the other at Bud, who took it although he hadn't the faintest notion of what he was supposed to do with it. "Ever do any milking?" Gramps demanded. "No, sir." "You'll never learn any younger. I'll show you." He pulled a stool up beside a placid red and white cow that was so used to being milked that she did not even move when Gramps began to strip her udders. It looked easy. But when Gramps rose and motioned for Bud to take his place, the best Bud could do was to coax a trickle from one teat and a few drops from another. Gramps watched for a moment without comment and went to milk another cow. Bud continued the uneven struggle but there was less than an inch of milk in the bottom of the pail when Gramps returned. He watched a moment and said, "Let me do it." Bud was thankful, but he tried hard not to show that he was as he surrendered the milking stool and let Gramps sit down. Milk hissed and foamed into the pail as Gramps took every last drop of milk from the cow's swollen udders. Bud went with him to the little room at the end of the stable and, feeling guilty and ashamed, watched him pour the milk into a can that stood neck-deep in cold water. Back in the house he fell asleep as soon as his head struck the pillow. He was too tired to notice the room or anything except that he was in bed. He seemed scarcely to have fallen asleep when he felt someone shaking him awake. Bud opened his eyes to see the murky dawn at the windows and Gramps standing over him. "Come on," Gramps said. "We don't lay abed on farms." Bud waited until Gramps had gone, for now that he was awake, it didn't seem possible that he could hurt in so many places and all at the same time. Then he climbed stiffly out of bed and dressed. When he walked downstairs to breakfast, his head was high and his step was as firm as he could make it. The second day was a repetition of the first, except that when the beans were finished, Gramps set him to weeding onions. But more and more often Bud raised his head to look at the surrounding forest, and he renewed his promise to himself to find out what lay behind those trees at the edge of the forest. * * * * * Bud looked resentfully down at his empty pie plate and, as much as he wanted to, he could not look up again. "I guess," Gram said, "that a body needn't tell all he knows and is a fool if he does. Whatever it is you mustn't do, don't do it. I'm sure Delbert will do the milking tonight. Why don't you go for a walk in the woods?" He sprang up with renewed energy and went outside. Shep rose to tag along with him and together they entered the cool forest. Bud walked slowly. He did not know how to interpret the things he saw and heard around him, but he did not doubt that all of it was wonderful. He jumped when an owl cried, was frightened for a moment when a dead snag crashed with an unearthly noise and laughed when a jay shrieked. His confidence mounted so that when he heard two sharp, blasting snorts, he continued to advance. Two minutes later he stopped in his tracks. Not twenty feet away, its wobbly feet braced to keep it from falling, a tiny fawn no more than two hours old stared at him in wide-eyed wonder. chapter 2 The fawn trembled on legs so new and untried, and so slender that they seemed scarcely able to support his jack-rabbit-sized body. His ears were ridiculously long and his staring, fascinated eyes were all out of proportion to his tiny head. The white stripes and spots that mark the young of all white-tailed deer stood out against an undercoating of hair that was abnormally dark; on the neck and shoulders it was nearly black. The gentle Shep wagged his tail and took a step nearer this tiny wild baby. Raising a front foot, the fawn tapped a hoof no bigger than a twenty-five-cent piece and looked back over his shoulder at the laurel copse where the doe had left him. Scenting the approach of a dog and a human being, she had fled. The little buck should have stayed in hiding, but his natural curiosity had overridden the doe's warning not to move. For a moment Bud was too bewildered and delighted to think clearly. Then he was lifted on a cloud of ecstasy and sympathy. He was sure the fawn had been abandoned by his father and mother or that they were dead. Like Bud, the little buck was left to shift for himself in a cheerless and friendless world, and Bud felt that he was forever bound to this tiny deer. There was a bond between them that nothing else could share and nothing could ever break. As long as either endured, Bud decided, each would love the other because each understood the other. They were brothers. "Hi, little guy," Bud said softly. Shep, tail wagging, head bent and ears tumbled forward, stayed beside him as he took the fawn in both arms. Soft as a cloud, the fawn surrendered to his embrace and gravely smelled his arm with a nose as delicate as an orchid. "Don't be afraid," Bud crooned. "You won't be hurt. Nothing will ever hurt you." He spoke almost fiercely, mindful of his own many hurts, and stared into space as he cradled the fawn. Shep sat near, his jaws parted and beaming approval as only a dog can. Bud's heart spiraled upward. Now, at last, he had found a true friend. He was unaware of passing time or of long evening shadows. He only knew that he wanted to stay with this little black buck forever. * * * * * "What'd you find, Bud?" Bud had not heard Gramps Bennett come up behind him. A terrible vision of the glass-eyed buck's head in the farm living room arose in Bud's mind and he looked about wildly for a place in which to hide the fawn. But it was too late to hide it, and he turned slowly, so as not to startle the little buck, and said truculently, "Shep found this little lost deer." "Well, now," Gramps said, ignoring Bud's belligerent tone, "doggone if he didn't. Cute little feller, too, and he's sure taken a shine to you." Gramps stooped beside the pair and stroked the fawn softly. Bud stared at him, for Gramps was no longer the tyrant who acted as if Bud were a machine for getting beans weeded and cows milked. "Its . . . Its . . .," Bud tried to get out. And then he could not explain. How could he describe all the terror, all the loneliness and all the fear that he had felt to one who had never known these things? Bud gritted his teeth and looked stubbornly away. "Its what?" Gramps asked. "Its father and mother have run away and left it," Bud blurted out. "Let me put you straight on that, Bud. Its mother ran away when she smelled or saw you and Shep coming. Fathers of baby deer like this, well, they just don't care much for their young 'uns." Bud was astonished. "You mean it had no father?" Gramps said solemnly, "I haven't seen any fawn-carrying storks round here for might' nigh two years. This baby had a father all right, maybe Old Yellowfoot himself." "Who's Old Yellowfoot?" "If you'd been round here for two months 'stead of just a couple days, you'd never ask that," Gramps said. "Old Yellowfoot's nothing 'cept the biggest and smartest buck ever left a hoofprint in Bennett's Woods or, as far as that goes, in Dishnoe County. Why, Boy, Old Yellowfoot's got a rack of antlers the like of which even I never saw, and I've been hunting deer in these parts for, let's see, it's lacking two of fifty years." "You . . ." Bud hugged the fawn a little tighter. "You shoot the deer?" Gramps said seriously, "You look at that fawn, then you look at me, and you ask in the same tone you might use if you thought I was going to murder some babies, 'You shoot the deer?' Well, I don't shoot the deer. I could, mind you, 'cause next to lacing your own shoes, just about the easiest thing round here is shooting a deer. But I don't even hunt the deer. I hunt Old Yellowfoot and some day, so help me, his head'll hang 'longside the one you saw in the sitting room." "I could never like it!" Bud said. Gramps remained serious. "You say that, but you don't know what you're talking 'bout 'cause you never tried it. You see this baby and he sure is cute as a button--he's going to be a black buck when he grows up--but right now he hasn't the sense of a half-witted mud turtle. That's not to be wondered at. He hasn't had time to learn sense and, if he had any, he wouldn't let you handle him like he was a puppy. You think he's so pretty, so nice, so friendly, and you're right. You think also he's a deer, and he sure is. You go astray when you think anybody who'd shoot this fawn, a deer, is more brute than human and you're partly right. But, Boy, there's as much difference 'twixt this baby and Old Yellowfoot as there is between a sparrow and an ostrich!" Interested in spite of himself, Bud asked, "What's the difference?" "The difference? Old Yellowfoot ain't as smart as the men that hunt him. He's a darn' sight smarter. Hunt him high and hunt him low, and if you get one look at him, in cover too thick for shooting or so far off that it's useless to shoot, you can call yourself a hunter. Hang his head on the wall and you're in a class with the best. Old Yellowfoot's educated and he got his education the hard way. Hunters gave it to him. For the past five years, fifty hunters I know of have had him marked. Nobody's brought him in, and that says enough. But maybe, come deer season, you and me will nail him. What say?" Bud stirred uneasily, for this was something new to him. In every crisis of his life he had found the love and affection he craved in animals. It was unthinkable to hurt, let alone to kill, a bird or beast. He asked finally, "How long have you been hunting Old Yellowfoot?" "Ever since he's sported the biggest rack of antlers of any buck I know. That's five years." Bud breathed a little easier. Gramps had hunted the big buck for five years; it was highly unlikely that he would kill him the sixth year. When Bud remained silent, Gramps asked again, "What say? When the season rolls round, are you and me going to hunt Old Yellowfoot?" Bud said reluctantly, "I'll go with you. I'll carry your gun." "Pooh!" Gramps snorted. "In the first place it ain't a gun. It's a rifle. What's more, you'll be carrying your own. Seven boys and four girls Mother and me raised on this farm. Every one hunted, and when they left the farm, they left their rifles and shotguns. One of 'em's sure to suit you." Bud thought of a beautiful dapple-gray toy horse with a real leather saddle and bridle that he had seen in a store window when he had been six. He had wanted that horse more than he had ever wanted anything and every night he had prayed for it. But after his birthday had come and gone and his letters to Santa Claus been unavailing, he had concluded that dreams never come true and from then on had stifled his desires. Now, listening to Gramps, Bud wanted a gun of his own more than he had wanted anything since the dapple-gray toy horse. He was not sure just what he would do with a rifle, except that he would never kill anything, but that did not lessen the glory of having one of his own like Daniel Boone, Jedediah Smith, Kit Carson, Buffalo Bill and a host of other heroes. "Gosh," Bud said at last. "I know what you mean," Gramps said, "and it's time we were getting back. Mother will fret if we're away too long." Bud stooped and gathered the black fawn in his arms. It was as wispy as it looked and seemed to have no weight as it snuggled contentedly against him. Gramps said, "We'll leave him, Bud." "Leave him?" It was a cry of anguish. The thought of abandoning the little buck, already once abandoned, was unbearable. He had forged a true bond with another living creature that had nobody except him. He couldn't leave it. "We'll leave him," Gramps repeated firmly. "He belongs in the woods." "Hunters will kill him!" Gramps smiled. "Come deer season, that little guy won't have aught except buttons. Next year he'll be a spike--that's a buck with no tines on his antlers--or maybe a forkhorn--that's a buck with one tine. He's safe for a while. If he's smart and lucky, maybe he's safe for a long while." "He'll die with no one to look after him!" "He has somebody to look after him. Maybe his pappy don't pay him any heed but, though she run off and left him when you and Shep came, his mammy sure thinks a heap of her son. There are those who say she'll never come back now that he's been handled and has human scent on him. If ever they say that to you, you tell 'em, 'Hogwash.' She'll be back." Bud hesitated. All his life he had searched for something, and now that he had found the fawn, he was being asked to leave it. Rebellion mounted within him. "On second thought," Gramps said disinterestedly, "fetch him along if you've a mind to. His mammy'll be sorehearted for a time when she comes back for him and he ain't here, but she'll get over it." Bud gasped. The mother he had never known was a hundred different people, most of them imaginary. He had never known exactly what she was like, or even what he wanted her to be like. But if he ever found her, he knew how she would feel if he were taken away. "We'll leave him," he said. He put the fawn down, and the little black buck minced a few steps and jerked his tail playfully. As he watched, Bud knew that the bond between him and the fawn would remain. They were blood brothers even if their form and species were different. Reluctantly he fell in beside Gramps and, with Shep tagging at their heels, they started back toward the farmhouse. Bud turned to look again at the fawn. He thought he saw the doe emerge from a thicket and return to her lost baby, but he realized at once that he was imagining what he wanted to see. Then they rounded a bend and the next time Bud looked back he could not see the fawn at all. He stifled an almost overpowering urge to run back to the fawn. "His mother will really come back to care for him?" he asked Gramps. "Don't you fret, she'll come back and like as not she's there now. Do you like to fish for trout, Bud?" "I don't know. I've never tried it." "What did you fish for?" "Nothing. I just never fished." "Imagine that," Gramps said happily. "You'll start, with me tomorrow morning. I'll show you the biggest gosh-darned brown trout as ever sucked a fly off Skunk Crick, and ain't that a heck of a name for a crick? But this trout, he's named right good. Old Shark, they call him, and he's busted enough leaders and rods to stock a good-sized tackle store. Wait'll you see him." The way Gramps spoke of Old Yellowfoot, the great buck, and Old Shark, the great trout, drove the black fawn from Bud's thoughts. He fought against it, but he could not help a warm feeling toward this man who spoke of wild creatures, or at least of mighty wild creatures with near reverence and who believed that, if you were going to kill, or try to kill them, you should pit yourself against a worthy opponent. What had happened to the old farmer who had seemed able to think only of starting the day at dawn with milking his four cows and of ending it after dark with milking the same cows? Then Bud's conscience smote him. "We can't fish tomorrow!" "And why not?" "I came here to work." Gramps said dryly, "The work is always with us, and sometimes it seems like Old Shark's always been with us, too. But while the work won't end, Old Shark will if I lay another fly into him. Or maybe you'll do it?" Bud started to speak and stopped. Many a time during his years in the orphanage he had watched prospective parents come and go, and he had yearned to go with some of them. Then, along with most of the others who had passed the age of seven without being adopted, he had finally realized that nobody wanted him. Nor would anybody want him until he was old enough to work. And if he did not work, how could he justify his existence? "What were you going to say?" Gramps asked. "I'm not afraid to work." "'Course you ain't. Nobody worth his salt is afraid to work, but there's a time for work and," Gramps paused as if for emphasis, "there's a time for fishing. Tomorrow we'll milk the cows, turn 'em out to pasture, and go fishing." "Yes, sir." "Call me Gramps," Gramps said. "Yes, Gramps," Bud said warily. He was bewildered by the idea of going fishing when he should be working. Where was the trap, he wondered? They came to the house, went around to the kitchen door, and Shep went to his bed on the back porch. The kitchen was brightly lighted, and Bud thought he saw Gram back hastily away from the door, as though she had been watching for them. But when they entered, Gram was sitting at the table knitting. Near her, at Bud's place, was a tall glass of cold milk and a huge cut of strawberry pie. Gram looked over her glasses and frowned at Bud but she spoke to Gramps. "Delbert, you were a long while bringing Allan back." "Now, Mother," he said, "it's been nigh onto fourteen years since anybody saw a man-eating lion in Bennett's Woods." "Hmph!" Gram snorted. "It might not be so funny if that boy had strayed into the woods and got lost." "But he didn't get lost," Gramps said reasonably. "Bud and me, we met out in the woods and had us a good long talk." Something in Gramps' voice turned Gram's frown into a smile. "Well, you're both here now and I suppose that's what matters. Allan, sit down and eat your pie and drink your milk." "I'm really not hungry," Bud protested. "Pooh! All boys are hungry all the time. Sit down and eat." "Yes, ma'am." He sat down, took a long drink of the cold milk, ate a fork full of pie and found that he was hungry after all. Looking around Gram's kitchen as he ate, he thought of the one at the orphanage where, in spite of the thousands of dishes he had wiped there and the bushels of potatoes he had peeled, he had never been invited to sit down to a glass of cold milk and a cut of pie. It was a very disquieting thing, and his wariness mounted. He looked furtively around again for a trap, but Gram had returned to her knitting and Gramps was delving into a leather-covered case. Gramps' case was a homemade thing divided into a number of small compartments. One by one, he took from their respective compartments an assortment of varicolored objects and arranged them on a piece of newspaper. They looked like insects but were made from tiny bits of feathers and wisps of hair. Each one was arranged about a hook. The biggest was not large and the smallest was so tiny and so fragile that it looked as if the merest puff of wind would whirl it away. Bud looked on agog. "Dry flies," Gramps said. "I don't know what he'll take, but we'll try him first with a black gnat." "Yes, sir." "Call me Gramps," the old man growled. "Yes, Gramps." This time it slipped out, naturally and easily, almost warmly, for the flies were so interesting that Bud forgot everything else. Although he had never been fishing, he had always believed that you fished with a stout pole, a strong hank of line, a hook and worms for bait. But these dry flies were plainly conceived by one artist and tied by another. It was easy to see that only an artist could use them properly. Gramps took one of the smaller ones between his thumb and forefinger, and the fly seemed even smaller in comparison with the hand holding it. "Yup, I think a number-fourteen black gnat is what he'll hit, which proves all over again what a darn' old fool I am. Saying aforehand what Old Shark will hit is like saying it will rain on the seventh of May two years from now. Might and might not, and the chances are three hundred and sixty-four to one it won't. Have a look, Bud." Bud took the delicate mite in his own hand and held it gingerly. The longer he looked, the more wonderful it seemed. "Where do you get them?" he asked. "I tie 'em. Got good and tired of using store-bought flies that won't take anything 'cept baby trout or those just out of a hatchery that haven't any sense. Let's see it, Bud." Gramps returned the fly to its proper place and Bud was half glad and half sorry to give it up. He was afraid he might damage the fly, but at the same time he yearned to examine it at length. He stole a glance at Gramps' huge hands and marvelled. It was easy to believe that those hands could guide a plow, shoe a horse, fit a hoe and do almost any job that demanded sheer strength. But it seemed incredible that they could assemble with such perfection anything as minute and fragile as a dry fly. Suddenly, and surprisingly, for he was no more aware of being tired than he had been of being hungry, Bud yawned. Gram looked up. "You'd best get to bed, Allan. Growing boys need their rest as much as they do their food." "Good idea, Bud," Gramps said. "If you and me are going to get the milking done and hit Skunk Crick when we ought, we'll have to roll out early." Bud said good night and went up the worn stairs to his room. For a moment he stared out of the window into the night, yearning toward the little black buck and worrying about how it was faring. It seemed impossible for anything so small and helpless to survive. But he was not as desperately worried as he had been, for Gramps had said that the doe would return to take care of it. And Bud knew that in Gramps he had at last found somebody he could trust. Leaving his bedroom door open to take advantage of a cool breeze blowing through the window, Bud stretched luxuriously on the feather-filled mattress and pulled the blankets up to his chin. Gram's voice came up the stairway. "Well, Delbert?" "He came round," he heard Gramps say. "He came round lot sooner'n I figured. Found himself a fawn, he did, cutest little widget you ever laid eyes on and almost black." There was a short silence and Gramps finished, "He thought it was 'nother orphan." "So?" "So tomorrow morning Bud and me are going to fish for Old Shark." "How will he tie that in with being worked like a Mexican slave his first two days with us?" Gramps said, "You take a skittish, scared colt out of pasture and put it to work, you work it hard enough so it forgets about being skittish and scared. And Mexicans aren't slaves, Mother." "You, Delbert!" "It worked," Gramps said. Gram sniffed, "So'd Allan, and no wonder. You wouldn't go down and pick a boy, as any sensible man would have done. You wrote a letter saying we'll give bed, board and schooling to a strong, healthy boy who's capable of working. Send the boy! I hope Allan didn't see that letter!" "It's no mind if he did, and why do you suppose I wrote in 'stead of going in? Think I wanted that horse-faced old bat who runs the place to have fits?" "Miss Dempster is not a horse-faced old bat!" Gram said sharply. "She'd still have fits if she had to figure out anything not written down in her rule book, and it says in her book that older orphans are for working only. Anyway what does it matter? Ain't we got a young'un round the place again?" "Yes!" Gram sighed. "Thank Heaven!" Bud heard the last of this conversation only dimly, for sleep was overcoming him. He was even more vaguely aware of someone ascending the stairs, pausing beside his bed and planting a kiss on his cheek. Then he was lost in a happy dream of a mother who loved and cherished him and whom he loved and cherished. chapter 3 The oil lantern that hung from a hook in the ceiling of the cow stable cast a progressively weaker glow as the light of a summer dawn became stronger. Bud sat on a milking stool, his head pillowed against the soft flank of the same red and white cow that he had tried so hard, and so futilely, to milk when he had first come to live with Gram and Gramps Bennett. Milk did not surge into the pail as it did when Gramps milked; Gramps milked a cow almost as though the animal's teats were spigots that he could turn on at will and with no effort on his part. But there was no comparison between this and Bud's first sorry attempt to coax milk from the same cow. Her name was Susie, and when he gave her an affectionate pat she turned and looked at him with mournful eyes. As Bud began to strip the last few squirts from each teat, he thought about the day ahead. He had slept soundly and the dawn had been so faint that his bedroom window was almost black when Gramps had awakened him. Bud had sat up hastily and a bit guiltily. His dream of a mother was still with him and in that uncertain moment between sleep and wakefulness, he half believed the dream was real. Gramps had said, "Time to get under way, Bud," and then left. Bud had dressed and gone at once to the window to stare toward the place where he had left the black fawn. As he stood there, he had heard a thousand faint scrapings, rustlings and murmurings of an entire world that seemed anxious to greet a new day, and he had whirled around to go down the stairs, through the empty kitchen and on out to the cow barn. He was coaxing a final trickle of milk from Susie when Gramps said, "Let me have your pail and turn 'em out, will you?" Bud wondered again that a man of Gramps' age and bulk could move so stealthily. Bud had not known Gramps had been beside him in the woods last night until the old man had spoken, and now Gramps had surprised him again. Bud surrendered his pail proudly for this was the first time he had been able to milk one cow while Gramps was milking three. Then he freed the cows from their stanchions and walked behind them as they lumbered out the open barn door and down the lane to the pasture. "See you at the house," Gramps bellowed. By the time Bud came into the kitchen, Gram had transformed it from the empty, silent and forbidding room it had been when he had walked through it earlier. Now the big stove cast a warm glow, hotcakes were browning on a griddle, bacon sizzled in a skillet, the coffeepot steamed and Bud's milk was poured. Gram glanced up and the corners of her eyes crinkled. "My land, Allan. It's really going to be a big day." "Yes, ma'am," he said stiffly. Her smile became wistful and Bud flushed and looked away. It was easy to fight back when the enemy had a ferocious scowl and charged with clenched fists. It was hard when the weapons were glasses of cold milk and big wedges of pie, smiles, tender glances and soft words, and when the enemy seemed to know exactly what you were thinking. But Bud had no intention of letting himself be deceived. Gramps, who was nowhere in sight when Bud entered the kitchen, appeared presently with a jointed fly rod that had a reel attached to the reel seat. "Try this on for size," he said. He placed the butt end of the rod in Bud's hand, and the boy tightened his fingers around the cork grip. The tip swayed downward. When Bud jerked it up, it collided with a chair and the rod bent in an arc before he could swing it away. Bud stood there frightened, not knowing what to do and not daring to move. The rod undulated and quivered like a live thing that had a mind and a will of its own. It seemed to defy control. "It ain't a club," Gramps said. "Don't grab it like one. Let me show you." He took the rod from Bud. Tensed like a hunting cat about to pounce, the rod still seemed to have a life of its own. But it had surrendered its will to Gramps. He was master of this delicate rod just as he was master of so many things, and Bud could not help admiring. "I'll string her up and let you try her out." "Not in my kitchen you won't," Gram said firmly. "I'll have no more dishes broken by practice casts." On the point of arguing, Gramps reconsidered and said meekly, "I'll show you when we get on the crick. Take her and hold her this way." He put the rod back in Bud's hand, placing it with Bud's palm just back of the seated reel and arranging his thumb and each finger for proper balance. Bud remained afraid to move it, or to shift even one finger, for now he commanded the rod. If he made one wrong move, and any move he made might be wrong, the rod would again command him. Gramps stepped back for a critical study. "It'll do," he pronounced finally. "I pondered on starting you out with one of the old seven-ounce rods but what the dickens. You're going to fish for trout, you ought to begin right and you can't begin right 'thout the right tackle. Four and a half ounces this rod weighs 'thout the reel, and you'll be put to it to find a better. It took me a solid six weeks, working every night, to put her together the way I wanted her." "Do you make these, too?" "Yup. Something to do on long winter evenings." "Breakfast," Gram announced. "They're only good while they're hot." Bud laid his rod across two chairs and sat down to golden-brown griddle cakes, bacon and milk. He couldn't help looking at Gramps. At the other meals they had eaten together, Gramps' table manners had been correct enough. Now he didn't even seem to be thinking about food, as he put two pancakes together, laid two strips of bacon on the topmost pancake and doused everything with syrup. Then he rolled the bacon in the pancakes and ate the rolled mixture with his fingers. It was plain that in his thoughts he was already out on Skunk Creek. Gramps was no blasé sophisticate who had tasted all he could stomach of life by the time he was thirty. His eye to the grassroots, Gramps had long ago understood that everything was as old as creation itself and yet was eternally new. Nothing ever lost its sheen; some eyes just couldn't see it. Gramps finished and looked meaningfully at Bud's place. Bud hastened to finish as Gramps rose. "It isn't polite to eat and run, Mother, but the day's getting no younger. Ready, Bud?" "All ready," Bud said, forebearing this time to add "Gramps." "Bring me back at least one to eat, Delbert," Gram said. "I haven't had trout in almost three weeks." "How'd you like Old Shark?" Gramps asked. "I wouldn't," Gram sniffed. "In the first place, I'll believe you have him when I see him. In the second, if you should get him, who's going to eat him after you're through showing him to everybody in Dishnoe County? I want an eating fish, not a showing trout." "Sure," Gramps said. Gramps brought another rod that was not jointed but had a reel on the reel seat. He gave Bud a leather-bound case similar to the one from which he'd taken dry flies last night, a limp leather case containing wet flies, and two leader boxes. "Your flies and leaders," he explained. "If you're going to be a trout fisherman, you need your own tackle. Get your rod and come on." Gingerly, hoping Gramps would carry it for him but taking it up himself when Gramps told him to, Bud tried to place his hand exactly as it had been when Gramps showed him how to balance a fine fly rod. After a little experimentation he found the proper grip, but his hand remained stiff on the butt. After looking appealingly at Gramps, who saw the look but pretended not to, Bud clenched his teeth and grimly resolved to carry through. Gramps went out first and Bud wondered how he would open the door after Gramps had closed it but Gramps stopped and held it open. "'Bye, Mother." "Have a good time," Gram called. "Good-by, Allan." "Good-by, ma'am." To Bud's relief Gramps continued to hold the door open as if he had something else to say to Gram. Thus the first major hurdle was taken; Bud was out of the kitchen without either breaking his rod or anything else. Then, apparently forgetting what he intended to say, Gramps let the door close. Shep rose to join them when they emerged onto the porch, but Gramps ordered him back. Ears drooping and looking abused, Shep sat down in front of the door and watched. When they were fifty yards away, he barked hopefully. "It'll do you no good," Gramps said firmly. "Can't have a dog along when you're trout fishing," he said to Bud. "Why?" "He scares the trout." "How can a dog scare trout?" "'Cause trout are scary, Bud. A shadow'll send 'em scooting and a dog can cast a shadow." When they started down the path Bud had followed the night before, Bud's interest mounted. The black fawn lived there. Maybe he would see it again today. But as they walked along, resentment welled up in him, too. Gramps' rod was disjointed, which made it easy to carry. Bud's, however, had been left jointed so that he had constantly to be alert for every branch, every bush, and even every twig on every branch and bush. Bud thrust the tip of his rod into a hemlock tree and the rod bent alarmingly. Gramps, striding ahead, did not even bother to look around. Disgruntled, Bud disengaged his rod and hurried to catch up. He would have liked to carry a disjointed rod, too, but he didn't know how to take his apart and he wouldn't ask Gramps to show him. Ten minutes later he was glad that Gramps was so eager to fish for Old Shark that he thought of nothing else. He was finding his rod easier to handle and he stopped gripping it desperately. He was becoming accustomed to its feel and balance, and beginning to understand it. And he hadn't called for help. As they neared the thicket where the black fawn lived, Bud grew excited. But just before they came to it, Gramps swerved from the path into the woods. Bud kept his thoughts to himself. As much as he wanted to see the black fawn again, he wasn't going to ask Gramps to go out of the way for him. The trees among which they threaded their way were mostly second-growth yellow birch but now and then there was a grove of aspens, a solitary black cherry or a copse of laurel and rhododendrons. It was such hard work to keep from tangling his rod in the twigs and branches that Bud almost bumped into Gramps before he was aware that the old man had stopped. Gramps stood absolutely motionless and, without speaking, pointed. About a hundred yards away, a very dark-colored doe was leaping toward a copse of sheltering rhododendron. Behind her, matching his mother's every leap, ran the little black buck. Now, Bud knew the fawn had not been abandoned. Just as Gramps had promised, his mother had come back to look for him and he was in safe care. And between last night and this morning, he had learned to use his legs. Not again, or at least not easily, would any human lay hands on him. The doe and fawn disappeared, and Gramps turned to Bud. "There's your pal. After seeing his mammy, I know where he gets his color." "Yes." Bud's eyes danced. "I figured she'd take him away from that tote road after you and Shep found out where he was." "Tote road?" "The path we followed used to be a road. The lumbermen who cut the pine and hemlock that was in here made it and a hundred more like it." "Why do they call them tote roads?" Gramps shrugged. "I reckon 'cause they toted things back and forth on them." "Were you here when the lumbermen came?" "Saw the tail end of it but took no part. I wasn't much bigger'n that little black fawn. Been here ever since." "When they cut the forests . . ." Bud began. "We'd best get moving," Gramps said. Gramps swerved at right angles to the direction they had been following and Bud wondered. Had Gramps brought him this way so Bud could see for himself that the black fawn was safe? If he had, what lay behind it? Bud was forced to concede that, if Gramps had deliberately set out to find the doe and fawn, he had shown wonderful woodcraft. Never once had he faltered or been at a loss as to the route to follow. He had known exactly where to find the doe and her baby. Ten minutes later they reached Skunk Creek, a beautiful little woodland stream with pools of various sizes and depths and with sparkling riffles. Except for the larger pools, some of which were forty feet wide, the stream was less than a dozen feet wide. Most of Skunk Creek was bordered with willows and other trees, but the pool to which Gramps led Bud had almost no growth on the near bank and only scraggly willows on the far bank. Gramps laid his tackle on a moss-grown rock and turned to Bud. "This ain't where Old Shark lives, but it's a darn' good place to show you how to lay a fly on the water. Let's have your rod." Bud surrendered his rod. With skill honed to a razor's edge by vast experience, Gramps strung line through the guides, whipped the rod back and forth and paid out line from the reel as he did so. As he was keeping the line in the air, he said, "See that little hunk of grass, maybe thirty-five feet out and a little up? I'll aim for it." The rod described a graceful backward arc and an equally perfect forward sweep. The line glided forth as though it was not a flexible object at all, but a solid thing that Gramps was somehow shooting from the tip of his finger. The extreme tip of the line settled perfectly over the bit of grass. Gramps twitched it free, retrieved his line, and turned to Bud. "Got it?" Bud was flabbergasted. "Try it and find out," Gramps said. Bud took the rod, now strung and with a bit of line the length of the eight and a half foot rod dangling from the tip. But where the rod was a live thing in Gramps' hands, in Bud's it unaccountably went dead. He whipped it back, then forward, and the dangling line splashed at the very edge of the pool. "You forgot to pay out line," Gramps said patiently. "You didn't use your reel. Let me show you." He took the rod a second time, and once again laid the line smoothly on the water. Although Gramps had named no target, Bud knew that he was laying the line on the water exactly where he wanted it. Gramps returned the rod and Bud tried again. He remembered to pay out line as he cast, but the line slapped the water only about a dozen feet from shore and a full eight feet downstream from the target Bud had selected. "You're throwing it," Gramps said, "and you're throwing with your whole arm. Here." He pressed the upper part of Bud's right arm against his ribs. "That's as much as you need and use your wrist. Let the rod work for you; don't you do everything." Forty minutes later, although he couldn't come close to Gramps' distance or, unless the wildest luck was on his side, lay the line within two feet of any target he picked, Bud felt that he was improving. At least he was able to lay the line on the surface instead of whipping it into the water. Gramps tied a nine-foot tapered leader, a spiderweb at the thick end and like gossamer at the thin end, to Bud's line and showed him how to attach a dry fly to it. Then Gramps put a drop of oil on the fly, greased ten feet of line, and took the rod. "Watch." The fly soared out, hovered over the pool, settled on it precisely as a live insect might have, and began to float downstream. Gramps pulled the fly away from a small trout that rose and handed the rod to Bud. "Go ahead." Bud's first cast snagged a ground-hugging bush twenty feet behind him. The next time the fly bellied back to float beside the floating line. Then he hooked the only willow growing on the near side of the pool. But all the same Bud was elated. He forgot that the object of this wonderful art was to catch fish and, trying to remember all Gramps had told him, he kept on casting and learning through trial and error. When, after another hour, he was able to make ten successive casts and lay his fly reasonably well, Gramps pronounced judgment, "Guess we can try now." Without another word he turned and led the way downstream. Bud followed, knowing that his casting had not won the old man's approval but that Gramps had not wholly disapproved either. Bud did not care or at least he tried not to think about it, for he had discovered another new world. In time, he promised himself grimly, he would be a dry fisherman equal--well, almost equal--to Gramps. Ten minutes later, Gramps slowed to a turtle's pace. He stole stealthily toward a twenty-foot-wide rock ledge that overhung a deep pool. When he came to the near border of the ledge, he turned and whispered, "Leave your tackle. We'll crawl the rest of the way." Bud laid his rod down carefully and, dropping to all fours, crawled beside Gramps toward the water. Five feet from the edge, Gramps dropped to his belly and began to inch toward the pool. "No fast moves and show no more of yourself than you have to," Gramps whispered. Bud nodded and wriggled toward the water. He peered down from the ledge and saw a broad, long pool formed by the ledge and fed by rushing riffles that curled around the upstream end of the ledge. On the far side the water was relatively shallow, or perhaps it only looked shallow because there was white sand on the bottom there. Schools of shiners and minnows swam lazily in that part of the pool and the white sand was pock-marked with driftwood that had floated down in flood time and, having become waterlogged, gone to the bottom. At first glance the water at the near edge of the white sand seemed almost black. This was partly because the white sand ended and partly because the water was deeper there. Actually, it was green-blue, and the high-riding sun bored well into it. Presently Bud saw a school of fish almost directly beneath him. The fish ranged in length from about five to nearly eighteen inches, and they lay very still in what appeared to be a quiet pocket of water, the biggest fish at the head of the school and the smallest at the end. Farther out, Bud saw more fish. The deepest part of the pool was too deep for the sun to penetrate it, and its invisible depths were tantalizing. Toward the foot of the pool, just before it was gathered in by the riffles that drained it, the trunk of a leaning sycamore jutted out about six feet over the water. The water near the sycamore was sun-sprayed, too. Bud saw flat stones on the bottom away from the bank, but in closer the bottom was in shadow and he could see nothing. "The fish 'neath us are trout," Gramps whispered. "Those farther out are suckers and mullets. The shallows 'cross the pool are loaded with minnows and shiners. Down there Old Shark hangs out 'neath that sycamore trunk." He spoke as reverently as a fanatic Moslem referring to Mecca. "Stay here and watch. Don't move. You do, you'll send every trout in the pool kiting under the ledge." Gramps wriggled backward and disappeared. A few minutes later Bud saw him near the foot of the ledge standing behind a rock spire that hid him from the pool and at the same time gave him freedom of action. Gramps made a perfect cast. The fly floated lazily toward the leaning sycamore and gathered speed as the water became swifter. Old Shark rose and Bud saw him, a great, dark shadow that left the shaded bank and rose into the clear water upstream from the leaning sycamore. Old Shark did seem more like a shark than a trout as he paused within an inch of the fly and then sank back into the shadows from which he had come. Almost unable to tear his eyes from Old Shark's lair, Bud's attention was distracted for a moment by a ripple in the water beneath him. It was a grasshopper struggling toward the ledge; before it reached safety, a twelve-inch trout from the school rose and took it. Twenty minutes later Gramps called, "Your turn. Take it slow and crawl away, mind you." Bud took his place behind the spire of rock and cast. He knew how clumsy he was in comparison with Gramps, but he didn't care, for now he knew why Gramps spoke so reverently of Old Yellowfoot and Old Shark. When Bud's second turn was over, he went back to where Gramps was sitting well back on the ledge. "We didn't get him," Gramps said, but if he was disappointed he did not show it. "There's always another day and we'll come again. Reckon we'd better go in after this last try, though. Mother's all alone." Bud stayed where he was and watched Gramps walk down to cast. A grasshopper the old man's feet had disturbed came to rest on Bud's left arm. He clapped his right hand over it and held the grasshopper until Gramps shrugged, reeled in and indicated that he was finished by hooking his fly in the cork butt of his rod. Then, taking up his own rod, Bud strung the grasshopper on over the fly and crept across the ledge. He eased his grasshopper onto the water near the school of trout and a trout, which might well have been the one that had taken the other grasshopper, darted upward and sucked in the grasshopper. Bud struck, and his rod bent and his line grew taut as the hooked trout tried frantically to escape. "Keep the tip up! The tip up, Bud!" Gramps shouted. With a heave that bent his rod double, Bud jerked the trout from the water and sent him ten feet back on the ledge, where he lay flapping. Bud raced back to get his catch. "You did it!" Gramps shouted deliriously. "You did it! Your first trout on a dry fly!" "I caught him on a grasshopper," Bud panted. "What'd you say?" Gramps asked blankly. "I caught him on a grasshopper." "A hopper?" "Yes." "Surely you're not going to keep him?" Bud looked at the ground without replying. "Well," Gramps said with an effort, "I guess that's your business." Without another word the old man turned to start homeward. Bud followed, miserable in the knowledge that he had betrayed Gramps. But even though it was abominable to take a trout on anything except a dry fly, he couldn't have done otherwise. Gram had asked them to bring her one trout. * * * * * They took old shark on their seventh trip to the ledge. Gramps did it with a cunningly placed midge. Bud knew he would never forget the battle that followed or the plucking of Old Shark from shallow water when Gramps had finally worked him there. They bore their prize proudly home, showed it to Gram. Then, in Gramps' asthmatic pickup truck--a vehicle that, until now, Bud had not even suspected was on the farm--they carried the trout to Pat Haley's store at Haleyville. Old Shark was a sensation and Pat Haley began at once to freeze him in a block of ice. "What now?" Bud asked, as he and Gramps started home. "Find us another big trout." "I mean, what about Old Shark?" "Oh, him. Even if he had any flavor and wasn't tougher'n a shoehorn, he's too much for us to eat. Nobody else'll want him for the same reasons." Gramps drove in silence for a while and then said, "Tell you what we'll do. When Pat's finished and everybody who wants a look at Old Shark has had it, we'll send him down to the orphanage. They don't often have trout there." chapter 4 As he walked toward the road with a lunch pail dangling from one hand, it seemed to Bud that the driveway--endlessly long when he had labored up it that first day, with a chip on his shoulder and fear in his heart--had shrunken miraculously. He glanced quickly behind him to see if he was being watched and, seeing nobody, bent down to loosen the laces of the shiny black school shoes Gram had bought him in Haleyville. Then he straightened up and walked on, trying to manage a natural gait. But it was hopeless because after the conquest of Old Shark he had stopped wearing shoes. The soles of his feet had become so calloused that he could even run over the sharp stones around Gramps' gravel pit. Now, at the end of the summer, it had been so long since he had worn shoes that he felt as if he were dragging a ball and chain on each foot. His shoes pinched, too, but you could not go to school barefooted, not if Gram Bennett had anything to say about it. The summer had been so wonderful that, looking back now that it was ending, every minute seemed precious. It had taken Bud a month to realize that there was actually only a bare minimum of work to be done and that Gram and Gramps had planned it that way. They had labored prodigiously to rear and educate seven sons and four daughters and, now that the children were grown up and had their own families, the old people had made up their minds to do the things they had always wanted to do. For Gramps that meant hunting and fishing; Gram wanted nothing more than to make other people happy. There was money in the bank and very little labor was needed to provide for the two old people even now that they had taken a hungry orphan into their home. Bud reached the blacktop road and waited for the bus to take him to the Haleyville Consolidated School, where he was to enter the eighth grade. He had concealed it from Gram and Gramps, but he dreaded starting out in a new school. As he stood there waiting, he tried to ease his troubled mind by concentrating instead on one of the high points of the summer. He had cast a dry fly beneath a hollow stump beside a pool thickly bordered by a jungle of willows. The fly had gone truly and he had taken a fourteen-inch brook trout. Gramps had not been effusive, but it had meant a great deal to hear him say, "Some day you'll be a fisherman, Bud." Bud knew that although he might have learned to cast a dry fly, a single season or a dozen seasons do not necessarily produce a dry fly fisherman. There were very few masters of the art. Still, Gramps' approval was the next thing to achieving knighthood. Sometimes with Gramps and sometimes alone, Bud had gone to see how the black fawn was faring. Although the fawn and doe had widened their range somewhat, they were still in the same general area. Now they were much more difficult to approach, but Bud had seen them enough times to know that the fawn was doing well. The knowledge that the fawn was flourishing made Bud less uneasy about his own good fortune, for since that first meeting, he had never stopped believing that a bond existed between himself and the fawn. Bud's luck had taken its turn for the better as soon as he found the little black buck and he was sure that misfortune would overtake him again if harm ever befell the fawn. Bud had discovered the ruffed grouse, known locally as "pat'tidges," the thickets where foxes hunted and the places where black-masked raccoons washed their food. He had come to understand what sportsmanship means as opposed to hunting, and instead of recoiling when Gramps asked him to go grouse hunting, he had accepted eagerly and was looking forward to the opening day of the season. Finally, he had found a dream of his own. Gramps had a half-dozen turkeys, as many geese, a few ducks and a large flock of mongrel chickens that ranged from fussy little bantams to huge dunghill roosters. The flock was allowed to wander at will and to interbreed freely. According to the articles in the farm journals Bud had found stacked in the little closet off the living room, that was not the proper way to raise chickens. Although purebred fowls cost much more in the beginning, the returns were said to repay the initial investment many times over if the flock was correctly fed and housed. So far Bud had not broached the subject with Gram or Gramps because it was useless to talk about a project until you had the means to carry it out. Nevertheless, he had privately decided that, if and when he got both the money and Gram and Gramps' permission, he would buy a pen of purebred chickens and try to build up a flock. That was for the future, but this was now, and when he saw the school bus approaching, Bud drew a deep breath. Then he clenched his teeth and boarded it. The trip to Haleyville was over before he thought it could be, and the children assembled in little groups in front of the school. Bud went up alone to the entrance to the building and stood by himself with his back against the wall pretending to lounge nonchalantly. He was the only one who did not seem to know exactly where to go or what to do. Bells rang at intervals and the crowd of boys and girls thinned until the only ones left were Bud and a tall man who was obviously a teacher. When Bud told him he was in the eighth grade, the teacher led Bud down several long corridors and past rows of closed doors with frosted glass panes in them. Finally he paused before one of the doors and, opening it, propelled Bud through ahead of him. A man with the physique of a wrestler but with gentle eyes looked around. "I have one of your lost sheep, Mr. Harris," Bud's escort said. "Come in and join the class, sheep," Mr. Harris said, smiling. The class tittered and Bud writhed. The only refuge he knew was defiance. "Don't call me names!" he shouted. "I'm not a sheep!" "You're not very polite, either," Mr. Harris said without raising his voice. "What is your name?" "Bud." "Is that all your name? Just Bud?" The class tittered again and Bud's mortification mounted as he choked out, "Bud Sloan." Mr. Harris consulted his class roll. "It says here you're Allan Sloan." "I don't care what it says!" Bud shouted again. "My name's Bud!" All at once he found himself sitting on the floor. Lights danced in his head. He blinked owlishly, and as if from a great distance, he heard Mr. Harris say, "Get up, Allan. Your seat is the third one in the first row. Take it." Bud walked to his seat and the class was subdued. Bud sat in sullen silence for the rest of the morning. When noon came, he ate a lonely lunch and when the dismissal gong sounded at the end of the day he was the first to rise. "You're to stay after school, Allan," Mr. Harris said. Scowling, Bud sat down again and watched his classmates whoop out to freedom. As though he had forgotten all about Bud or perhaps because Bud was too insignificant to notice, Mr. Harris methodically and calmly put his desk in order. Finally he looked up and said, "Come on." Mr. Harris led the way out through the rear entrance and Bud gulped as they neared the parking lot. He would have run if his legs would have obeyed him, but since they would not, he got into Mr. Harris's car. They started up the road toward the Bennetts' farm, and after they were out of town, Mr. Harris said, "You needed that cuffing I gave you." Bud said nothing as Mr. Harris continued, "You had it coming and you know it. I know exactly what you were thinking and why. Stop thinking it. "Let me tell you about another boy," Mr. Harris said, "another orphan. He was farmed out when he was just about your age, and he went to a new school exactly as you did. Inside, he was frightened as a rabbit with five dogs and nine cats backing him into a corner, but he was afraid to let anyone else know that. The teacher reprimanded him and he shouted at him. Then, because he was convinced that only tough guys can get along, he hit the teacher with a chair. The boy was twelve when it happened. He was eighteen when he finally got out of reform school, and it was a reform school even if they called it a training school for boys." Bud said nothing and Mr. Harris went on, "It's a true story, as I should know. The boy's name was Jeffrey Chandler Harris, who now teaches eighth grade at Haleyville Consolidated School. I've wished many a time that that teacher had had sense enough to clobber me when I most needed it." Before Bud could recover or reply, Mr. Harris eased his car to a stop in front of the drive leading to Gram and Gramps' house and was holding out his hand. "Friends?" "Friends," Bud said, and shook hands. * * * * * The autumn days were literally golden days. Gold leaves clung to the aspens and birches and to some of the maples. Goldenrod bloomed. A golden moon shone down on a field where golden pumpkins lay among shocked corn. The sun rose golden every morning and set in a golden blaze every night. Most of the crops were harvested and the fields lay bare. The cellar beneath the farmhouse was bursting with the fruits and vegetables that could be stored, and every shelf was filled with jars in which Gram had canned those that could not be stored. Split and neatly corded wood was stacked up to the roof of the woodshed and now the wood boxes on the back porch and in the kitchen were kept heaping full. The warmth the kitchen range radiated was welcome these days, for even at high noon there was a sharp tang in the air. The cattle preferred the sunny to the shady parts of the pasture and a box, which had a hole cut in it and with a cloth hung over the hole, covered Shep's bed on the porch. After their first encounter Bud and Mr. Harris had understood each other and Bud brought home a very creditable first report card. That afternoon he raced up to his room to exchange school clothes for work clothes and ran back down the stairs, stopping in the kitchen only long enough to gobble the cookies and drink the milk Gram had ready for him. "I have to hurry and help Gramps get everything caught up so we can go grouse hunting," he explained when Gram remonstrated. "Oh. That's real important. Scoot, now." Bud drank the last of his milk and ran out. In the corn field Gramps had the team hitched to the light box wagon and was walking beside it and lifting ripe pumpkins into the box, starting and stopping the horses with his voice alone. Bud raced toward Gramps, and Shep came leaping to meet him. As he petted the big furry dog, Bud looked toward the autumn woods and for an instant he thought he had caught a glimpse of the black fawn melting away into the trees. For Bud the fawn was outside the laws of nature, but with the taking of Old Shark he had learned the difference between sport for sport's sake and killing for killing's sake. Actually, as Gramps had explained, it was not only fair, it was wise to harvest some creatures. Old Shark, for instance, had been a ravenous old tyrant who had consumed vast amounts of food, including smaller trout; now that he was gone, the trout left in the pool would have a better chance. Gramps had made Bud see that it was, in fact, kind to harvest the surplus game crop because there is enough food for only a limited number of wild creatures. The rest must die, and the ways of nature are almost always crueler and more prolonged than death at the hand of a hunter. Bud thought that the swift-winged grouse were among the most fascinating of wild creatures. He almost never saw them until they thundered into flight, a thing that never failed to startle him. They were birds of mystery to him and he could not help being excited because he and Gramps were going to hunt grouse when the season opened. Safe in its case in Bud's room was a trim little double-barreled twenty-gauge shotgun, and as soon as the last of the crops was in, Gramps had promised to show him how to use it. Shep bounced ahead to frolic around Gramps, and Gramps stopped work as Bud came up to him. "Hi, Bud." "Hello, Gramps. I hurried so I can help load the rest of the pumpkins." "Well now, that's right decent of you. But you won't be sorry. A man ain't lived 'til he's helped load and haul punkins. Did you ever stop to consider what a remarkable thing a punkin is? You can look at 'em and tell what the weather's been by the looks of the punkin, so they're a weather table. You can just about tell the season by the looks of a punkin, so that makes 'em a calendar. You can bounce one off somebody's head and knock him sillier'n the cow that jumped over the moon and still not hurt him, so they're a weapon. You can turn 'em into goblins on Halloween, and you can eat 'em. Yep. A punkin's a right remarkable outfit." "How are they most remarkable?" Bud asked. "In punkin pie. Let's get to work." When they had loaded the wagon, Gramps unwrapped the reins that had been around the wagon's center post, drove to where the great, outer cellar doors yawned wide, and two by two they carried the pumpkins into the cellar. Then, while Bud stabled and cared for the horses, and pitched hay down the chute for the cows, Gramps milked. That night, after the evening meal, Bud gave himself to the complexities of English, arithmetic and American history while Gram knitted and Gramps pored over the latest issue of _The Upland Gunner_. Bud's eyes stole from his textbook to the magazine in Gramps' hands, and although he made a prodigious effort to return to the conjugation of irregular verbs, he found it a hopeless task. He raised his eyes again to the magazine, which had a gorgeous front cover showing a woodcock in flight, two English setters on perfect point and a hunter who was obviously about to add the woodcock to his bag. Gramps spoke from behind the magazine, "That was a mighty fine report card you fetched home, Bud." "Thanks, Gramps." "You fetch home reports like that, and you'n me will have a whack at Old Yellowfoot sure after we're done with the grouse." Without bothering to find out how Gramps had managed to peer through the magazine and discover that he was not studying, Bud returned to his textbook. Gramps had given him the incentive he needed at the moment, but on a farm everybody has his tasks and Bud knew without being told that his chief one was to get everything he could from his school work. When Bud came home from school the next day, Gramps was sitting on the back porch with the twenty-gauge shotgun, Bud's gun, across his knees. Nearby was a wooden cleaning rod, some strips of white cloth, a can of nitro solvent and a can of oil. As though such an occupation was too commonplace to call for any explanation, Gramps said, "Best get moving." "Moving?" "Now doggone! You didn't think I'd take you grouse hunting 'thout you know which end of the gun the shot comes out of, did you?" Bud changed his clothes in frantic haste, gulped down the milk Gram had waiting and caught up some cookies. Gramps looked at him reprovingly as he burst out the back door. "You ain't going to a fire. Slow and easy's the way you take her when you're hunting. Come on." He led the way to a windmill behind the barn. Before the farmers along the road had organized to form their own water company, the windmill had pumped all the Bennetts' water. The wind furnished power when it blew. When it did not, a gasoline engine operated the pump. Even though there was another supply of water now, Gramps had not let the windmill deteriorate in case it should be needed again. While Bud had been at school, Gramps had hung cans by eight-foot cords from each of the vanes of the windmill and hooked up power belts so the engine would turn the windmill. A hundred feet away he had also put up two wooden standards that looked like sign posts and covered them with newspapers. Two boxes of shotgun shells were laid out on the engine mount. Gramps picked up one. "Some people practice shoot on live pigeons," he said. "I don't hold with that 'cause I don't hold with killing anything for no good reason. Some shoot at tin cans tossed in the air, but that's no way to learn 'cause tossed cans just ain't fast enough. Some shoot clay pigeons, which is all right if you got the money. I have my own way. Now you know about choke?" "Yes, Gramps." "Tell me." "The left barrel of this gun is full choke, which means that it has a narrower opening than the right and will shoot a closer pattern, but it also has a longer range. It's to be used for birds flying a considerable distance away." Gramps nodded and took two shells from the box. "Load her." Bud flipped the lever that broke the barrels and slipped a shell into each. He tried to do it very calmly, but in spite of himself his hands shook. He had broken the barrels a hundred times before and in imagination he had loaded the gun and sighted on a speeding bird a thousand times. But this was the first time he had ever held the gun armed with live ammunition. He did not forget to check the safety, and Gramps noticed but said nothing. The old man said, "So you can see for yourself what pattern means, and the difference between a full and modified choke, shoot your left barrel into the left paper and the right into the right." Bud braced the gun stock against his shoulder, sighted on the right-hand paper, braced himself, and pulled the trigger. The gun's blasting roar was much louder than anything he had expected, but the recoil was almost negligible. He shot the left barrel with more confidence. "You flinched on the first but held steady on the second," Gramps pronounced. "Now let's see what happened." They walked forward and Bud studied both papers. The one to the left shot with a full choke bore a roughly circular pattern of evenly distributed pellets that had gone through the paper and imbedded themselves in the wood backing. The target shot with the modified barrel was pock-marked with such a wide circle that it was obvious not all of them could have struck the paper. "Understand?" Gramps queried. "I understand." "Then we'll get on, and since anybody who'd shoot a bird on the ground would catch a trout on a grasshopper, like a certain party did on Skunk Crick, we shoot 'em on the wing. Just a minute." Gramps started the gasoline engine. The windmill vanes began to whirl and the dangling cans, gaining momentum, strained at the ends of their strings. Taking the shotgun, Gramps fired one barrel, then the other, and two of the whirling cans leaped wildly. He gave the shotgun and a pair of shells to Bud. Bud shot, but although he knew he was on target, he missed the can at which he had aimed. He shot again and again until he had scored twenty-three consecutive misses. Then, all at once, he found the feel and balance of his gun. It was no longer a separate thing but a part of himself. With Gramps' coaching him on leading, or shooting ahead of the target, he scored two hits, missed three and scored ten straight. "You're real good at shooting tin cans on the wing," Gramps pronounced. "Now we'll see how good you are on grouse. Saturday's the day, Bud." chapter 5 The friday after the target practice the sky was overcast when Bud came home from school and the wind was variable. There was a wintry tang in the air. The day that Bud had thought would never come was tomorrow. Less than half aware of what he was doing, or of how he was doing it, Bud helped with the nightly chores and made no serious mistakes simply because by now he could do them by rote. He returned to earth long enough to enjoy Gram's excellent supper and afterward tried to concentrate on his school books, which might as well have been written in Sanskrit. Finally he gave himself up to dreaming. Shotgun in hand, he was walking slowly through crisp autumn woods. A grouse, a wary old cock bird that had been taught by experience how to avoid hunters, rose in front of him. The grouse flew into a rhododendron thicket and, keeping brush between Bud and himself, was seen only as a hurtling ball of feathers and at uncertain intervals. Bud, the master sportsman, made a swift mental calculation of the bird's line of flight, aimed where he knew it would reappear and scored a hit so perfect that even Gramps was impressed. With complete nonchalance befitting a hunter, Bud retrieved his trophy and said casually, "Not a bad grouse." "And not a bad hunter!" Gramps ejaculated. "I've been practicing on these babies for more than forty years, and I never saw a finer shot!" "Hadn't you better go to bed, Allan?" Gram asked, bringing him back to reality. "You said," Gramps chuckled, "that you've been practicing on these babies for more than forty years and never saw a finer shot. What were you shooting at, Bud?" Bud wriggled in embarrassment, knowing that he had once again invited disaster by revealing his thoughts. But it was no longer the risk that it would have been a few short months ago, for neither Gram nor Gramps had shown any sign of wanting to exploit his weaknesses. He grinned and said sheepishly, "I must have been thinking out loud." "You're tired," Gram said soothingly. "Now you just run along." He said good night and for a moment before crawling into bed stood at the window. Then he caressed the cased shotgun, got into bed and pulled the covers up. Five minutes later wind-driven snow began to rattle crisply against his bedroom window. It was a magic sound that seemed to bring Bennett's Woods and all they contained into Bud's bedroom. He imagined he saw the black buck, a well-grown fawn now, pawing snow aside to get at the vegetation beneath, while his mother flirted coyly nearby with Old Yellowfoot. Cottontail rabbits played on the snow and sharp-nosed foxes sought them out. Blue jays huddled on their roosts and dreamed up new insults to scream at the world. Tiny chickadees, tiny puffs of feathers never daunted by even the bitterest winter weather, chirped optimistically to one another in the night. Bud's imagination always returned to the grouse that left their three-toed tracks, like small chicken tracks, clearly imprinted in the new snow as they sought out the evergreen thickets where they would be sure of finding food and shelter from the first biting blast of winter. Bud followed the tracks. The grouse burst out of their thickets like feathered bombs and each time he choose his bird and never missed. It occurred to him suddenly that, even though no hint of daylight showed against his window, he must have overslept. Bud sprang hastily up and consulted the battered clock on his dresser to find he had been in bed for only an hour. And so he returned to more dreams of grouse. Always he found them by first locating their tracks and following them into the thicket. Grouse after grouse fell to his deadly aim while Gramps, who couldn't even hope to match this kind of shooting, finally stopped trying and stood by admiringly. Then without any warning, Bud was confronted by a gigantic cock grouse whose head towered a full two feet over his own. Bud halted in his tracks, first astonished and then afraid. When he turned to run, the grouse ran after him, snapped him up in its bill, and began to shake him as Shep shook the rats that he sometimes surprised around the barn. As the giant grouse shook him, it said in a thunderous voice that Bud had already shot nine hundred grouse, far more than any one hunter should ever take, and now he must face his just punishment. Bud awoke in a cold sweat to find Gramps shaking his shoulder. "Time to move," Gramps said, and left. Bud shook off the remnants of sleep as only a youngster can and remembering the snow that had rattled against his window during the night, rushed across the floor to look out. The barn roof was starkly white in the early morning gloom, and the earth was snow-covered. Bud ran to the chair beside his bed where he stacked his clothing and dressed hurriedly, aware of the cold for the first time. He pulled on and laced his rubber-bottomed pacs, and then took up his shotgun affectionately and ran down the stairs. As anxious as he was to be in the woods, it never occurred to Bud that he was free to surrender to anxiety and be on with the hunting. It was right to anticipate but not to fret because first the stock had to be tended and fed. The farm creatures were utterly helpless and dependent, and the humans whose chattels they were had a responsibility to them. Bud came into the kitchen where Gram was busy and said cheerfully, "Good morning, ma'am." "Good morning, Allan." As he was putting on a jacket so he could rush out and help Gramps with the morning chores, Bud stopped with his arm half in and half out of the sleeve. Gram's face was wan and her smile was tired, and sudden fear leaped in Bud's heart. Nothing could possibly go wrong with Gram, but obviously something had gone wrong. Bud said because he had to say something, "I'm going out to help Gramps." "Wait just a minute," Gram said as though she had just made up her mind, "I'd like to talk with you." "Yes?" Bud said uncertainly. "Will you watch over Gramps very carefully today, Allan?" Bud was speechless, for Gramps was like one of the great white oaks that grew in Bennett's Woods, or one of the granite boulders that reared their humped backs on the hills. He watched over everything and everybody. With Gram, he made the Bennett farm a happy fortress where people could live as people were meant to live. Being asked to watch over Gramps made Bud feel small and incompetent. "Is Gramps sick?" he asked. "No," and he knew that she was speaking only half the truth. "It's just that he isn't as young as he used to be and I don't like to see him go in the woods alone." "Perhaps we should stay home?" "Oh no!" Gram said vehemently. "That would be far worse than going. Gramps was never meant for a rocking chair. Just watch over him." Bud threw his arms around her. He was a little surprised, now that they stood so close together, to discover that he did not have to rise at all to kiss her seamed cheek. He had always thought of Gram as being far taller than he, but now he knew she wasn't at all. "Don't you worry, Gram. I'll take care of him." "Now I just knew you would!" There was a sudden, happy lilt in Gram's voice and her weariness had disappeared. Bud kissed her again and went into the snowy morning, and if some of his zest had evaporated, something better had taken its place. He had known almost from the beginning how desperately he needed Gram and Gramps, and his greatest fear had been that, somehow, he would be separated from them. The thought of parting from them had worried him endlessly, and he had schemed to make himself indispensable. But there seemed to be no way, for he was not indispensable; he wasn't even important. Now, miraculously, the way had opened. Without understanding just how it had been brought about, Bud knew that Gram and Gramps needed him, too, and the knowledge gave him new stature and strength, and broke the final barriers that had held him aloof. It was impossible to remain distant when Gram's very heart cried out to him. The brisk wind whirled little snow devils across the yard and the barn roof was covered with snow. Shep came out of the partly open door to meet him, and Bud stooped to ruffle his ears. The collie remained by his side as Bud entered the barn, which was warm from the heat given off by the animals' bodies. As he was milking Cherub, the only cow of the four that would kick if she caught the milker off guard, Gramps looked up and said happily, "It's a great day for it." "It looks that way, Gramps," said Bud, his apprehension lessening in the face of Gramps' enthusiasm. "I'll get to work." He got his own pail and started milking Susie, thinking of the time when milking had seemed an art so involved that only a genius could master it. Now Bud could match Gramps' milking skill. He rose to empty his full milk pail into the can standing in the cooler. In another hour or so, Joe Travis would be along to collect it with his truck and carry it to the creamery at Haleyville. Household milk for both drinking and churning was always saved from the last pail. Gram still poured milk into shallow pans in the cool cellar, and separated milk from cream by skimming off the cream with a great spoon when it rose to the top of the pan. Coming back to milk the last cow, Bud stood aside so Gramps could pass with his brimming pail and said, "If you want to finish Clover, I'll take care of the horses and chickens." "Hop to it," Gramps said cheerfully. "Though I'd like to get going there's no tearing rush. Those grouse are going to stay where it's warm." Breathing a silent prayer because his ruse had worked--it was easier to milk another cow than to fork down hay for the horses and care for the poultry--Bud went to the horse stable. Tied to mangers, the two placid horses raised their heads and nickered a soft welcome when he entered. Bud filled the mangers with hay, gave each horse a heaping measure of grain, filled their water containers, groomed them and went on to the poultry house. The turkeys, geese and ducks had long since gone to one of the freezing lockers Pat Haley kept in the rear of his store, where, dressed and plucked, they awaited the various winter holidays and the homecomings of the Bennetts' children and grandchildren. Most of the chickens remained alive, however. A few were still on the roosts, and in the dim light, none was very active. As Bud filled the mash and grain hoppers and checked the supply of crushed oyster shell, he daydreamed about the flock he hoped to have. Instead of these mongrel chickens, he visualized an evenly matched, evenly colored flock. This morning he favored Rhode Island Reds, but sometimes he was for White Leghorns, or Anconas, or one of the many varieties of Plymouth Rocks or White or Buff Wyandottes. Bud had not yet decided whether it was better to breed for eggs or meat, or to choose a species of fowl that would supply both. But he did know that he wanted chickens. Although he never saw himself reaping great wealth from them, in his imagination he often heard himself assuring Gram and Gramps that the egg money, or the broiler money, depending on the breed he happened to fancy at the moment, was ample to pay all the current bills and leave a substantial reserve. He finished and he had no sooner shut the henhouse door than he ceased being a poultryman and became a hunter. The light was stronger now, the new snow was soft beneath his pacs and the wind was cold enough so that the season's first snow would not melt. The snow gave a special glamour to the forthcoming hunt, for in all the hunting stories Bud had liked the hunters had worked on snow. Moreover, the snow and the cold wind would keep the grouse concentrated in or near their evergreen thickets, and since Gramps knew every thicket in Bennett's Woods, the shooting would be fine. Gramps was at the table paying no attention to what he ate or how he ate it. Gram started to fill Bud's plate as he came in, and she looked at him meaningfully: he was to watch over Gramps and Gram knew that he would. But all she said was, "Get them while they're hot, Allan." "Sure, Gram," Bud said cheerfully. As he was about to stuff two pancakes rolled around two strips of bacon and doused with syrup into his mouth, Gramps stopped with the food halfway from his plate. "What'd you call Mother?" "Gram," Bud said, and now it seemed that he had never called her by any other name. "Why of course, Delbert," Gram said. "Where have your ears been?" "Wish I knew," Gramps said, and resumed eating. They finished, pushed their plates back, and Bud donned a belt-length wool jacket over his wool shirt. He stuffed the pockets full of shotgun shells, caught up his shotgun and kissed Gram again. "'Bye. We'll bring you back something nice." "Just bring yourselves back safely, and have a good time." They left the house, and when Shep fell in beside them, Gramps did not order him back. Bud said nothing. He had learned long ago why Shep scared trout, for the smallest shadow that fell across their pool would send trout scurrying for the shelter of overhanging banks or into crannies beneath rocks. It stood to reason that Shep would also frighten grouse, but that was a different matter. When Bud and Gramps approached, the grouse were sure to be frightened anyway and a dog prowling about was as likely to offer shots by sending grouse rocketing skyward as he was to frighten them out of range. Bud stole a sidewise glance at Gramps and saw nothing amiss. But he was troubled by Gramps' silence until the old man spoke, "When'd it happen, Bud?" "When did what happen?" "You called Mother 'Gram.' You kissed her when we left." "Well," Bud said, and then he came out with it, "I've wanted to do it for a long time." "A body ought to do what he wants more often," Gramps said. "Maybe it'd make a heap of people feel a heap better a lot sooner. Do you like it here with us?" "Oh, yes!" "So'd our young'uns, but after they grew up, they couldn't wait to leave. That's right and as it should be; the old have no call to tell the young what they must do. What are you aiming to be when you grow up?" "I haven't thought." "Don't you want to do anything?" "Yes. I want to raise chickens," Bud said recklessly. "Raise chickens!" Gramps was surprised. "How come? Tell me." Bud told him of the agricultural journals he had found in the closet off the living room and of the articles he had read about chickens, which had convinced him that the farm's present flock ought to be exchanged for purebreds. At any rate, he told Gramps, as soon as he could somehow earn enough money to buy a small pen of purebreds, he wanted to test his theory, if he could have Gram and Gramps' permission. "Guess we can find room for a few more chickens. We'll think about it," Gramps said when Bud finished. Then he lowered his voice to a whisper. "We'd best take it easy. Should be grouse round this next bend." Noting that Shep had left them for an excursion of his own, Bud balanced the shotgun with both hands and poised his thumb to slip the safety catch. They rounded the bend and stopped in their tracks. About a hundred and fifty feet away there was a dense thicket of young hemlocks, small bushy trees about eight feet high. Ten feet from the thicket, so still that at first he seemed to be a statue rather than a living thing, stood a mighty buck. His head was turned toward them and his ears flicked forward as he tested the wind with his black nose. From the tip of his nose to the tip of his tail, every line was graceful and yet brutally powerful. His craggy antlers curved high and spread wide. As little as he knew about deer, Bud knew his antlers were superb. From the hocks and knees down, each of the buck's feet was a light yellow. An instant later the buck had melted like a ghost into the hemlocks and Gramps said in awed tones, "Old Yellowfoot!" Bud looked again where the legendary buck of Bennett's Woods had been, half expecting to see him still there. But Old Yellowfoot was gone without a sound. It seemed impossible for so large an animal to have faded out of sight so quickly, and for a moment Bud wondered if he really had been there. But he had seen Old Yellowfoot, the buck no hunter ever saw fully. "Was that really Old Yellowfoot?" he asked. "That was him right enough!" Gramps said. "We might have shot him." "With a couple of shotguns and number six shot?" Gramps said. "Don't fool yourself, Bud. That old buck knows as well as we do that we wouldn't no more'n sting him if we did shoot, and he knew we wouldn't shoot 'cause he knows it ain't deer season." "How does he know?" Gramps said seriously, "I don't know how he knows it, but I'm sure he does. Naturally deer don't carry calendars, but they do tick off the days 'bout as accurately as we can and Old Yellowfoot's been through a lot of deer seasons. He can smell danger far's we can a skunk. If we'd been coming up here with a couple of thirty-thirtys, in deer season, we wouldn't have got within sniffing distance. I told you that buck's smarter'n most people. Wait'll we get on his tail and you'll see for yourself." They came to the place where the big buck had been standing and examined the hoofprints that were clearly defined in the snow. They were bigger than any deer tracks Bud had ever seen, and there seemed to be something mystical about them just because they were Old Yellowfoot's. Shep panted up, wagging his tail agreeably. He sniffed briefly at Old Yellowfoot's tracks and sat down in the snow. Gramps skirted the hemlocks, eyes to the ground, and presently he called, "They're in here." Advancing to Gramps' side, Bud saw that half a dozen grouse had gone from the open woods into the little evergreens. Bud looked into the grove trying to penetrate the closely interlaced branches. It seemed hopeless. If the copse could swallow Old Yellowfoot as though he had melted into the air, how could you expect to find the grouse? "Let's go in," Gramps said. They entered the copse, Gramps following the grouse tracks and Bud ten feet to one side. Bud's shotgun was half raised, ready to snap to shooting position at his shoulder, and his pulse was throbbing with excitement. Too eager, he pushed a few feet ahead of Gramps but fell back at once so that, when the grouse rose, both of them would have an equal chance to shoot. Bud knew that otherwise Gramps wouldn't dare shoot for fear of hitting him. The grouse rose so suddenly and unexpectedly that for a moment Bud forgot his gun. He had thought they would be deeper in the thicket. Gramps' gun blasted, and Bud saw a grouse pitch from the air into the snow. Then they were gone. "I didn't hear you shoot," Gramps said. "I couldn't get ready." There was the suspicion of a chuckle in his voice, but Gramps' face was perfectly solemn when he faced Bud. "There'll be more," he said. As they went forward, the only grouse that had not yet risen rocketed up beneath their feet. Bud saw the bird clearly as it soared over the tops of the hemlocks. He raised his gun and after he had shot, a shower of hemlock twigs filtered earthward from a place two feet beneath and three feet to one side of where the bird had been. Bud shuffled his feet and looked bewildered. "You get too excited," Gramps said. "Take it easier." "Yes, Gramps," Bud said meekly. They broke out of the other side of the thicket and came upon the place where Old Yellowfoot had left the hemlocks to slink into a stand of yellow birch. The tracks were not those of a running or excited deer, for Old Yellowfoot hadn't kept his regal antlers by surrendering to excitement. He had walked all the way and by this time was probably back in some hiding place that only he knew. Now they were in a thicket of small pines which were more scattered than the hemlocks had been. Grouse tracks led into it, and Gramps tumbled another bird out of the air. Bud saw one running on the snow, and he slipped the safety and aimed. He almost shot, but at the last moment released his finger tension on the trigger and let the bird run out of sight. That was not the way to take grouse. Two hours and fifteen shots later, they came to still another thicket and prepared to work through it. Gramps was no longer shooting, for even though the limit was four grouse, half the limit was enough for anyone. Bud's cheeks were burning, and he was grimly determined as they went on. Gramps had two grouse with two shots; he had none with fifteen. Then the grouse went up. This time it was different. Just as when he had been shooting at the tin cans tied to the windmill, his gun became a part of him and he seemed to be directed by something outside of himself. Bud swung on a grouse, shot and saw the bird fold its wings and tumble gracefully. Then he swung on a second bird and that one, too, dropped to the earth. He had shot fifteen times without coming even close to a grouse, but now he had redeemed himself by scoring a double. Not even Gramps had done that, and Bud turned proudly to the old man. Gramps was on his knees, trying desperately to keep from going all the way down by bracing himself with his shotgun. His head was bent forward as though he was too tired to hold it up, and what Bud could see of his face was blue. Gramps' breath came in hoarse, far-apart gasps--the most terrifying sound the boy had ever heard. chapter 6 Although he forgot the grouse he had just shot, Bud remembered to lean his shotgun against a little pine. That was something he could not forget, for he had been too long with too little not to know the worth of whatever finally came his way, and the shotgun was precious. Having put the gun where it was safe, he went to Gramps. Bud's heart constricted with fear as he strode forward, but he did not panic and it never even occurred to him to wish somebody else was there to help. Not once in his life had Bud been able to run or even shrink from a problem, and the pattern was set indelibly. He felt like sobbing because Gramps was in trouble, but he knew he had to do all he could to help. Wondering how Gram had known this might happen, Bud knelt beside him, passed his right arm around the old man's shoulders and took Gramps' shotgun in his left hand. Gramps tried to speak, but he was unable to, and after relinquishing his shotgun to Bud, he sank back heavily to a sitting position. Bud tightened his right arm around Gramps' shoulder and slipped behind him to give additional support with his shoulder. He did not know what was the matter with Gramps, but he knew it was serious and that it would do Gramps no good to be allowed to fall backward in the snow. Bud had no idea what else to do except to get Gramps back to the house as soon as possible. For the present there was nothing to do but wait. Gramps' head remained slumped forward and his breath continued to come in wheezes. He was as tense as a strung bow; even beneath Gramps' hunting jacket Bud could feel taut muscles. But Gramps did not move or even try to move. It was unthinkable to leave him for even the short time it would take to run to the farm and return with a sled. While Bud was trying to think of a way to drag the old man back to the house, Gramps' head snapped backward and jerked forward. He coughed violently and his head slumped forward again. All at once the rattling gasps stopped, leaving silence almost as terrifying as the agonized breathing had been. Then Gramps said faintly, but with unmistakable disgust, "I ought to be old enough to know better! Blamed nonsense!" He raised his head and Bud saw that his face was no longer blue. But in spite of the cold wind, a thin film of sweat glistened on the old man's face. As Bud wiped it off with his handkerchief, he could see that Gramps was not so tense and that the great vein in his neck, which had been throbbing furiously, had subsided. "Did I scare you, Bud?" Gramps said, raising his head and smiling. "Uh-huh." "Shouldn't have," Gramps said. "Wasn't any good reason for it. Just a pile of blamed nonsense." "Can you sit up without help?" Bud asked. "What do you think I am? A baby? Sure I can sit up." "I'll make a sled and have you back to the house in a jiffy." "You'll make a sled?" Gramps said in something like his old voice. "Just how do you aim to make it?" "I don't know," Bud said grimly, "but I'll make one." "I believe you would," Gramps conceded. "I believe you would do just that, but it ain't necessary. I'll walk back." And with a sudden lurch, Gramps heaved himself to his feet. He teetered uncertainly, but before Bud could help, Gramps found his balance and stood steadily. His face was pale, but he was no longer sweating and his grin was warm. "See? Sound as a yearling colt. Now you stop troubling your head about me and find those two pat'tidges you dropped." Then Bud remembered the pair of grouse that had fallen to his two shots. He looked at his shotgun, which was still leaning against the little pine very near his shooting position when he scored his double. He reconstructed the approximate positions of the two grouse when he shot, and the angle at which each had pitched into the snow. He looked uncertainly at Gramps. "Go ahead," the old man said. "You put 'em down and now you get 'em. There's two things you don't leave in the woods; one's wounded game and t'other's dead game. You get 'em." Bud caught up his shotgun, cradled it in the crook of his arm, and walked to where he thought the first bird would be. He found it almost at once, pitched against a little cluster of blackberry canes with its wings still spread as though it were ready to fly again. For the second bird Bud searched five minutes. He put both in the game pocket of his jacket and returned to Gramps. "I found them." "Good." Except that he was still pale, Gramps seemed almost his old self. "That was nice shooting, Bud." Bud nodded, too worried even to smile. Any other time Gramps' admission that Bud had shot well would have been overwhelming, for although Gramps seldom condemned harshly, he almost never praised at all. "I guess," Gramps said with forced cheer, "we might as well go tell Mother the hunt's over." Bud said nothing. Gramps had recovered sufficiently so that he could risk running to the house for the toboggan that lay across two wooden horses in the barn. But he did not offer to go, for he sensed something that did not appear on the surface. It was something that had taken root the day Gramps was born and grown stronger with every day of his life. Gramps had walked here; he would walk back, and Bud knew that to suggest Gramps could not walk out without help would wound him deeply. Even while he felt guilty because he did not ignore Gramps' wishes and go for the toboggan anyway, Bud still sympathized. He, too, thought that a man should stand on his own feet. Trying not to appear obvious, Bud adjusted his gait to the old man's. It was far slower than usual, but Gramps seemed not to notice that everything was not as it should be, and Bud was grateful. Shep came out of the woods to join them. He trotted twenty feet ahead, looked back to make sure they were following, and then set a pace that kept him about twenty feet in the lead. They were halfway to the farm when Gramps spoke, "There's no call to say anything to Mother 'bout this." "She should know," Bud said. "She should," Gramps agreed. "If it was anything bad she sure should. But it's just a heap of blamed nonsense. Doc Beardsley told me that himself. 'Most twenty-five years ago a horse kicked me in the head. It never fazed me then, but seems like it's showing up now, and Doc says I can expect these little cat fits every now'n again. They don't mean any more than a headache or sore tooth. You wouldn't want to worry Gram, would you?" Bud said reluctantly, "No." "She will worry if you tell her." Bud looked down at the snow. Gram couldn't have known that Gramps would be stricken, but she had certainly known that he _might_ be. Bud stole a look at Gramps, who had started to walk almost at his normal pace and who now bore only faint traces of his recent ordeal. If it was serious, Gram should know. But if, as Gramps said, it was only a trifling incident, it would only worry Gram to know. Bud reached his decision. "I won't tell her," he promised. "A right smart idea," Gramps said. "A fair half of the world's trouble is brought on by people shooting off their mouths when they'd do a lot better to keep 'em shut. You have plenty of horse sense, Bud." Bud thought suddenly of the little black buck, and he felt an almost uncontrollable yearning to seek him out. The buck was his brother, through whom Bud had discovered the first key that had helped open a series of magic doors. The black buck, Bud felt, would help him reach the correct decision now about whether Gram should know. But the buck was not at hand, and now they were too near the house not to continue. Gramps asked, far too casually, "How do I look?" Bud said, "All right," and Gramps did look all right--a bit tired, perhaps, and a little pale, but not like a man who had been as desperately ill as he had been. They brushed the snow from their pacs and entered the kitchen. Gram looked intently at Gramps. "Do you feel all right, Delbert?" Gramps said, "Nope. Anybody with half an eye can see I'm in bed with whooping cough, scarlet fever and hangnails." Bud caught his breath, for obviously Gram had seen through Gramps' nonchalance. Normally there would have been more questions, but now Gram had something else on her mind. With a flourish, she plucked a letter from her apron pocket. "From Helen!" she exclaimed. "She'll be here with Hal and the children on Christmas! Isn't that nice? With the other children and counting the grandchildren, there'll be at least thirty-three for Christmas!" "Wonderful!" Gramps agreed. "Let's hope they stay more than just one day!" "Helen Carruthers said she'll sleep the overflow if they do," Gram said. "With her children gone, too, and Joab in the hospital, she's lost in that big house. She told me so over the phone." Gramps said firmly, "When our young'uns and their young'uns come home, they stay here." The house would be spilling over with Bennetts, in-laws of Bennetts and grandchildren of Bennetts. Something within Bud turned stone cold and for a moment he wanted to die as he realized he did not have first claim or any real claim on the affections of these two people he had come to love so dearly. They had children of their own, natural children, and the fact that he was an orphan seemed more bitter to Bud than it ever had before. He felt it would have been better if he never had come here, for he had given his whole heart to Gram and Gramps who already had so many that there couldn't possibly be room for one more. Gram and Gramps began a happy discussion of the coming holiday. Helen Carruthers, who was so lonely anyway, would be glad to come in four or five days before Christmas to help Gram get ready. Naturally, Helen would leave on the twenty-fourth to spend Christmas with Joab--and wasn't it a pity that he had had to be sent to a hospital almost two hundred miles from home when, if he was within reasonable distance, Helen could visit him so much oftener? But there would be plenty of help anyway. Gram hadn't raised her daughters without teaching them what to do in a kitchen. Bud slipped out unobtrusively, and Shep followed him. As soon as they were hidden by a corner of the house, Bud hugged the collie fiercely. Then, with Shep beside him, he set off down the old tote road to find the black fawn. The afternoon was waning when he returned, having seen five deer but not the black fawn. Although it was still early for chores, Bud cleaned the cow stable, fed and milked the four cows and took care of the milk. He looked to the horses and went to the chicken house, where this time he saw only the usual flock of mongrel chickens. He collected the eggs from the nests and emerged from the chicken house to see Munn Mackie coming up the drive in his truck. A small building was chained securely onto the body of the truck. Gramps came from the house, buttoning his jacket as he came, and Munn stopped his truck. "Where do you want her, Del?" "Beside the hen house." Munn's truck growled across the snow and came to a halt. Munn jumped from the cab, made a ramp of two-by-sixes and jockeyed the building onto the two-by-sixes until it skidded safely to the ground beside the hen house. As Gramps paid Munn and the trucker drove away, Bud glanced at the little building beside the hen house. Until this afternoon he would have been eager to know why Munn had brought it and what it was for. Now he did not care. "Shall we get the chores done?" Gramps asked. "They're all done," Bud said. * * * * * The snowplow panted ahead of the school bus like a prehistoric monster. In some places there was only a dusting of snow and the plow raced along. In others there were drifts up to four feet deep, and the plow shifted into low gear and attacked the deep snow with its blade, growling like an angry dog attacking an enemy. In a seat next to a window Bud studied the falling snow and could not help sharing in the excitement that had set in almost three weeks ago and had mounted ever since. The opening of the deer season was one of the major events of the year in Dishnoe County. Everybody who lived in the county and had a firearm was sure to be out that day and there would be many hunters from other places as well. The Haleyville Consolidated School was not exempt from the influences of the season. Some boys from the fourth grade, more from the fifth and practically every boy from the sixth grade through high school would be absent on the opening day, and no excuse would be expected or required from them. Many of the girls would be out, too, and only a state law prevented the teachers from closing the school and joining their pupils in the cutover woods. A surging bank of heavy clouds had covered the sky when Bud had left home in the morning. At noon a high wind had risen suddenly and snow had followed. Although only about four inches had fallen so far, the wind was making heavy drifts. Bud turned to his seatmate, a youngster who was tackling the complexities of the eighth grade for the third time. His name was Goethe Shakespeare Umberdehoven. "Look at her come down, Get!" "Yeah." "There'll be tracking tomorrow." "Yeah." "You going out?" "Yeah. We get a deer we can sell another pig and have more money." This translation of getting a deer into financial terms was too much for Bud, who went back to staring at the snow. Soon only his physical self remained in the bus as his imagination took him into the deer woods with Gramps and the little thirty-thirty carbine Gramps had taught him to shoot. They were hot on the fresh trail of Old Yellowfoot and before long--by a clever ruse, the details of which Bud's imagination skipped over--they had outwitted the ruling monarch of Bennett's Woods. Knowing that there was no hope unless he ran, Old Yellowfoot raced away, eighteen feet to the jump, and Bud followed with his rifle. With the first shot Old Yellowfoot crumpled in the snow. Then Bud heard the bus driver saying, "Hey, Sloan. You aim to get out in the next hour or so?" Bud looked up to see that the bus was parked at the Bennett's drive. He squeezed past Get Umberdehoven and ran up the drive, stopping long enough to ruffle Shep's ears when he came bounding to meet him. Daydreaming about Old Yellowfoot had made him feel better. The arrival of Gram and Gramps' children and grandchildren was as certain as the rising of the sun. Bud knew that they would displace him, for they belonged and he did not. But Christmas was not yet at hand and, maybe, if he wished hard enough, it never would come. Anyhow, there were at least the days before Christmas, and he decided to live for today and let tomorrow take care of itself. In spite of the snow, Gramps was working on the little building that Munn Mackie had brought in his truck. Gramps had installed new and larger windows, put in insulation and rebuilt the door and hung it on new hinges. He was replacing some of the outside boards when Bud came up. Bud asked no questions although now he wanted to. But he had ignored the building the day it was delivered, and pride prevented his asking about it now. "By gummy," Gramps said over the blows of his hammer, which were strangely muffled in the storm, "sure looks as though we hit it right." "We sure did," Bud agreed. Gramps said solemnly, "Got the same feeling in my bones as I had just before we caught Old Shark. Only this feeling's 'bout Old Yellowfoot. We'll nail him sure before the season's out." "Gee! Are you sure?" Bud said, his reserve gone. "Sure's a body can be 'thout putting it down on paper and swearing to it in front of Squire Sedlock. Yep. We're going to lay that old tyrant low." "Gee!" Bud said again. "That'll be something! I'll run along and change." "Come out when you're set if you've a mind to." The storm-muffled thumps of Gramps' hammer were magic in Bud's ears as he ran around to the kitchen door, for in his imagination they had become rifle shots, widely spaced and well aimed, as Bud the master hunter once again maneuvered Old Yellowfoot into a corner from which there was no escape. Then he burst into the kitchen. "Hi, Gram." "Allan! I thought sure you'd be late, the way the wind's drifting this snow." "We followed the snowplow up," Bud said, going to the table where his after-school snack always waited. He took a long drink of milk and a bite from a ginger cookie. "What's Gramps doing?" "Trying to keep from driving himself and me too crazy," Gram said, sniffing. "I do swear, he's more anxious than a boy on his first hunt! All day long he hasn't done much of anything except ask me if I think you'll get Old Yellowfoot. It's a good thing he's working it off." Bud asked, "Do you think we'll get Old Yellowfoot?" Gram smiled. "Let's put it this way. I think you'll have fun hunting him." Bud finished the last cookie, drained the glass of milk, and sat silently for a moment. Then he asked a question that he had often been on the point of asking. "Was Gramps ever kicked by a horse?" "Land yes! Every farmer who uses horses has been kicked. At least, I never heard of one who hasn't." "Was he ever kicked in the head?" Gram laughed. "Lord love you, child. Who's been telling you fairy tales?" "I just wondered." Gram said dryly, "I've tended Delbert for a good many ailments but never yet, thank the Lord, for a horse-kicked head. What are you getting at, Allan?" "I just sort of wondered," Bud said noncommittally. He went up to his room more puzzled than ever. On the grouse hunt Gramps had said that a horse had kicked him in the head twenty-five years ago. But now Gram said there had never been any such kick, and Gram never lied. Still, if Gramps had not wanted her to worry after the grouse hunt, he had probably felt the same way twenty-five years ago. Perhaps he had never told her that he had been kicked in the head. When Bud went out again, Gramps was in the cow stable and had already begun the milking. He was bubbling with enthusiasm. Gramps did everything with zest, but whenever there was anything exciting in prospect, he almost exploded with energy. By the time they had finished the chores and eaten supper, Bud was almost giddy with excitement, for now the hour was at hand. He knew as he went to bed that he would never sleep a wink, but the next thing he knew Gramps was shaking his shoulder. "Time to get moving, Bud." It was dark outside, but that did not seem unusual because daylight did not come until after seven these days, and every morning for the past several weeks Bud had awakened in darkness. When he looked at his clock, however, he saw that it was a quarter to four. He sprang out of bed, instantly awake and exhilarated by the mere thought of starting anywhere at such an hour. But by the time he had reached the stable, Gramps had already milked three of the cows. There was still only a faint hint of daylight when, the chores done, breakfast eaten and sack lunches in their jackets, they started into Bennett's Woods. Moored with a ten-foot hank of clothesline, Shep rolled his eyes and mournfully watched them go. Bud felt sorry for him until Gramps explained that, although most hunters are sportsmen, there are always a few who shoot first and look afterward. Two years ago some of that kind had shot one of Abel Carson's Holstein heifers, and said afterward that they thought it was a pinto buck. Since Shep liked to wander into the woods when there was nothing more interesting to do, it was better to leave him tied than to risk his being shot. The snow had stopped falling, and here in the woods it had drifted less than in the open country where the wind had a full sweep. There were few drifts and no deep ones, and the five inches of soft snow made a pleasant cushion beneath Bud's pacs. By almost imperceptible degrees the day lightened. They were perhaps a half mile from the house when Gramps stopped. He raised his rifle and sighted on a stump about a hundred yards away. Then he lowered his rifle and said, "We'll wait here a bit, Bud." "Why?" "It ain't light enough to see the sights, and while I think Old Yellowfoot will be hanging out in Dockerty's Swamp, he could be anywhere from here on. If we jump him, we don't want to guess where we're shooting." Just then, they heard five shots. "Fool!" Gramps growled. "He saw something move and, though it's a lead-pipe cinch he couldn't tell what it was, he shot anyway. Those kind of hunters got less brains than the game they hunt." Twenty minutes later there were three more shots spaced far enough apart to indicate that the hunter was taking aim. Gramps listened carefully. He sighted a second time on the stump, held his sight for a full three seconds, and turned to Bud. "What do you make of it?" Bud raised his own rifle, centered the ivory bead of the front sight in the notched rear, and aimed at a puff of snow that clung like a boll of cotton to the stump. He lowered the rifle. "It looks all right to me." "You can see?" "Well enough for a good aim." "Come on, and from here on there's no talking." Gramps slowed to a snail's pace, stopping every ten minutes or so to look all around. Bud understood what he was doing, for while it is true that deer are noted for their speed, it is a mistake to try to chase them. If you slog as far as twenty miles a day through deer country, you are almost sure to see deer, but not as many as the hunter who works carefully through a comparatively limited deer cover. Slow and easy is the proper way nine times out of ten. Rifles were cracking from all quarters now, sometimes three or four at once, sometimes only one and occasionally none at all. Gramps stopped suddenly and pointed to two deer about a hundred and twenty yards away. Both were bucks. One bore a stunted rack of antlers, but the second had a trophy that would shame no hunter. Gramps went on. The two bucks, aware now of their presence, each sounded a single blasting snort and bounded away. Bud watched them go without regret. Either buck would have been a fairly simple shot. But they were hunting Old Yellowfoot. They saw seven more deer before they reached Dockerty's Swamp. It covered about seventy acres and was a tangle of high bush huckleberries, cedar, balsam and a few great hardwoods, whose branches rose gaunt and bare above the surrounding stunted growth. A bush-grown knoll flanked the swamp and it was surrounded by low mountains that were covered with cutover hardwoods and patches of laurel and small evergreens. Although Dockerty's Swamp was well known as a refuge for deer, Gramps was one of the few who knew how to flush them out. Gramps led Bud to the summit of the knoll and halted in a thicket so dense that they could see no farther than forty feet ahead of them. Gramps raised a forefinger, a signal for Bud to stay where he was. Foolish young deer might show themselves in sparse cover or even open meadows, but a buck as wise as Old Yellowfoot would make for the thickest cover when Gramps chased him out of the swamp. It was a foregone conclusion that he would come up the knoll. All other ways out of the swamp were so sparsely forested that anything emerging would make an easy shot. Two and a half hours after Gramps left, Bud saw a deer move farther down the slope. Bud remained perfectly still. The deer was almost completely hidden by brush and he was unable to tell if it was a buck or doe or even how large it was. Ten seconds later the black fawn stepped into plain sight. He was a well-grown buck now, and sturdy, and his hair was so dark that the fawn spots had faded into it. Little nubbins that were his first antlers projected two inches above his head. The black buck came on, stopping now and then to look behind him and always testing the winds. He had been chased from the swamp and, young though he was, he had planned and executed a masterly retreat instead of panicking. He passed thirty feet to Bud's right, turned and stared fixedly at him when they were abreast. Then the black buck leaped out of sight into a laurel thicket. Three does came next, then a chesty little six-point buck that shook his antlers and rolled his eyes as though anything that dared challenge him did so at its own peril. Finally Gramps appeared. "Old Yellowfoot wasn't there, Bud. We'll try Happy Ridge." But Old Yellowfoot was not on Happy Ridge, or in Hargen's Pines or Dead Man's Hollow, or any other place where they looked. They might have had either one of two more nice bucks that day, but they scorned both. Finally, sorry that a nearly perfect day was ending, Gramps and Bud turned homeward. Tomorrow was another day and there were more to follow. They entered the house and Gramps said to Gram, "Nary a sign, not even an old track . . ." He stopped suddenly, staggered across the floor and dropped his rifle on the table before sinking into a chair. He buried his face in his hands, and once more Bud heard the terrible wheezing that had been so terrifying back in the grouse woods. chapter 7 From the school bus the blacktop road looked to Bud like a frozen black river between the banks of snow cast aside by the snowplow and he pretended that the poles indicating culverts were channel markers. The Barston farm buildings to the left and a hundred and fifty yards from the highway seemed to him an island in the sea of snow and the Barstons' orchard looked like a great mass of seaweed. Soon he tired of daydreaming and stared stonily out of the window. When Christmas had still been weeks away, he had been able to tell himself that it might never come. But now that only a few days remained before Christmas, there was no more hope. This was the last trip the school bus would be making until after New Year's, for the Christmas vacation was beginning and in just three days Gram and Gramps' children and grandchildren would arrive and there would be no place for an outsider. It would have been far better, he thought bleakly, if he had never come to Bennett's Farm and probably it would be better if he left now. But although Bud's imagination could whisk him anywhere at all, the harsh realities of life as he had lived it sobered him. He could dream of the French Foreign Legion, the carefree existence of a cowboy, the adventurous career of a seaman or the unhampered life of a trapper in the arctic north, but he knew in his heart his dreams would never come true. Twelve-year-old boys had run away from the orphanage, but none had stayed away for more than three days before they had returned of their own accord or had been brought back by the police. A youngster traveling alone without resources had less than one chance in a thousand of remaining undetected, and Bud knew it. Besides, he was stubborn and unwilling to back away from any situation. He would face the assembled Bennetts and do the best he could. In one way or another, he had faced giants before. To take his mind away from the ordeal ahead of him, Bud turned back to the hunt for Old Yellowfoot and the day Gramps had been stricken in the kitchen. He had been frightened then, too, but not with the stark fear he had known the day he and Gramps had hunted for grouse and Gramps had become ill while they were in the woods. That day Bud had been alone, but now there was Gram. Things might still go wrong now, but not altogether wrong if she was there. He remembered how Gram had walked calmly over to Gramps as soon as he was stricken and said quietly, "You're tired, Delbert. Now you just sit right there and take it easy." Then she had gone to the telephone and, after she had spoken to Dr. Beardsley, returned to sit beside Gramps. Only her eyes had shown the torment she was enduring. Bud had hovered in the background, not knowing what to do, but ready to do anything. Gramps raised his head again and there was that terrible convulsive cough, but afterward he breathed more easily. The blue color that had invaded his face began to fade. He started to sweat and Gram wiped his face gently. "Gosh blame nonsense," Gramps gasped. "Of course," Gram said. "That's just what it is. You sit there anyway." "Why?" "Maybe because I like your company and you have been gone all day." Only later had it occurred to Bud that she was deliberately resorting to subterfuge to make him sit still until Dr. Beardsley arrived. Gramps would never have accepted a doctor otherwise. As it was, he gave an outraged growl when Dr. Beardsley finally came. "What the blazes do you want?" Gramps grumbled. Dr. Beardsley said calmly, "To see you, Delbert, and I don't have all night. Open your shirt." Dr. Beardsley had hung out his shingle in Haleyville when he was twenty-two. He was seventy-two now, and there was little in his half century of practice that he hadn't dealt with. He had learned long ago that he would be obeyed if he expected obedience and tolerated nothing else. "While you're about it," the doctor said, "roll up your sleeve." Grumbling, Gramps did as he was told. Dr. Beardsley took his blood pressure and thrust a thermometer between Gramps' lips. When Gramps made a face, he said, "That's a thermometer, Delbert, not a stick of peppermint. Don't try to bite it in half." While Gramps mouthed the thermometer, Dr. Beardsley applied a stethoscope to his chest, then to his back. He removed the thermometer and, after he read it, he washed it at the sink and dipped it in a sterile tube before putting it back in its case. "I suppose you were hunting today?" he asked Gramps. "You know anybody who wasn't?" Gramps said. "I know some who shouldn't have been, and I know at least one who isn't going again until next year. His name's Delbert Bennett." "Blasted nonsense!" Gramps snorted. "You doctors ever talk anything 'cept nonsense?" "Seldom," Dr. Beardsley admitted cheerfully, "but it just so happens that I'm talking sense at present. It isn't too serious, but it will be if you don't take care. The truth is your heart isn't as young as it used to be. With reasonable luck it will last you another twenty years, and I fully expect you'll grow more cussed every year. But right now it needs rest, which means that you're going to take it easy for the next six months. In addition to your regular night's sleep, lie down for at least three hours every day. We'll see after that." "I never heard so blame much foolishness!" Gramps tried to roar, but he was too weak and could only blink indignantly at Dr. Beardsley. Gram said quietly but firmly, "He'll do as you say, Doctor." "Clobber him if he doesn't." "I will." Dr. Beardsley packed his stethoscope and sphygmomanometer back in his bag and wrote a prescription, which he handed to Gram. "There's no emergency about this; the youngster can bring it when he comes home from school tomorrow. After that, see that he takes his medicine according to the directions that will accompany the prescription and refill it before it runs out." "Medicine!" Gramps said. "You pill peddlers can't think of anything else when you don't know what to do." "He'll take the medicine, Doctor," Gram promised. Dr. Beardsley said, "I leave you in care of your boss, Delbert," and went out into the night. That had been that; hunting Old Yellowfoot was over for the season. Gramps grumbled and growled, but he took his medicine and accepted his three hours of daily rest. Bud shouldered as many of the chores as he could. Then the school bus stopped, and as Bud trudged up the drive, he told himself sullenly that at least he was beholden to nobody for he had paid his way. But in his heart he knew it wasn't as simple as that, and that he would gladly work as many hours a day as he could stay awake to help Gram and Gramps. For the past week the kitchen had been a heaven of tantalizing odors. Bushels of cookies and rows of fruit cakes had emerged from the great oven. Gram and Helen Carruthers had been busy from daylight until after dark. Gram was taking another tray of cookies from the oven when Bud came in and she smiled at him. Helen Carruthers, a tall, graying woman who seldom smiled, was mixing something in a pan. She nodded at Bud and told him to help himself. Bud grabbed a handful of cookies and went to his room to change his clothes. As he went out to the barn, Shep came running to meet him and inside he found Gramps sitting on a bale of hay. The barn had become Gramps' refuge. The old man nodded glumly. "Dogged if I know how she does it," Gramps said plaintively. "I'm supposed to take that stuff Doc Beardsley gave me, and it's a wonder it don't kill a body, every four hours. So every four hours, no matter how busy she is, Mother's right on deck with it. Pah! A man can't be himself any more." "You should have your medicine, Gramps." "Medicine, yes, but that ain't any medicine. Now you take sassafras root and slippery elm bark; that was medicine when they was boiled together by somebody who knew what he was doing." Gramps fell into a glum silence. Then he said, "Anyhow, they didn't get Old Yellowfoot." "How do you know?" "Everybody'd know if they got a buck that big. He'll be waiting for us next year." "That's good!" Bud said with feeling. "Ain't it," Gramps said sourly. "It'd be a heap better if next deer season wasn't such a passeling ways off. I felt in my bones that this was our year to get Old Yellowfoot, and we'd of had him if it hadn't been for this blasted nonsense. Oh well, we'll be howling a long spell if we howl about it. Want to help me fetch the Christmas tree tomorrow?" * * * * * The next day they set off across the snow with Shep frolicking beside them. Bud carried an ax and a rope. Gramps led the way to a young hemlock that, because it grew in the open, was evenly formed on all sides and sloped to a nearly perfect top. Bud felled it, then hitched the rope around its trunk and slid it home across the snow. Under Gramps' direction he sawed the chopped end off squarely and nailed a wooden standard across the trunk. Gram and Helen Carruthers took over as soon as Gramps and Bud had carried the tree into the living room and stood it in a corner. The tree had to be moved this way and that, seldom more than two inches in any direction, until Gram and Helen were finally satisfied and the top could be secured with string. Even while he was helping with the Christmas preparations, Bud felt detached. He was convinced that they were being made solely for the Bennetts' children and grandchildren, in whose eyes he would be no more than an interloper. And so Bud walked grudgingly forward when the first of the real family arrived, forcing himself not to surrender to an impulse to run. As soon as he had mumbled "Pleased t'meetcha," he fled to the barn. By Christmas morning the house was filled with Bennett relatives and more would be there in time for dinner. It was still dark when Bud awakened, and he slipped quietly out of bed and into his clothes. Then, shoes in hand, he padded softly down the stairs. He wanted to escape from the house and be out with the stock. Also, Gramps needed rest, and if he were not disturbed, he would sleep late enough so that Bud could finish the chores. Otherwise, Gramps would insist on helping. Bud knew by the light seeping through the crack under the kitchen door that somebody had preceded him. It was Gram. "Allan," she said, "it's only half-past five." She must have been up for a very long time. Now she was filling the last of a row of pies. As he watched her, Bud could not help thinking of the feast to come--roast turkey, chicken, duck and goose; sweet and white potatoes; mince, pumpkin and apple pie; salads and cooked vegetables; cake and ice cream. But he refused to look into the dining room, where the big table had been extended to its full length and been flanked by many small tables. There would be more than thirty at Christmas dinner, and there was room and food for all of them. Bud was just as careful to avoid the parlor where gifts were piled in little mountains beneath the tree. He thought fleetingly of the sewing kit he had put under the tree for Gram and the book called _Africa's Dangerous Game_ for Gramps. Without resentment, he reflected that there would be nothing for him. He put on his shoes and took his jacket and cap from the closet, and was about to go out when he saw that he was being rude to Gram. Even if Christmas meant nothing to him, it meant a great deal to her. And so he turned and wished her a Merry Christmas as heartily as he could. "Why bless you, Allan. And a very Merry Christmas to you," she said, hugging and kissing him. Even though he had no claim on Gram, it looked as if she had not rejected him completely, and he felt a little better. He left the house and stopped on the back porch to hug Shep, whose warm, wet tongue seemed to wash away some of Bud's loneliness. Together they made their way through the snow to the stable where the four cows, warm in their stanchions, blew softly through their nostrils and turned their gently welcoming eyes on Bud. Some farmers claimed cows were glad to see you only because you gave them food, but Bud knew better, especially on this Christmas morning. He forked hay into the mangers, measured grain into the feed boxes and drew his stool up beside the fractious Cherub. It seemed a long while ago and scarcely credible that he had once been afraid of her. Bud milked the four cows deliberately, working as slowly as possible so as to delay his return to the house in which he had become an alien. Then he fed the horses, took care of the chickens and peered out of the barn at the winter landscape which was gradually becoming lighter. Although he had already cleaned it once, he cleaned the cow stable again, carefully sifting anything that even remotely resembled refuse from the fresh straw he had put down and carrying the refuse out to the litter pile behind the barn. He lingered on in the barn until he knew that if he did not return to the house Gram or Gramps would come out to find out what had happened to him. They would want to know what was the matter, and he was determined not to spoil their happiness at Christmas by letting them know how miserable he was. As soon as he was inside the kitchen, Bud took off his work shoes and put on the pair he wore to school. It was an involuntary and almost unconscious gesture. He and Gramps always came to the table in the shoes they wore in the barn, and as long as they were clean, neither of them gave it a second thought. But now the house was full of strangers. Only Gram seemed to notice his entrance and she came into the kitchen from the dining room where the others were and started to cook his bacon and eggs. "Land sake, Allan, you were a long while at the chores," she said. Bud stayed in the kitchen with her, hoping that he would be able to eat there alone. But when his breakfast was ready, she carried the plate into the dining room and Bud set his jaw and followed. He had no sooner sat down than Gramps came in. He nodded at the table in general and then turned to Bud. "Did you do the morning chores, young feller?" Bud said, "Yes," in a very small voice. "Did you get into that little house, too?" "Little house?" "The one next the chicken house." "No." "You'd best kite along and get it." Bud left the table, glad to get away, but burning with humiliation. The little house that Munn Mackie had hauled in with his truck had nothing in it. At least Bud thought it had nothing in it. But having been too proud to ask about it in the beginning or since, he wasn't sure now. In spite of all his precautions, he had come close to saddling Gramps with a chore that he, Bud, ought to have done without Gramps' having to ask him. Bud came to the little house and, seeing a white envelope tied with a red ribbon to the door latch, stood dumfounded. "_Merry Christmas_" was written across the envelope and the card inside it read: _Merry Christmas to our boy, Bud-Allan. Gram and Gramps_ Bud opened the door and gasped. Last night after he had gone to bed somebody must have strewn fresh straw on the floor of the little house. There was a drinking fountain, a mash hopper, a grain feeder and a container for oyster shell. A regal young cockerel strutted around six pure-white pullets. Bud entered the little house and pulled the door shut behind him, latching it so no one could intrude on this wonderful moment. His heart seemed to be beating in his throat and tears had sprung to his eyes. Now for the first time in his life he knew what Christmas could mean. He caught up the cockerel and, as he stroked it, looked around at the pullets and thought of the flock they would become. Bud was sure he had always wanted White Wyandottes like these. chapter 8 Gramps took a turn for the better soon after the Christmas guests departed, but his improvement was not an unmitigated blessing. The better he felt, the more his enforced confinement chafed. Sores that were opened because he had to stop hunting Old Yellowfoot after only one day were rubbed raw because he could not go into the winter woods at all. There was little he could have done there if he had gone, but he still fretted to go. He read and reread _Africa's Dangerous Game_, the book Bud had given him for Christmas, and criticized each chapter as he read it. The book was the abridged journal of an obscure professional hunter, and Gramps had no sympathy at all for the hardships the author had suffered or the perils he had faced. After all, Gramps said, he didn't have to go looking for rogue elephants, man-killing lions or short-tempered buffalo. And since he had gone after them of his own free will, he should have known about the perils he would have to face before he had ever started out. Of course he could expect trouble--what hunter couldn't?--but the book would have been far more interesting if he had given more space to hunting and less to the unendurable agonies that had beset him. In fact, Gramps thought the long chapter in which the hunter crossed the desert might better have been condensed into a single sentence reading, "Don't cross this desert unless you carry plenty of water." Although the stature of the hero of _Africa's Dangerous Game_ dwindled with each perusal, reading was a way to help ease the long hours when Gramps could do little. And so Bud brought home books from the school library. Usually he chose books with outdoor themes, and instead of taking them to his room, he purposely left them on the kitchen table where Gramps would see them. Gramps was always volubly critical and often openly scornful of the books Bud brought home for him, but he read them all. When he was not reading or helping with the chores if Bud had not managed to get them all done, Gramps devised endless cunning schemes for getting the best of Old Yellowfoot next season. For Old Yellowfoot, his one failure, galled Gramps every bit as much as Sir Lancelot would have been galled had he been unhorsed by a downy-cheeked young squire. The fact that illness had given Gramps only one day to hunt Old Yellowfoot did not worry him. All that mattered was that Old Yellowfoot still wore the rack of antlers that Gramps had sworn to hang in the living room. Although the next deer season was still months away, Gramps gave his campaign all the care and attention an able general would lavish on a crucial battle. He carried a map of Bennett's Woods in his head and time after time his imagination took him through every thicket in which the great buck might hide. He pondered ways to drive him out and the various countermoves Old Yellowfoot might make to try to elude him. Gramps made lists, not only of the ways in which Old Yellowfoot could be expected to behave differently from young and relatively inexperienced deer, but also of his individual traits. One evening in early April Bud read one of the lists that Gramps had left on the kitchen table: Old Yellowfoot knows more about hunters than they do about him. He will not be spooked and he cannot be driven. Don't expect to find him where such a buck might logically be found, but don't overlook hunting him there. He does the unexpected. If the weather's mild, look for him in the heights, especially Hagerman's Knob, Eagle Hill and Justin's Bluff. If there's plenty of snow, he'll be in the lowlands. (Though I've yet to find him in Dockerty's Swamp during deer season, Bud and me will look for him there.) Old Yellowfoot's one of the very few deer I've ever run across who's smart enough to work against the wind instead of running before it. I'm sure he does this the better to locate hunters. Hunt thickets close to farms. I've a hunch he's hung out in them more than once while we looked for him in the deep woods. He will never cross an open space if he can help it, and he always can. Then glancing once more at the list, Bud returned to his own figuring. He frowned and nibbled the eraser of his pencil as he looked at the sheets of paper scattered on the table in front of him, and finally arranged them in a neat sheaf and started over them again. He knew pretty well what Gram and Gramps had paid for his pen of White Wyandottes, and the price was high. They were the best chickens that could be bought and, in terms of what they would bring in the market, the cockerel was worth any two dozen run-of-the-mill chickens and each of the pullets was worth any dozen. But expensive as the White Wyandottes had been, so far they had been anything but a bonanza. Fed according to a formula worked out by Bud and the agriculture teacher at the Haleyville Consolidated School, the pullets had averaged more eggs for each bird than the pullets in Gramps' flock, and the cost of feeding them had been less. But Bud's pleasure at this proof that scientifically fed chickens did more for less money was somewhat diminished by the fact that until the past few weeks his chickens had produced only undersized pullets' eggs. When he accepted such eggs at all, Pat Haley would never pay more than twenty-seven cents a dozen. Gram used the surplus eggs in cooking, and Bud had taken his pay in feed rather than cash. He still owed Gramps sixty-nine cents for feed, and even though Gramps had told him not to worry, Bud couldn't help it, for after wintering his flock he was sixty-nine cents in debt, and now there were fresh problems. Since it was unthinkable to let his aristocrats mingle with the farm flock, a run was necessary. Bud could cut the supporting posts in Bennett's Woods, but wire netting cost money. Besides, there would be no more income from egg sales for some time, for now that the six pullets had begun to lay normal-sized eggs, every one of the eggs had to be hoarded against the time when one or more of the six turned broody. To prove that there was more profit in better chickens, Bud had to increase his flock. The arguments for incubators as opposed to the time-honored setting hen were reasonable but it was out of the question for Bud to buy even a small incubator. And so, although he could expect no income from egg sales, at least for a while, he was still faced with the problem of building a run and of feeding his flock. It was true that the future looked bright. Something like half the chicks hatched would probably be cockerels and the other half pullets. The rooster Bud already had would serve very well for several years more and the little house could comfortably accommodate him and about twenty hens. If the overflow were sold . . . "What's the matter, Bud?" Gramps interrupted. "You look as though you just dug yourself a fourteen-foot hole, crawled in, and pulled the hole in on top of you." Bud shook himself out of the reverie into which he had lapsed and looked up to see Gramps standing across the table. Bud grinned. There was something like the old sparkle in Gramps' eye and his chin had its old defiant tilt. "I owe you sixty-nine cents for chicken feed, Gramps," Bud said, looking back at his figures. "Serious matter," Gramps said gravely. "But I promise not to have the sheriff attach your flock if you pay in the next day or so. If you're dead set on having that worry off your mind, why don't you sell some eggs?" "I'm saving them for hatching." "Can't save your eggs and pay your debts, too," Gramps pointed out. "How many you got laid by?" "Forty-four." "Pat Haley'll buy 'em, and now that your hens have started laying something bigger'n robin's eggs, he'll pay better. You can pay me off and still have forty, fifty cents for yourself." Bud looked at the old man. Sometimes he knew how to take Gramps, but this time he wasn't sure. "I have to save them," he said. "You don't have to do anything of the kind," Gramps said. "If you're saving eggs it's 'cause you want to, and if you want to, it's 'cause you got something in mind. You aim to hatch those eggs?" "Yes. I think the little house will hold maybe twenty hens and a rooster." "'Bout right," Gramps conceded. "So you have seven in there now and forty-four eggs saved. If you get an eighty per cent hatch, and that won't be bad for a rooster as don't yet know too much 'bout his business, you'll have thirty-five more chickens. So that makes forty-two in a twenty-one hen house. It don't add up." Bud said quickly, "That isn't what I have in mind. I'll keep fourteen of the best pullets and sell all the rest." "Something in that," Gramps admitted. "Pat Haley'll pay you the going price for both fryers and broilers. Take out the cost of feed, and if you're lucky, come fall you could have ten or fifteen dollars for yourself." Bud said thoughtfully, "I hadn't meant to sell any for fryers. I'd hoped to sell the surplus as breeding stock." "Hope is the most stretchable word in the dictionary," Gramps said. "If we didn't have it we'd be better off dead but there's such a thing as having too much. Many a man who's tried to live on hope alone has ended up with both hands full of nothing. Do you think anybody who knows anything about poultry will pay you breeding-stock prices for chickens from an untried pen?" "But my chickens have the best blood lines there are," Bud said. "And it don't mean a blasted thing unless they have a lot of what it takes," Gramps said. "Joe Barston paid seven hundred and fifty dollars for a four-month-old bull calf whose ancestors had so much blue blood they all but wore monocles. But this calf threw the measliest lot of runts you ever saw and finally Joe sold him for beef. Now if you had a proven pen of chickens, if you could show in black and white that yours produced the most meat and laid the most eggs for the breed, you could sell breeding stock. Otherwise you're out of luck." Gramps shrugged. Bud stared dully at his papers. Dreaming of getting ten dollars or more for a cockerel that was worth a dollar and thirty-five cents as a broiler had been just another ride on a pink cloud, and his dreams of wealth in the fall evaporated. "Your chin came close to fracturing your big toe," Gramps said. "Don't be licked before you are. Now you don't want to keep your own pullets 'cause you'll be breeding daughters back to their own father, and that's not for you. At least, it's not until you know more about such things. But you can trade some of yours back to the same farm where your pen came from. He'll probably ask more than bird for bird, but he'll trade and the least you can figure on is starting out this fall with a bigger flock. The rest you'd better figure on selling to Joe Haley. Now how many eggs have you been getting a day?" "The least I've had since spring weather set in is two. The most is five." "That's all? You never got six?" "Not yet." "Have you tried trap-nesting your hens?" "No." "Why not?" Bud knew that trapping each hen in her nest after she laid and keeping a record of her production was the only way to weed out the drones from the workers. He hadn't tried it, though, because he hadn't wanted to leave any hen trapped away from food and water while he was at school all day. He hadn't wanted to ask Gramps to look after his trap nests for him either, but he only said lamely, "I never thought of it." "You should have," Gramps said. "If you're going to make out with these hifalutin' chickens of yours you have to think of everything. Looks to me like you got a slacker in your flock and, though maybe she wouldn't be better off in the stew pot, you'd be better off to put her there." "That's so," Bud conceded, "but how do I know which one?" "You don't and there's no sense fussing about it now. So what else is bothering you?" "I haven't got any money," Bud confessed. "That," Gramps' serious eyes seemed suddenly to twinkle, "puts you in the same boat with forty-nine million and two other people. Why do you need money?" "I need to build an enclosed run. I can't let my chickens run with the farm flock." "True," Gramps said. "High society chickens oughtn't mix with ordinary fowl. Why don't you go ahead and build your run?" "I told you. I haven't any money for netting and staples." "Go in that little room beside the granary and you'll find a role of netting. Kite yourself down to Pat Haley's during lunch hour tomorrow, get some staples, and tell Pat to charge 'em to me." "But . . ." "Will you let me finish?" Gramps said sharply. "I didn't say you were going to get any part of it for free. That roll of netting cost me four dollars and sixty cents. Add to it whatever the staples cost, and since you want to save your eggs for hatching, somebody's got to buy feed for your chickens. I'll take you on until you have fryers to sell, but strictly as a business deal. Just a minute." Gramps wrote on a sheet of paper, shoved it across the table, and Bud read, _On demand I promise to pay to Delbert J. Bennett the sum of ----. My pen of White Wyandottes plus any increase therefrom shall be security for the payment of this note._ Bud looked inquiringly across the table. Gramps shrugged. "All you have to do is sign it and go ahead; you're in the chicken business if you want in." "How much will I owe you?" "I'll fill in the amount when the time comes," Gramps promised. "Do you want to sign or don't you? "I'll sign," Bud said, and painfully he wrote _Allan Wilson Sloan_ in the proper place and gave the note back to Gramps. The old man was folding it in his wallet when Gram said, "What nonsense is this?" She had come into the kitchen unnoticed and plainly she had been observing Gramps and Bud for some time. Her face was stormier than Bud had ever seen it and her normally gentle eyes snapped. Nonchalantly Gramps tucked the wallet into his pocket. "Just a little business deal, Mother. I'm going to finance Bud's chicken business and he's going to pay me back when he sells his broilers and fryers." "The idea," Gram said. "The very idea. Give that note back at once, Delbert Bennett." "Now don't get all het up, Mother. A deal's a deal." Bud saw that Gram's fury was beginning to touch Gramps in a tender spot, and he fidgeted nervously and said, "I'd rather have it this way, Gram." Gram answered by glaring at Gramps and flouncing out of the room. Bud looked dismally after her and turned to Gramps with a feeble smile. "She shouldn't be so upset. I don't want anyone except me to pay for my chickens." "She'll be a long while mad 'less she gets over it," Gramps said, still smarting. "Anything else, Bud?" "Yes. How many eggs can you put under a setting hen?" "Depends on the size of the hen. A small one'll take eleven, a medium-size can handle thirteen and you can put fifteen 'neath a big hen." "When do you think my hens will turn broody?" "Hard telling," Gramps growled. "A hen's a female critter and when it comes to doing anything sensible they ain't no different from other female critters. Hell and high water can't make 'em do anything 'thout they put their mind to it, and nine cases of dynamite can't stop 'em once they do." Two days later, when he had carried five more eggs to his hoard that now numbered forty-seven, Bud found only two eggs left. He was sure that Gram or Gramps had mistakenly sent the eggs he had been saving to Haleyville along with the regular farm shipment. He went sadly out to the barn where Gramps was going over his gardening tools. "You look like you'd swallowed a quart of vinegar," the old man said as he glanced up. "It isn't that," Bud said forlornly. "Somebody sent most of my hatching eggs to market." "No they didn't," Gramps said. "Three of my hens went broody and I took 'em. Put fifteen eggs under each, seeing they were big hens." "But they're your hens." "Don't trouble your head," Gramps said. "Setting hen rent'll be on the bill when time comes to settle up." * * * * * The following autumn, when Bud had been at Gram and Gramps' for more than a year, he strode down a tote road into Bennett's Woods with Shep tagging at his heels. Bright red and yellow leaves waved on every hardwood and swished underfoot as he plowed through them. The evergreens were ready for the frigid blasts to come, and the laurel and rhododendrons, touched but never daunted by frost, rattled in the sharp north wind. A gray squirrel, frantically harvesting nuts and seeds before deep snow came, scooted up a tree, flattened himself on a limb and chirred when Bud went past. Three grouse rose on rattling wings. A sleek doe snorted and, curling her white tail over her back, bounded away. Bud was oblivious, for he had come into Bennett's Woods to try to solve the problems that were bedeviling him. That summer he had succeeded in hatching seventy-nine chicks. Seventy-four had survived, a far better percentage than was average, because Bud had watched his flock constantly for disease, predators and accidents. The poultryman from whom Gram and Gramps had bought the original stock had traded fourteen young pullets for fourteen of Bud's pullets and three of Bud's cockerels, with Bud paying express charges both ways. The rest Bud had sold to Pat Haley. After paying Gramps every penny he owed him and interest as well, Bud had $8.97 to show for his summer's toil, and his problems were not yet ended. For even after they started to lay, it would be a long while before his pullets would produce full-sized eggs. Shep curled up beside him on the bank of Skunk Creek as Bud sat there and stared moodily at the stream wondering how he would see his increased flock through the winter with only $8.97 and perhaps some egg money. All he wanted from life was to stay on the farm with Gram and Gramps. He knew he would never even be well off if he reckoned success in financial terms alone, but the whirr of a winging grouse, the snort of a deer and the leap of a trout meant more to him than money, and he knew they always would. Still dreams have to have a practical side, too. Even if money is the root of all evil, it is indispensable, and Bud thought again of the $8.97 that he had earned that summer. Suddenly he froze in his place. Back in the trees across the creek he saw a flicker. Then the black buck appeared. Bud sat spellbound, recalling the day when, heartsick and lonely, he had ventured into the woods and found a brother in the black buck. The buck now came cautiously down to the creek and Bud's eyes widened with delight. Although this was his first year, the black buck was as big as some of the two- and three-year-old bucks that Bud and Gramps had seen in the woods. And instead of the spikes or fork horn that young bucks usually have, the black buck had a very creditable pair of antlers with three symmetrical tines on each. The buck drank and then, raising his dripping muzzle, caught Bud's scent and raced back into the woods. Bud rose and started homeward, his depression gone. The black buck had faced his problems, too, and many of them had surely been desperate. But he had triumphed magnificently. This made Bud feel better and to see that his own situation was far brighter than he had thought. For although he had very little cash, he had more than tripled his flock. Moreover, he had the run and he owed nothing. Best of all he had the future. chapter 9 One winter afternoon during his third year with Gram and Gramps, Bud was waiting in the study hall for Mr. Demarest, who taught agriculture at the Haleyville High School. Bud glanced at the clock on the wall. What seemed an hour ago it had been five minutes past four. Now it was only six minutes after. He sighed and stared out at the snow that was trampled in the yards and left in dirty piles in the street. Winter always seemed a barren, meaningless season in Haleyville. At Bennett's Farm, however, where the snow covered the fields with an inviting blanket and transformed the woods into another world, winter was a natural and fitting part of things. There the seasons were fully seen and felt, not mere dates on a calendar as they were in town. Spring was the time for new life to be born, summer for spring-born life to attain maturity, autumn for the harvest to be gathered and winter for the land to rest and recuperate for spring. As he stared out the study-hall window, Bud thought of Bennett's Woods, where Old Yellowfoot still bore his proud rack of antlers as he skulked through the thickets and tested the wind for signs of an enemy. He had been unmolested for the past two seasons, for Gramps had not been well enough to hunt deer and nobody else had a chance of hunting him successfully. In Bennett's Woods, too, the black buck, now a king in his own right, snorted his challenge from the ridges and put to flight lesser bucks that sought the favor of the does he coveted. Three years had not dimmed Bud's memory of his first meeting with the tiny black fawn or lessened his feeling of bondship with him. Whenever Bud was troubled or faced with problems for which there seemed to be no solution, he still went into Bennett's Woods to seek out the black buck. And always he found there the answer he needed, for seeing the black buck achieve his destiny gave Bud the confidence he needed to work out his own life. Some of the things that had happened before he came to Bennett's Farm now seemed as remote as if they had taken place during some other life. Bud could hardly believe that he had been the frightened, defiant twelve-year-old boy who had trudged up the Bennetts' driveway three years ago expecting nothing and having received everything. It seemed incredible that three years had elapsed since then and that he had gone on from grammar school into high school. And although his marks were not the highest in his class, they were still a source of pride to Gram and Gramps. Some of the things that had seemed horribly unreal, Bud now saw in their true perspective. He remembered vividly his first Christmas at the farm, but now he knew and liked the Bennetts' children and grandchildren. And now he appreciated the true measure of his own love for Gram and Gramps. He had been a starved waif, and they had fed his soul as well as his body. More than ever he wanted to be with them always, to live as they had lived and to shape his life by the ideals to which they had clung. But to be as good a farmer as Gramps had been, Bud needed technical knowledge. That was why he was waiting for Mr. Demarest. Bud thought wistfully of Gramps, who for the past two seasons had been forced to confine his outdoor activities to a little fishing and grouse hunting. But now he was fit again, and when the deer season opened tomorrow, he and Bud would be on the trail of Old Yellowfoot once more. This time they were certain to bag him; Gramps felt it in his bones. Then the door opened and Mr. Demarest came in. He was a small man, but quick and wiry. He was in his late thirties, but the ordeals of a poverty-stricken boyhood and youth had made him look ten years older than he was. His black hair had gray streaks and he could never manage more than a fleeting smile. The son of a ne'er-do-well tenant farmer, Mr. Demarest had had no formal schooling until he was fifteen. But then he had set doggedly out to educate himself. Once he had done so, he had dedicated himself to teaching future farmers how to succeed, for he could not forget his father's many failures. "I'm sorry to be late, Allan," he said pleasantly as he came through the study-hall door. "What's on your mind, son?" "Mr. Demarest," Bud stammered, "I want to be a farmer." "Is something stopping you?" Mr. Demarest's eyes twinkled. "No," Bud said. "I'm certain I can throw in with Gramps Bennett and take over from him. I can buy out Gram and Gramps' children. They aren't interested in farming." "Think it over carefully," Mr. Demarest said seriously. "There are better farms you might have." "I don't want any other farm," Bud said firmly. "I want that one." "It's sort of special, eh?" "It's very special." "Then what is your problem?" "I don't know enough," Bud said. "Three years ago, for Christmas, I was given a pen of White Wyandottes. They're the Eichorn strain, about as good as you can get. I built from them and I was able to show Gramps that my purebreds were more profitable than his mongrel flock. We replaced his flock with Eichorn Wyandottes, too, and we're doing all right with them. But I can see where I made a lot of mistakes that needn't have been made if I had known how to avoid them. I want to go to college and study agriculture." "Do you have any money?" "No," Bud said. "I'm going to need most of what I have saved for berry plants next spring." "But why, if you've built up a flock of Eichorn Wyandottes from one single pen, do you have only enough money to buy some berry plants?" "The chickens have earned money, but I have needed it for day-to-day living," Bud said. "Can Mr. and Mrs. Bennett help you at all?" "They have a little more than four thousand dollars in the bank here at Haleyville, but that's all they have. They'll need it if anything goes wrong with either of them and I wondered if I could work my way through agriculture college?" "You could, but I wouldn't consider earning all your expenses. At least, not at the beginning. Haven't you been able to sell any breeding stock from your Wyandottes?" "No," Bud said. "That's one reason I want to go to college." "What's your scholastic average?" "B plus." "Good, but not good enough for a scholarship even if there were enough of them for all able youngsters and if Haleyville Consolidated School received its just share. Allan, I don't want to be a killjoy, but you asked for my advice. Don't even think of college until you're able to finance at least your first semester. Then, if you show enough promise, the college will help you find ways to continue." "How much will I need?" Bud asked. "If you're careful, you should be able to get by with about seven hundred dollars. Perhaps even less." "Seven hundred dollars!" Bud gasped. "It isn't a million." "It might as well be!" "You can earn that much on summer jobs." "Gramps has been sick. He can't spare me in summer." "What will he do when you go to college?" "It looks as though I'll be spared that worry," Bud said miserably. "If I need seven hundred dollars, I'm not going." "You asked for my advice and I gave it, Allan, and I'd have rendered you no service if I hadn't been realistic," Mr. Demarest said gently. "If I had a magic wand to wave you into college with, believe me, I'd wave it. But I have no such thing. All you can do is to keep trying and never abandon hope." Bud could say nothing, and finally Mr. Demarest said, "The bus has left. How will you get home?" "I'll walk." "I'll take you," Mr. Demarest said. Bud rode in heartbroken silence up the snow-bordered highway. Mr. Demarest, who knew so much about so many things that Bud had almost believed he knew all about everything, hadn't been able to tell him how to get a college education. And so it was hopeless. Mr. Demarest drew up at the foot of the Bennetts' drive and put out his hand. Mr. Demarest drove off and Bud tried to put a spring in his step and a tilt to his chin as he walked up the drive. The whole world, after all, had not fallen apart--just half of it. And Gramps was not only better but excited as a six-year-old over the prospect of hunting Old Yellowfoot tomorrow. Bud took off his overshoes, patted Shep and went into the kitchen. Gram had just taken a tray of ginger cookies from the oven and put them on the table. Their odor permeated the whole kitchen. Gramps sat against the far wall happily oiling his rifle. Since Dr. Beardsley had given Gramps permission to go deer hunting this season, Gramps had been inspecting his rifle ten times a day. By now he had sighted it in so finely that he could almost drive nails with it at a hundred yards. "Tomorrow's the day," Gramps said as Bud came in, "and I'm betting Old Yellowfoot will be hanging out in Dockerty's Swamp. You'd best get your own rifle in working order." Bud said, "I already have." Gram was more observant. "You're late, Allan," she said. "I stayed to talk with Mr. Demarest," Bud said, in what he hoped was a casual tone. "He brought me home." "What's the trouble?" she said, and Gramps looked up sharply. "There's no trouble," Bud said. "You can tell me, Allan. We're here to help you." "If you're in a jam, Bud, we're on your side," Gramps said. "What'd you do? Sock the principal?" "Honestly there's no trouble," Bud said. "Mr. Demarest and I talked about agriculture college." "How nice," Gram said. "Every one of our boys and girls has gone to college. Now the twelfth will go, too." "No he won't," Bud said. "Mr. Demarest said I hardly need a degree in agriculture if I'm going to stay here and take over Bennett's Farm. He said I can learn what I must know about poultry husbandry and berry culture as I go along." "You're a right handy young feller at a lot of things," Gramps said. "But you're 'bout the poorest liar I ever laid eyes on. Joe Demarest never told you that." "Well," Bud stammered, "not exactly. We had quite a talk." "About what?" "College." "You make nine times as many circles as Old Yellowfoot with fifteen hunters hot on his tail," Gramps said. "He told you to go to college, didn't he?" "Yes," Bud admitted. "But I'm not going." "Why not?" "I don't want to waste that much time. I can pick up what I must know as I go along." "That is about the foolishest notion I ever heard," Gramps declared. "In my time I've met lots of men who didn't know enough, but offhand I can't remember any who knew too much. Sure you're going. May be you can't live like a millionaire's son on what we got in the bank, but you can get through." "I can't take your money!" Bud blurted. "Pooh," Gram sniffed. "What's money for? Of course you'll take it and we'll be mighty proud to have a college graduate running Bennett's Farm. Won't we, Delbert?" "Yeah," said Gramps who had begun to oil his rifle again. "Now you'd best get out of your school duds. I fed and bedded your hifalutin' chickens though I'm sort of uneasy around that one high-steppin' rooster. He's got so much blue blood that most any time at all I expect him to whip out one of those fancy glasses on sticks. That rooster sure ought to have one. He figures I'm not fit to be in the same chicken house with him. You beat it along now, Bud. I didn't milk the cows." "Take a couple of cookies with you," Gram said. Bud grabbed a handful of cookies and went up to his room. As he went about changing into work clothes, Bud kept his jaws clamped tightly. Gram and Gramps were wonderful, but they were so hopelessly out of touch with the world that they understood neither the value of money nor why Bud couldn't take the savings they had accumulated almost penny by penny over nearly half a century. They still added to it, but still almost penny by penny, and there was not even a possibility of sudden wealth. Anyway, Bud said to himself, he had another year of high school before he could even hope to enter college. Perhaps something would turn up before then. But in his heart he knew nothing would and he decided to say no more about college. There was no point in arguing with Gram and Gramps. As Bud milked the cows, took care of the stock and ate the evening meal with Gram and Gramps, he all but forgot his lost hope for a college education. Tomorrow's hunt for Old Yellowfoot was too exciting for him to brood over what could not be helped. The tinny clatter of his alarm clock jarred him out of deep sleep the next morning well before the usual time. Bud shut the alarm off, leaped to the floor, and padded across it to revel for a moment in the frigid blast that blew in his open window. With snow on the ground and weather cold enough to keep it from melting without being too cold for comfort, it was a perfect day for hunting deer. When he returned to the kitchen after doing the morning chores, Gram was making pancakes and cooking sausage and Gramps was sitting in a chair. "Why didn't you call me?" he growled. "We'd have been in the woods sooner if I'd helped with the chores." "Now don't be grouchy," Gram said. "Old Yellowfoot's been roaming about Bennett's Woods for a good many years. I think he'll last another fifteen minutes." "A body would figure I'm a crippled old woman," Gramps said. "Maybe you should ought to wrap me up in cotton and put me to bed so I won't get scratched or something. Pah! I never did see the beat of such a business!" "If you're feeling as mad as all that," Gram said sharply, "you won't have to shoot Old Yellowfoot. Just bite him and he'll die from hydrophobia." Bud giggled and Gramps couldn't help chuckling. "Of all the dang fools in the world, people are the dangdest," he said. "I put myself in mind of Charley Holan, who said he'd be the happiest man in Dishnoe County if he just had a good brood sow. He got the sow and then he needed a place to keep it. So he said he'd be the happiest man ever if he had a place to keep it. He got one and found he needed a boar. Charley got the boar and first thing you know he was overrun with pigs. They did poorly that year, it didn't even pay to haul 'em to market. So Charley says he'd be the happiest man in Dishnoe County if he'd never even seen a pig. And this is the first season in the past three I've ever been able to hunt Old Yellowfoot. We'll tag him 'fore the season ends, Bud." "I hope so, Gramps," Bud said. "Dig in. It takes a pile of Mother's pancakes and a heap of sausage to see a man through a day in the deer woods." After breakfast they stepped into the cold predawn blackness. Shep, tied as usual while deer season was in swing, came to the end of his rope, whined, pressed his nose against their hands and pleaded as usual to be taken along. Gramps stopped just inside Bennett's Woods, almost in sight of the barn. It was still too dark to shoot, but they often saw deer from the barn and they could expect to see deer from now on. It was true that Old Yellowfoot had never been seen so near the farm but that was no sign he never would be. They went on as soon as they were able to sight clearly on a target a hundred yards away. Their jackets were tightly buttoned and their earmuffs pulled down against the frosty air. A doe faded across the trail like a gray ghost, leaving sharply imprinted tracks in the snow. A little farther on they saw a small buck. Then a doe and fawn ran wildly through the woods, and Gramps halted in his tracks. Bud stared. Since he had come to Bennett's Farm he had seen many deer, and many of them had been running. But he had never seen any of them run like this. "That pair's scared," Gramps said. "In all my born days I haven't seen ten deer run that fast, and the last one had wolves on its trail." "Could wolves be chasing these?" Bud asked. Gramps shook his head. "As far as I know, there hasn't been a wolf in Bennett's Woods for twenty-six years. Me and Eli Dockstader got the last one, and there's nothing else I can recall offhand that could start a couple of deer running that way and keep 'em running. Still, it has to be something." Off in the distance, rifles began to crack as hunters started sighting and shooting at deer. Gramps and Bud paid no attention, for if other hunters could see them, they must be ordinary deer. When they reached Dockerty's Swamp, where Gramps thought they might find Old Yellowfoot, Bud said, "Let me go down and track him through, Gramps, and you take it easy." "Poof!" the old man said. "If Old Yellowfoot's in there, there's just one man got a chance of putting him out and that's me. Doc Beardsley said I could come deer hunting, didn't he? 'Sides, did you ever know a deer hunter--I'm talking of deer hunters and not deer chasers--who took it anything 'cept easy? The slower you go, the more deer you see." "That's so," Bud admitted. "Kite round and get on your stand," Gramps ordered. "I'll be through by and by." He disappeared and Bud circled the swamp to the brush-grown knoll that deer chose as an escape route when they were driven out of Dockety's Swamp. Rifles, some of them close and some distant, cracked at sporadic intervals as other hunters continued to find and shoot at deer. Bud waited quietly, with a couple of chickadees that were sitting nearby on a sprig of rhododendron for company. Before long he saw something move down the slope. Bud stiffened, ready to shoot. It could only be a deer. But at the moment it was too far away and too well hidden by brush for him to tell what kind of a deer. Then it came on up the slope and Bud saw that it was a very good ten-point buck, but he refrained from shooting. The ten point was a nice trophy but he was not Old Yellowfoot. Then nine does came by in no hurry, but without lingering as they walked through the sheltering brush into the forest beyond. They were followed by two smaller bucks, and then by another doe. Two and a half hours after Bud had taken up his stand, Gramps reappeared. Bud saw with relief that the old man did not look tired or even winded. Doc Beardsley had known what he was talking about when he had said Gramps was able to hunt deer this season. "There were plenty of deer in the swamp, but Old Yellowfoot wasn't among 'em," Gramps said. "We'll try Dozey Thicket." But Old Yellowfoot was not in Dozey Thicket or Hooper Valley or Cutter's Slashing or Wakefoot Hollow. Nor did they find Old Yellowfoot the next day, although they saw at least three bucks with imposing racks of antlers. On Monday Bud had to return to school and Gramps hunted alone. All week long he had no success, but when Bud came home Friday, Gramps was waiting for him in the kitchen. There was an air of triumph about him and a hunter's gleam in his eye. "Found him, Bud," he said as soon as Bud came through the door. "No!" "Sure 'nough did! He's gone plumb out of Bennett's Woods into that footy little thicket above Joe Crozier's place. I saw his track where he came to the top of the hill and went back again, but I didn't hunt him 'cause I was afraid I might spook him. But two of us can get him right where he is." Saturday morning, Bud and Gramps waited for dawn on the ridge overlooking Joe Crozier's thicket. When daylight came, they sighted their rifles on a rock about a hundred yards away, and for a moment neither spoke. Crozier's thicket had at one time been a fine stand of hardwoods. Joe Crozier's father had cut the larger trees and buzzed them up for firewood, and the thicket had grown back to spindly young saplings. It was just the place a wise buck like Old Yellowfoot would choose as a refuge during hunting season, for nobody would ever think of looking for him there. But it was also a place where experienced hunters who did stumble onto his refuge would surely kill him. "Let's go down," Gramps said softly. Side by side they descended the hill, but when they were still forty yards from Crozier's thicket, they stopped. There was a patch of dark gray there that might have been a protruding knob of a tree or a boulder, but it wasn't. Old Yellowfoot, who knew the odds but was not about to give up, began to try to sneak away. He was as huge as ever and he had lost none of his cunning. But his left antler was now only a single straight spike and his right one a snarled welter of many points. Bud almost cried with disappointment, for he knew how Gramps had dreamed of the royal trophy Old Yellowfoot's antlers would make. And now he had overtaken Old Yellowfoot only to find him in his decadence. Never again would Old Yellowfoot be a worth-while trophy for anyone. He had succumbed to age. As Bud was about to speak to Gramps, the old man said serenely, "Nature got to him before we could and I reckon that's as it should be. He was just a little too good to hang on anybody's wall. Let's go see Mother." * * * * * A week later, Bud and Gramps went into Bennett's Woods to bring out a load of firewood. Bud drove the team, Gramps sat on the bobsled seat beside him and Shep tagged amiably behind. They were half a mile from the farmhouse when the horses stopped of their own accord and raised their heads to stare. Looking in the same direction, Bud saw the black buck. More darkly colored than any other deer Bud had ever seen, the buck was standing rigidly still in a little opening between two clusters of stunted hemlocks. His antlers had become magnificent. The black buck's head was high, and his eyes wary and his nostrils questing. A second later he glided out of sight into the nearest hemlocks. For a moment Bud and Gramps sat enthralled, scarcely believing what they had seen. Then Gramps sighed and said, "Nothing's ever really lost, Bud. That's as good a head as Old Yellowfoot ever carried. Next year we'll hunt the black buck." chapter 10 The spring sun was warm on Bud's back as he bent over the freshly tilled garden plot. He plucked a single strawberry plant from the tray beside him, trimmed off a precise third of its roots with a pair of Gram's old scissors and cut off a broken leaf. Then he scooped out a hole big enough to let the remaining roots fan out. Strawberries must be planted not too deep and not too shallow, Mr. Demarest had said, but at exactly the right depth. Although there were several systems for establishing a strawberry bed, Mr. Demarest favored starting with the plants one foot apart in rows three feet apart. This made for large fruit, he said; and, once the plants had matured so that they formed a matted row eighteen inches or two feet wide, there would still be enough space to weed, mulch and cultivate them. The strawberry plant firmly imbedded, Bud was using a twelve-inch stick to measure the distance to the next one when Gramps came up behind him and said, "You're a thirty-second of an inch off." Bud looked around and grinned. Gramps had been caustic when Bud had asked him if he could rent a patch of ground for a strawberry bed. According to Gramps, the farm was used to good old-fashioned crops like potatoes, corn, beans and oats, and wasn't likely to take kindly to anything so newfangled as strawberries. Anyhow, Gramps had wanted to know, who in his right mind would think of planting cultivated berries when you could go out in the fields and pick all the wild ones you wanted? When Gram had reminded Gramps of the high price Pat Haley paid for cultivated berries, Gramps had replied that it was not his fault if fools and their money were soon parted. But if Bud wanted a strawberry patch, and if he wanted to do all the work of plowing and preparing the plot himself, he wouldn't stop him. But he couldn't in all conscience charge him rent because, as anybody could see, there would never be any profits. And if there were any, he could always reconsider. Gramps became even more eloquent when Bud said that he wanted to plant a raspberry and a blackberry patch as well as soon as he had the money to buy plants. There were hundreds of raspberry tangles and blackberry thickets in Bennett's Woods, Gramps had pointed out, and anyone too lazy to go out in the woods and pick his own raspberries or blackberries would never earn enough money to buy cultivated ones. What was the world coming to, anyhow? In his day they had taught common sense instead of foolishness in school. But actually the old man was delighted because Bud wanted to stay on and eventually take over Bennett's Farm. Bud knew that secretly Gramps approved of the new venture and was being caustic because he didn't want to inflate Bud's ego. Gramps was too realistic to stand in the way of young blood and young ideas. He knew that it is inevitable for the young to take over when the old can no longer carry on--just as Old Yellowfoot had relinquished his crown to the black buck. Bud had already proved that purebred chickens would outproduce a mongrel flock, and Gramps had replaced his flock with White Wyandottes like Bud's. Although Gramps had never thought of growing cultivated berries, he saw its potential and looked on Bud's new venture as a forward step that the young, not the old, should take. "How many of those plants you got, Bud?" Gramps asked as he inspected the row Bud had planted so far. "Two hundred." "What'd you pay for 'em?" "Forty dollars." Gramps whistled. "Twenty cents each for those piddling little plants?" "I could have had good plants for less," Bud said, "but Mr. Demarest recommended these. They're bred especially for this climate and soil, and they're everbearing." Gramps chuckled. "I mind the time Mother and me picked your first pen of chickens. We might have had some real good ones for half what yours cost. But Mother said 'Delbert Bennett! If we're going to give that boy chickens for Christmas, let's give him the best or none!' Now danged if they ain't running all over the farm." "Are you sorry?" Bud queried. "Oh, I could have done the same thing," Gramps said casually. "Matter of fact, I was thinking about it. Will say, though, that the more you put in at the beginning the more you're like to take out at the end, and Joe Demarest usually knows what he's talking about. I expect your berries will do right well if drought don't get 'em, or flood rains don't wash 'em out, or somebody's cattle don't trample 'em, or any of a couple dozen other things don't happen to 'em." Gramps grinned, and then he said, "How long do you figure on being busy, Bud?" "I'm not sure," Bud said. "I may be busy all morning." Two hundred strawberry plants were not so many, but Mr. Demarest always made much of the importance of doing things the right way, and this was the first time Bud had done anything like this on his own. He was determined to plant them properly even if it took all day. "Shucks," Gramps said. "I got me another trout spotted." Bud glanced up eagerly. "You have?" "Sure have," Gramps said. "He lives two pools below the one where we saw the otter playing. He ain't as big as Old Shark, but he's big enough." At first Bud was about to heel in the remaining strawberry plants and finish the next day. Then he thought again. The plants had cost almost all the money he had been able to save and, far more important, he had set out to accomplish something. Gramps was practically retired now and he could do about what he pleased. But Bud couldn't. "I'd like to, Gramps," he said reluctantly, "but I've got to get the rest of these planted." There was a brief silence before Gramps said, "Remember when we finally caught up with Old Yellowfoot but didn't shoot him because his antlers were no longer worth it? And remember the black buck we ran across while we were fetching a load of wood a while back? "The more I think about him, the more I think he has a better rack of antlers than Old Yellowfoot ever had. I got to get me one really good head 'fore I hang up my rifle, and that's the one. We'll line our sights on him next season sure, Bud." Bud kept his head down so Gramps could not see his face. He could not harm the black buck, but neither could he hurt Gramps. He had hoped the old man would forget the black buck, but from the beginning he had known that was a forlorn hope. Gramps forgot nothing connected with Bennett's Woods. "What did you say, Bud?" Gramps asked. "Why, sure we'll go deer hunting." Gramps said, "We'll do more than that. We'll hunt the black buck and we'll get him. Well, seeing that you're so all-fired busy, I might as well start puttering about myself. Maybe I can even make Mother think I'm working for a change." The old man left, and Shep rose from the grass in which he had been lying down to tag behind him. All at once Bud felt that he knew why he wanted to stay on Bennett's Farm. Even though few people can write great poetry, compose deathless music, paint immortal pictures, the creative urge could find its expression on the farm. Gram in her flawless kitchen, Gramps among his crops or in the woods and fields he loved so dearly and understood so well, were truly creative and therefore truly happy. So was Mr. Demarest, the underpaid, overworked agriculture teacher at Haleyville High. Bud did not understand the whys and wherefores, but he knew that he wouldn't change places with anyone on this bright spring day. Planting strawberries might not be the ultimate in human achievement, but Bud knew that it suited him. Then he frowned. Before preparing his strawberry bed, he had read all the books he could find on the subject and had talked at length with Mr. Demarest. According to the directions, the plants had to be set out precisely one foot apart in rows three feet apart. It was all very well to go by the book, but conditions vary even from field to field, and Bud realized that he did not know enough to adapt the method of planting to make it ideal for the special conditions of his strawberry bed. The more he knew about farming, the more keenly he felt his ignorance. But he had almost abandoned his dream of getting a degree in agriculture. Even so he was determined to learn anyhow. If he couldn't go to college, he could at least get the textbooks used there and teach himself. That would be hard, but if it was the only way, he would do it. He loved Bennett's Farm too much not to give it the attention it deserved. Shep wandered back from wherever he had left Gramps and threw himself down in the grass to watch Bud, who looked at him affectionately. Shep had been his first friend when he came to Bennett's Farm and his true friend since. Shep had no pedigree, but a loving heart, and unswerving loyalty counted for a great deal, too. "Only half a dozen more, Shep," Bud said. "Then I'll water them and we're through." Shep wagged his tail lazily and grinned with his panting jaws. When Bud finished planting, Shep paced alongside him as he went to the barn for the hose. Bud had chosen his strawberry patch partly for its location, for it caught the morning sun but was sheltered by a grassy knoll from the blazing heat of the midsummer afternoon sun. Wild strawberries had grown there plentifully, too, and it was near enough to the barn so that the farm's hundred-and-fifty-foot hose could be attached to the barn spigot and reach all corners of the bed. The plants needed water now to help them overcome the shock of transplanting, and Bud watered them carefully, using a fine spray to keep from washing the loose soil away and at the same time giving each plant enough water to soak thoroughly both the roots of the plant and the earth about it. He had almost finished when Shep began to bark. Bud looked around to see Sammy Toller, whose farm was a mile and a half north of Gramps', coming from the barn toward him. A small but tremendously energetic little man, Sammy was usually the epitome of good humor. Now his jaw was set, and his eyes smoldered and he did not even appear to notice the freshly planted berries. "Is Delbert about?" Sammy asked. "He's here somewhere, Mr. Toller," Bud said. "I'll find him as soon as I've rolled up this hose." "Can you leave the hose for now?" Sammy asked. "This is pretty important." Shep trailed along as they walked back to the barn, and Bud shut off the water at the spigot. They found Gramps working the newly spaded family garden with a hand rake. He looked around and said amiably, "Hi, Sammy." "'Lo, Delbert. Got a few minutes?" "Sure thing. What's up?" "I'd druther take you to my place so you can see for yourself." "Can I go along?" Bud asked. "Sure," Gramps said, "but scoot along and tell Mother where we're going." After racing into the kitchen and back, Bud climbed into the cab of Sammy's pickup truck with Sammy and Gramps, Shep leaped into the rear. Sammy eased the truck down the drive into the road and turned north toward his own farm. Ordinarily Sammy was loquacious but he said nothing as they jogged along. Sammy's house was a mile from the highway and his closest neighbor was half a mile away, which made his one of the most isolated farms in the Haleyville district. Otherwise it was very much like the surrounding farms, with a substantial house and the usual barns and outbuildings. Chickens were wandering about and a little group of Shropshire sheep--Sammy was trying to build up a registered flock of them--was huddled together in a pen near the barn. As they drove up, Sammy's dog, a farm collie like Shep, acted as if he was about to exterminate them until Shep walked stiffly forward. Then the two dogs sniffed noses, wagged their tails and went off for a romp. "We'll have to walk a mite," Sammy said, and he led them up a hill from which the forest had been cleared from only the lower two-thirds. There was a long-abandoned apple orchard about a hundred yards from where the forest began, and a crow in one of the trees cawed lazily as they approached. After Sammy had led them around the orchard, Bud stopped in his tracks at the sight of eighteen sheep strewn over the field between the orchard and the forest. All of them were horribly bloated and mangled. "I turned 'em out yesterday morning," Sammy said, "and I sure never heard a thing to make me s'pose they were getting murdered. When they didn't come home last night I hunted 'em, and this is what I found 'bout an hour ago." The two dogs trotted forward and sniffed at the first of the dead sheep. Neither gave any sign that anything was amiss. Gramps stood a moment, studying the dogs, and then he went to look at one of the sheep. "Dog work," he said. "How do you know?" Sammy said. "Wolves kill clean and eat what they kill. They don't murder just for cussedness and they don't mangle. What's more, these were wild dogs." "What makes you so all-fired sure?" "Were you here all day yesterday, when those sheep must have been killed?" "Yep." "But you heard nothing?" "Nary a whisper." "Tame dogs you'd have heard. They haven't the sense to keep their mouths shut on a job like this. Wild ones know that the less noise they make, the longer they live." Now Bud remembered the doe and fawn that he and Gramps had seen during the last deer season when he and Gramps had been hunting Old Yellowfoot. Gramps had said that something was chasing them. There must have been wild dogs in Bennett's Woods even then, and no wonder the doe and fawn had been running as though they were possessed. "What can we do?" Sammy asked. "Anything we try will take a heap of doing," Gramps said. "These wild dogs know more than the smartest trap-pinched fox you ever saw. Still, we'd best do all we can to stop 'em. Most of the time they hunt in the woods, but there's no telling when they'll come again or who they'll hit." "How does a body go about stopping 'em?" Sammy asked. "If it was most anything 'cept wild dogs I could tell you. A fox sticks pretty much to his own beat and habits. So does a deer, bear, cat or 'most anything else. But wild dogs haven't any pattern. The most we can do is, first of all, set traps. I doubt if it'll work 'cause the pack that killed these sheep haven't been back to eat off 'em. I don't think they'll decoy to bait either. We might bump into 'em by rambling round with deer rifles." Sammy Toller said grimly, "Soon's I take you home, I aim to start rambling with my deer rifle." Sammy took Bud, Gramps and Shep home and then roared back up the road at forty miles an hour, an unheard-of speed for Sammy. Gramps was serious and sober and Bud wondered. Dogs were dogs; did running wild make them so very different? "Are these wild dogs really bad?" he asked Gramps. "Didn't you see Sammy Toller's dead sheep?" "Yes, but wasn't that unusual?" "Not a bit. I'd rather face a pack of timber wolves than a bunch of wild dogs any day. Where a wolf will kite off and keep on kiting, a dog will plan. He'll run just far enough to get out of a man's sight. Then he'll figure some way to fool him and nine times out of ten he'll do it. Just a minute." Gramps went to the telephone, and as soon as he had finished telling Pete Nolan, the game warden, about the wild dogs, the old man turned to Bud and said, "Let's you and me mosey out in the woods, and we'll pack rifles." With Shep keeping pace, they sauntered into Bennett's Woods. A doe that was heavy with fawn crept off, but a strutting cock grouse scarcely bothered to move out of the way. Turkeys slunk away from their hidden nesting sites, and from a knoll a buck with grotesque knobs of antlers watched and stamped a threatening forefoot. They found no sign of the pack in Bennett's Woods that day, but not long afterward Pete Nolan came upon six of the pack harrying one of Tommy Keeler's heifers and shot two of the wild dogs before the others fled. Jess Limley got another and Sammy Toller shot two when the pack had returned for another attack on his sheep. By the time the hunting season rolled around again, it was generally agreed that there were at least ten dogs in the pack and it was certain that they were still prowling the woods. chapter 11 Leaves crisp with frost rustled beneath Bud's pacs as he strode on through the woods. His shotgun was half raised, but his mind was not on the grouse that, any moment now, might rocket up from the copse of brush he was approaching. He sighed. It had been a busy summer and not entirely a good one. There had been a good crop of young chickens, but a mysterious malady had killed a third of them. Neither he nor Gramps had been able to discover what it was. Gramps thought the trouble was that the White Wyandottes were less hardy than crossbreeds. Bud was sure Gramps was mistaken, although none of his books gave a clue as to what was wrong. More keenly than ever, Bud felt his lack of knowledge and the need to acquire more. During the spring and summer he had not worried much about hunting for the black buck. Autumn and the deer season had seemed very far away then. But now the season was here, and Gramps' anticipation mounted daily. Since school had reopened, Gramps had made as intensive a study of the black buck and his habits as he had of Old Yellowfoot and his. At least three times a week and sometimes more often, Gramps went into Bennett's Woods to observe the buck. By now, Gramps knew the buck's favorite haunts, his drinking places, when he liked to rest and when he foraged. Twice Gramps had been within rifle shot, by which the old man concluded that the black buck was not as cunning as Old Yellowfoot. Still, the black buck would be no easy game, and he had an even bigger rack than Old Yellowfoot's at its best. To hang that rack on the living-room wall would be the crowning achievement of Gramps' career as a hunter and fisherman. Between them, Gramps had made up his mind, he and Bud would hang it there. It occurred to Bud there in the autumn woods that if Gramps became ill again, he wouldn't be able to go on hunting the black buck. Bud still felt that a bond existed between him and the black buck, that his destiny and the buck's hung on the same thread, so that Bud's good fortune in being at Bennett's Farm would end if anything happened to the buck. But Bud realized at once that he would rather face the end of the buck and of his own happiness than another of Gramps' attacks. Just as he came to that conclusion, the grouse rose in a thunder of wings. Bud raised his gun and knew as he shot that the bird he was aiming at was out of range. Then he heard Gramps' gun boom twice and saw two grouse plummet into the leaves. "Dreaming today?" Gramps called. "As Pete Henderson said to his boy, Ben, 'I've taught you all I know and you still don't know nothing.' That was as neat a straightaway shot as I ever saw." "I wasn't ready." "We'll teach a few grouse to wait until you are," Gramps said. "I swear to gosh, Bud, you act like you got a girl on your mind." Gramps went forward to pick up his grouse. He held them by the legs and their mottled plumage rippled in the faint breeze. Gramps, who had seen half a thousand grouse, looked for a moment at these two as though they were the first. Then he walked to and sat down on a mossy log. "Guess I'm getting old," he remarked. "I doubt if I'll be hunting Bennett's Woods more than another forty or fifty years." Bud said nothing as Gramps laid his grouse carefully in the leaves beside the log and ejected the two spent shells from his double-barreled twelve shotgun. The limit for grouse was four, but Gramps believed that two was enough for any hunter. After they had sat together on the log for a while, Gramps said, "I ran across Old Yellowfoot day before yesterday and all he's got this year is two spikes. I swear he knows it, too, and that spikes ain't legal. Stood no more than twenty yards away, chewing his cud like any old cow and hardly giving me a second look. He'll be safe unless one of those trigger-happy hunters who'll shoot at anything runs across him, and I doubt if one of those can find him. He hasn't lost his brains just 'cause the rest of him started downhill." "He's earned his right to peace." "'Peace' is a word with a lot of stretch, Bud. Take people now. Some get it one way and some another, and some never get it. Heinrich Umberdehoven can't have any peace 'thout he's working, because only when he's working is there any hope of earning another dollar or two. Rudy Bursin, he don't have any peace unless he's loafing, and he'd rather be known as the Haleyville town bum than work. Sammy Toller never gets any peace and I don't know why unless it's 'cause he's always deviled by notions. When his sheep petered out, he figured to go in for cattle feeding. If that don't work, he'll try something else. If it does, he'll be fretted trying to make it bigger and better. Old Yellowfoot might have peace if by that you mean he's safe from hunters. But I think he'd rather be hunted." "Why?" "He's old, and the way he lives it ain't nice to get old. His bones will ache, he'll feel the cold, he'll have a rough time finding enough to eat in winter, and by and by he'll just naturally lay down and die. It won't be because he has to, but because his life will not be worth living any more. While he was being hunted he was in his prime, and he never gave a darn anyhow because he knew he could get away from any hunter. He did it for a good many years, and I think he got as much fun out of fooling hunters as they did out of hunting him." For the first time it occurred to Bud that hunting could be a two-way street and that the hunted sometimes took as keen a delight in eluding their pursuers as the hunters in pursuing. "It makes sense," he said after he had thought it over. "It is sense," Gramps said, "'less you get some poor little scared thing too young to know what it's all about, and those you oughtn't to hunt anyhow. But I'm sort of glad we didn't get Old Yellowfoot." "Why?" "He had the biggest rack I ever saw and I figured it'd be the biggest I ever would see. But the black buck beats him, and it ain't right for one person to kill two big deer. One's a trophy but two's hoggishness. If you get the buck you want, and the black buck is the one I want, leave the next big one for somebody else." A fuzzy caterpillar, driven by some unseasonal urge, started crawling up the log on which they were sitting. Gramps pointed at the caterpillar, which was black at both ends and brown between. "We're in for some early bad weather," he said. "How do you know?" Bud asked. "The longest black's on the fore end of that caterpillar, and that always means the fore end of the winter will be long and hard." Bud pondered this piece of information. Gramps' lore had proved valid so often in the past that Bud knew better than to dismiss what the old man was saying about caterpillars as so much local superstition. Shortly after Bud had come to the farm, Gramps had told him that, when swallows flew near the ground, a storm was in the making. Bud hadn't taken much stock in that until he learned in school that the low-pressure area that precedes a storm drives insects down near the earth and so the swallows follow them. Therefore, when swallows fly close to the ground, a storm does usually follow. "You aim to get yourself a couple of grouse?" Gramps asked. "I don't think so," Bud said. "Something is chewing on you," Gramps said. "What is it?" "Nothing," Bud said, turning his face away because he could not look at Gramps and tell an untruth. "You ain't going to stop hunting?" Gramps asked. "Two grouse are plenty for the three of us." "I hope you don't feel like hanging fire when we go after the black buck." "I'll hunt him with you," Bud promised. "Then we'll get him." Gramps seemed relieved. "Well, let's mosey home and see how Mother's doing." * * * * * In his first free period the following Monday, Bud sat in the principal's outer office at Haleyville High School. After five minutes Mr. Thorne's secretary told him to go in. Bud, who had always been at ease with Mr. Thorne, was nervous. "I'd like permission to be excused from school for as much of the deer season as necessary, sir," he said stiffly. "Want to get yourself a buck, eh?" "Well, partly." "Do you think that hunting is more important than your academic career?" "No, sir." "Then what is it?" "There's a big buck in Bennett's Woods," Bud blurted out. "Gramps--Mr. Bennett, that is--has always dreamed of killing just such a deer. It's sort of like a dream he's always had. Gramps had been sick and he isn't exactly young. No one can be sure he'll be able to hunt next deer season. He has to get the black buck this year. He thinks I can help him." "In other words you want to stay out of school for an indefinite period to help Delbert Bennett get this buck. Well, I think it can be arranged." Then, before Bud could thank him, Mr. Thorne went on. "In fact, I think it will be a very important part of your education. You may not see what I mean now, but maybe you will later." Gramps, who was splitting wood when Bud got home that afternoon, yelled "Hallelujah!" when he heard the good news and threw a stick of firewood in the air. "The black buck's as good as ours," he said. * * * * * Not long afterward the school bus was crawling up the highway behind the snowplow that was clearing four inches of new snow that had added itself to the four inches that had fallen yesterday. Bud was staring out the window, almost oblivious to Goethe Shakespeare Umberdehoven who sat beside him as usual. He saw little since wind-blown sheets of snow obscured everything more than twenty yards from the highway, but he was thinking of the caterpillar that had crawled up the log when Gramps scored his double on grouse. Bud had been a little skeptical when Gramps had predicted a harsh, early winter from the caterpillar's markings, but now it looked as if they were in for the earliest and harshest winter in ten years. When Get Umberdehoven asked if he was going deer hunting, Bud said "Yeah" without turning away from the window. "You don't seem so excited about it." "Why don't I?" Bud snapped. "Always before when deer season came you couldn't hardly sit still. Now you act like you'd rather not go." "Oh shut up!" Bud said. Then, feeling remorseful, he turned to face Get. "Are you going deer hunting?" "Everybody goes the first day and we got to get a deer because if we do"--Bud waited for what he knew was coming next--"we can sell another pig." "I'm going to stay out and hunt for as long as I want to," Bud said loftily. "I'll hunt the whole season if I feel like it." "I wish I could," Get said. "School, it's hard for me. But if I don't go, I fall behind, and if I fall behind . . ." He shrugged eloquently. Bud thought of Mr. Thorne's saying that he thought it would be a very important part of Bud's education to hunt the black buck, but he still had no idea what Mr. Thorne really meant. There were a lot of things he did not understand, Bud decided as the bus stopped in front of the Bennetts' driveway. "Good luck," he said to Get to make up for having snapped at him. "Yeah," Get said listlessly. Bud left the bus and made his way through the eight inches of fluffy snow that blanketed the driveway. The snow was loose and easy to plow through. But still it would either keep the more timid hunters out of the woods entirely or make them concentrate in the fringe areas so that there would be fewer hunters in the deep woods. Shep came to meet him as Bud stomped the snow from his overshoes and took them off on the porch, and for a moment Bud wished he could change places with Shep, who wasn't allowed to go out into the deer woods during the season. Then he opened the door and went into the kitchen. A heavenly smell from the loaves of freshly baked bread that Gram was tumbling out of baking pans filled every corner of the kitchen and overflowed into the nearby rooms. Gramps sat at the table fussing with some minor adjustment of his deer rifle. "All set, Bud?" he said, grinning. "All set." "Good. Tomorrow we get on his tail! Give us four days together, just four days, and you and me'll tag that black buck." Gram said, "Oh, Delbert. You'd think that buck was more important than the President of the United States." "Right now, and as far as I'm concerned, he is, Mother. 'Sides, who'd want the President's head hanging on his setting-room wall?" Gram appealed to Bud. "That's all he's been talking about, just that black buck. And if he's been over his rifle once today, he's been over it a hundred times." "Got to have it right, Mother," Gramps said. "We'll get one chance and no more. If we miss when the chance comes, we'll have only ourselves to blame." "After all this fuss and bother you'd just better get him," Gram said dryly. "There'll be no living with you the rest of the winter if you don't. I'd give you a slice of butter bread, Allan, except that it's still too hot." "I'm not hungry," Bud said. "I'll change my clothes and do the chores." "I'll give you a hand," Gramps offered. "No, you stay right here." Bud went to his room, glad to escape. If only a miracle would occur. If only the snow would melt and the leaves would appear and deer season would be over with the black buck still in Bennett's Woods. There would be no miracle, Bud knew. There was just one thing he could do if the black buck came in range--shoot straight. Gramps wanted the head to hang in the living room and Bud would do his best to see that it hung there. It made no difference whether he or Bud shot the buck, since they would be working as a team. Bud lingered at the chores, and for one of the very few times since he had come to live with the Bennetts, he had almost no appetite for supper. Gram looked at him with concern, but Gramps was too excited to notice. "He won't be in the hills, Bud, with this snow," Gramps was saying. "He and all the other deer with sense, which means all the other deer, will be down in the valley swamps and thickets. If this snow deepens, and I think it will, the deer will yard in for another week or ten days. Do you know where we'll find that black buck?" "Where?" Bud tried to inject enthusiasm into his voice. "Hagen's Flat or Dockerty's Swamp," Gramps said. "I'm putting my money on Dockerty's Swamp. Not in twenty years have I put a buck out of there that I wanted to shoot, but I never lost the feeling that that's where my real luck lies. Yep, we'll find the black buck in Dockerty's Swamp." The next morning, fortified with one of Gram's substantial breakfasts, and each with one of her ample lunches in his hunting jacket, Gramps and Bud left the house with Gram's warning not to overdo ringing in their ears. Bud glanced at Shep, whose feelings were hurt because he was tied up so he couldn't follow them into the woods. The day grew lighter slowly and from far off came an occasional rifle shot or volley of shots as hunters began to encounter deer. Bud had been right the day before in thinking that the snow would keep most of the hunters in easily accessible areas, for most of the shooting was going on near the main highway. There were almost no shots from the deep woods but, as Gramps had predicted, that was where the deer were. First they saw a herd of fourteen does and fawns that had been driven down from the hills by the stormy weather. Then there was a buck, a ten point with a very respectable rack of antlers. Either Gramps or Bud could have shot him before he glided out of sight in a rhododendron thicket. Next they saw a herd of nine in which there were two bucks. They parted at Dockerty's Swamp. Gramps went down to track through the swamp while Bud took his stand on a knoll up which any deer driven from the swamp would be sure to run. The snow had stopped falling, but heavy clouds lingered in the sky and it would begin again. Now and then Bud saw a deer flitting across one of the few open spaces in Dockerty's Swamp, and he knew that the swamp must be almost overrun by deer seeking a refuge from the snow. But no deer came up the slope and before long it was clear that they preferred to take their chance in the swamp rather than to go back into the hills. Bud had been at his stand a little less than an hour when he saw a deer running easily in the open country at the far edge of the swamp. Even if it had not been black, Bud would have known from its mighty rack of antlers that it was the black buck. Bud raced down the slope, stopping to whistle when he reached the edge of the swamp. Then, receiving no answer, he went a short distance into the swamp and whistled again. This time there was a reply, and Bud found Gramps leaning against a dead stub. "What in tunket are you doing?" he said angrily. "You should know better than to leave a deer stand." "He went out the other side!" Bud said. "The black buck?" "Yes!" "Come on!" Bud led to where he had seen the black buck disappear and Gramps looked once at the tracks. "It's him," he said, "and danged if he hasn't outsmarted us. He figures he knows as much about snow as we do, and I reckon he's right. Anyhow, he's going back into the hills." They began to climb, and the snow became deeper and the drifts more frequent. Two-thirds of the way up Hammerson's Hill, Gramps turned to Bud. "Give me an hour and come through on the track." After a timed sixty minutes, Bud went ahead, following the buck's tracks. Before long he found Gramps, who had made a wide circle, standing beside a huge boulder. The tracks of the black buck, who had slowed from a run to a walk, still led on. "I thought he came through here and he did," Gramps said. "But he came maybe ten minutes 'fore I got here. Ha! He thinks he's outsmarted us by taking to the hills, but could be he's tricked himself." "How has he tricked himself?" Bud asked. "Longer shooting," Gramps explained to Bud. "If we find where he's dipped into a gully, we have a good chance of catching him going up the other side." They followed the tracks until two hours before dark. Whenever they came too near for comfort, the black buck would run a little way, but most of the time he was satisfied to walk. Then they found that he had given a mighty leap a full twenty feet to one side of his line of travel and begun to run continuously. The tracks of four wild dogs came from the opposite direction and joined those of the black buck where he had veered off. Not speaking to save his breath for speed, Gramps followed the tracks. It was almost dark when he and Bud came to a place where the tracks separated, with the wild dogs' going off in one direction and the buck's in another. "They smelled us coming and kited off," Gramps said. "But they'll be back. "We'll start earlier tomorrow, Bud," the old man said as they turned to go home. chapter 12 The next morning, when Gramps and Bud returned to the black buck's track, the light was too dim for shooting and even for adequate tracking. A brisk little wind sent snow devils whirling before it, and the wind had blown most of the night, reducing the sharply imprinted tracks the black buck had left the day before to shallow depressions in the snow. The clouds were darker than yesterday and snow drifted down from them and mingled with the snow devils. The valley below them looked as black as though it was still midnight there, and above it, where Gramps and Bud were standing, the snow glowed weirdly in the pale light. Bud shivered, but he was grateful, too, for the very elements seemed to have conspired to save the fleeing black buck. Even Gramps couldn't hope to win against such odds as these. Bud grew more and more uneasy as he stood there helplessly, not knowing what to do. Gramps seemed baffled, too, reluctant either to go on or to turn back. The old man raised his rifle, sighted at the black trunk of a birch tree about fifty yards away and then lowered his rifle uncertainly. "He could be thirty yards away and the size of an elephant, and I still couldn't get my sights on him," Gramps said quietly. "That's what comes of selling a wise old buck short. He knew what he was doing when he came into the hills. He figured we were after him down in the swamp and was sure of it when we got on his tail. But he also knew there'd be more snow and he counted on it to cover his tracks." "He's wise, all right," Bud said with secret elation. Yesterday he had seen nothing except doom for the black buck. But the buck had a wild wisdom all his own, and thanks to that and to the falling snow, he had escaped his pursuers. If his tracks were covered up by the snow, he might still live to reign once more in Bennett's Woods. "We'll have to do our best anyhow," Gramps said. "If that pack finds him first, what's left won't be worth our carrying home." Gramps' words were like an electric shock to Bud. He had thought of the pack and its pursuit of the buck, but it had not occurred to him that the wild dogs were competing with him and Gramps on equal terms. At the thought of the black buck as a piece of meat that happened to be charged with life, a prize contested for by Gramps and a pack of wild dogs, Bud could hardly keep from retching. He felt as if he had been swept back to the grim, loveless world he had known before he had come to the Bennetts'. "I think you're right," Bud finally managed to answer. "Let's get moving, then," Gramps said, and started off in the semidarkness with Bud behind him. The buck had continued to run, twenty feet to the leap, even after the dogs had finally left his tracks the afternoon before. But the snow had shifted so much during the night that the places where he had landed were now so vaguely defined that Gramps and Bud's pace was agonizingly slow. They must go faster than this, Bud thought as he reached down for a handful of snow to cool his burning mouth. If it would mean the end of his good fortune if Gramps killed the buck, it would be even worse if the wild dogs killed him, for then Gramps' dream would be destroyed, too. Restraining an impulse to rush past Gramps and find the black buck in a burst of speed, Bud began to watch Gramps and he grew less desperate as he saw the old man in action. The sullen light was too dim to see from one set of the black buck's tracks to the next, but Gramps never failed to know in which direction the buck had leaped. Gramps seemed to be thinking not as Delbert Bennett but as the black buck himself. Perhaps the black buck enjoyed matching wits with hunters just as Old Yellowfoot seemed to, perhaps because he, too, was sure he could escape them. But wild dogs were different. The black buck had never run as far or as wildly with Gramps and Bud following him as he had even after the wild pack had stopped following. Plainly he knew what wild dogs could do and he was terrified. The night lifted so slowly that its rise was almost imperceptible, and when dawn finally came, the clouds remained so dark that it did not seem to be day at all. But when he sighted on a tree about three hundred yards away and could see a knothole over the sights, Bud knew there was at least shooting light. They were about a mile and a half from where they had returned to track the black buck. Where the tracks dipped into a gully whose only growth was wind-whipped aspens, the buck had slowed from a frantic run to a fast walk. Now that they were closer together and the light was stronger, the tracks were easier to follow. They turned straight up the gully toward the top of the hill. Gramps halted and Bud stopped behind him without speaking. Bud's desperate urge to hurry was gone, for by now he knew better than to try to do in haste what had to be done slowly. Gramps had performed a miracle in bringing them this far, and Bud realized that such mastery of the wilds was the result of love for wild places and wild things as well as skill and the desire to conquer. Then Gramps spoke, "He knows nothing's on his track any more and he thinks he's safe for a while. He's heading toward that patch of hemlocks on top of the hill because he's been pushed hard and needs a rest, and he can rest safely there. He's working back in the direction of the farm because there'll be more snow and he might have to get out of the hills in a hurry; he can do it by going down any of those deep gullys. But he knows those critters as well as I do, and he's going to be a mighty spooky buck until he's shaken that pack. He never was much afraid of us. But he's afraid of them." "Will the dogs be back?" Bud's voice shook. Gramps said grimly, "If they don't come, it's the first pack ever got on game and left it. They can't have that buck. I've marked him. Come on." Leaving the tracks of the black buck, Gramps went straight across the gully, fought halfway through a thigh-deep drift and halted. Bud looked up in alarm, but there wasn't the terrible wheezing and the anguished fight for breath that there had been when Gramps suffered his attacks. His face was streaked with perspiration but its color was normal. He had only stopped to rest, and after a moment he broke through the drift and quartered up the slope. Bud felt uneasily that he ought to be taking his turn breaking trail, but he knew better than to offer. It was Gramps' hunt and the buck was Gramps' prize. And only Gramps knew what to do. It was hard to imagine these hills as they were in the full bloom of summer, when anxious does hovered there near spotted fawns hidden in thickets and summer-sluggish bucks, their antlers velvet-sheathed, moved out of the way as placidly as grazing cattle. In the summer, too, grouse and wild turkeys brought their downy young to feed there. Now in the stormy depths of winter the hills looked like a desert of snow, although not all the wild life had fled. Cottontail rabbits huddled in their burrows and snowshoe hares crept about in the thickets. No doubt foxes and weasels were sheltering there from the storm and probably a few grouse and turkeys were still on the hills, too. But not even the track of a mouse could be seen on the virgin snow. Bud glanced toward the valley and could see only a part of the way down the slope through the falling snow. There was life in abundance down there and for a moment he wished he were out of these hills where there seemed to be nothing but snow and a grim determination to end the black buck's life. After Gramps had stopped to rest two more times, they broke over the crest of the hill. They traveled faster now, for although the snow was as deep as ever, the going was downhill. It was like coming out of the desert into an oasis when a grove of hemlocks loomed ahead. The hemlocks were partly covered with snow but their green needles were visible. They looked like Christmas trees decorated with great puffs of cotton. Gramps entered the hemlocks very slowly, with his rifle half raised, and Bud almost hoped they would find the black buck in the grove and put an end to this almost unbearable uncertainty. But all they found, deep in the hemlocks, was a bed in which the weary buck had finally lain down. Apparently he had left it shortly before Gramps and Bud had returned to following his tracks that morning, for very little snow covered the tracks leading away. When they came to the bed, Gramps stopped and said to Bud, "He's going to have himself a feed of beech nuts. Then he'll mosey down the hilltop to see if anything is on his trail. If he finds nothing, pretty soon he'll go back to the valley. He's afraid of this snow." They came to a grove of gray-trunked beech trees so massive that they seemed impregnable to the wind and storm. Gramps and Bud were still a hundred yards away when they saw a pile of leaves freshly pawed through the snow and knew that the buck had been scraping for beech nuts. These tiny nuts came down like hail when the first frost opened their green pods, and there had been a great harvest of them that year. Swiftly Gramps approached the place where the buck had been pawing, for the giant beech trees were widely separated and there was no brush to obscure the view. If the black buck was in the grove, they would see him. When they came to the scraped leaves, Gramps stopped again. From where he stood the tracks of the wild dogs could be seen leading out of the beech grove and joining those of the black buck. Gramps made a sound that was half a gasp and half a growl, and without looking back, began to move with giant strides along the mingled tracks. Bud hung back for a second. He had hunted and fished with Gramps hundreds of times, but he had never seen him react this way. Usually Gramps approached his quarry eagerly, but with a kind of reverence, too. Now Gramps seemed to have become a ferocious killer for whom the game was no longer a sport. Bud could only follow Gramps numbly, but it seemed to him that it had only become a question of whether Gramps or the wild dogs would kill the black buck first. The buck was again making great leaps as the pack coursed him. Bud did not dare talk to Gramps, but he knew that no deer could maintain such a furious pace for long. And the longer-winded wild dogs could go on indefinitely. Two miles after the pack had taken up the chase again, Gramps and Bud came upon the place where the dogs had first caught up with their quarry, and the trampled snow made it easy to reconstruct the scene. Pressed to his limit, the black buck had backed his haunches against a tangled windfall and waited with lowered antlers as the pack came on. The dogs had rushed and feinted, hoping to draw the buck out and make him expose his vulnerable flanks and hocks. "Look!" Bud said, when he saw a patch of blood thinly covered by new snow. "That ain't the black buck's blood," Gramps said. "If it was he never would have got out of here alive. He's hooked one of the dogs. They're not as anxious as they were." It was true, Bud decided as he and Gramps raced on. The buck was still running hard, but he was no longer taking the same mighty leaps. No doubt that was partly because he was tired, but he had also taught the pack to respect him. Although they could have closed in on him, they had held off for another two and a half miles. Then, on the rim of a shallow gully, the dogs had come forward with a determined rush. But the buck had backed up against three small trees whose trunks formed a triangle and held them off. There was no blood here, but when the buck had left, his leaps had been very short. "He ain't going much farther," Gramps said grimly. "And he'll try to get back into the valleys where the snow ain't as deep. Come on. Hagen's Flat's the place he'll head for." Gramps left the trail to quarter down the slope. Bud followed, not sure whether this was the right tactic, but not daring to question it. Gramps led them back down the snowy lifeless slope, and they ran on and on until Bud was sure they would run out of this world and into the next. When they came to the near side of a valley that sloped downward, they saw the black buck at bay across the valley. This time there was no shelter for his haunches, and his feet were no longer nimble as the pack rushed him. The dogs were as big as wolves and determined to kill their quarry without getting hurt themselves. Two of the four wild dogs lunged at the black buck's haunches. But when he whirled around to confront them, they danced away and the other two dogs rushed in. Bud was looking on frozen with horror when the sudden, sharp crack of Gramps' rifle startled him out of his trance. It was too far for any marksman who had been running, and he missed. The dogs turned to run and Gramps shot again, missing this time, too. For a short time the black buck stayed where he was. Then he turned to go on, but his steps were very slow and very tired. He stumbled and almost fell. When he came to a drift so deep that the snow reached his shoulders, he stopped, too exhausted to move. He gave no sign of fear when Gramps and Bud came up to him. There was a serenity and a dignity about him, as if, having done his best and fought his hardest, he could do no more and was prepared for whatever he had to face. As he looked at the buck there in the snowdrift, Bud thought of that summer day so long ago when the black buck had been a tiny fawn in his arms. The fawn had given Bud the courage to face life during those first days at Bennett's Farm and now what Bud had learned then was reconfirmed in the grown buck's quiet resignation to whatever fate had in store for him. Bud knew that he could fondle the buck now if he wanted to. The buck had no strength left to resist and his great antlers were as useless as those on the mounted head in the Bennetts' living room. Then there was a click as Gramps slipped the catch of his rifle from safe to fire. Gramps had his prize. The black buck was less than two yards away from him, and he couldn't miss. Bud waited for a shot, but none came. "Kite down to the barn and fetch the toboggan and a good strong hank of rope, Bud," Gramps said finally. "I'll wait here and see if those critters come back. I hope they do. But even if they don't, now that we know where they are, we'll get 'em on this snow." * * * * * Outside the wind howled and the snow swept down. But the kitchen stove radiated warmth to every corner of the room. It even seemed to warm his heart, Bud thought, although he knew that couldn't be. "You're sure he'll be all right?" he asked Gramps. "Dead sure," Gramps said. "He couldn't even wiggle when we tied him on the toboggan, but he'll be full of beans in a few days. Time deer season ends, he'll have enough hay and grain in him so he'll be able to make his way back into Bennett's Woods." Gramps chuckled. "You 'n' me will just open that box stall and watch him kite out." "Aren't you sorry?" Bud asked. "Heck no," Gramps said. "He'll carry a bigger rack than ever next year, and it'll be bigger still the year after." =Transcriber's Notes:= hyphenation, spelling and grammar have been preserved as in the original Page 97, horses in the barn ==> horses in the barn. Page 182/183, a threat ening forefoot ==> a threatening forefoot Page 190, Gramps asked ==> Gramps asked. 
485	----	The Road to Oz In which is related how Dorothy Gale of Kansas, The Shaggy Man, Button Bright, and Polychrome the Rainbow's Daughter met on an Enchanted Road and followed it all the way to the Marvelous Land of Oz. by L. Frank Baum "Royal Historian of Oz" Contents --To My Readers-- 1. The Way to Butterfield 2. Dorothy Meets Button-Bright 3. A Queer Village 4. King Dox 5. The Rainbow's Daughter 6. The City of Beasts 7. The Shaggy Man's Transformation 8. The Musicker 9. Facing the Scoodlers 10. Escaping the Soup-Kettle 11. Johnny Dooit Does It 12. The Deadly Desert Crossed 13. The Truth Pond 14. Tik-Tok and Billina 15. The Emperor's Tin Castle 16. Visiting the Pumpkin-Field 17. The Royal Chariot Arrives 18. The Emerald City 19. The Shaggy Man's Welcome 20. Princess Ozma of Oz 21. Dorothy Receives the Guests 22. Important Arrivals 23. The Grand Banquet 24. The Birthday Celebration To My Readers Well, my dears, here is what you have asked for: another "Oz Book" about Dorothy's strange adventures. Toto is in this story, because you wanted him to be there, and many other characters which you will recognize are in the story, too. Indeed, the wishes of my little correspondents have been considered as carefully as possible, and if the story is not exactly as you would have written it yourselves, you must remember that a story has to be a story before it can be written down, and the writer cannot change it much without spoiling it. In the preface to "Dorothy and the Wizard of Oz" I said I would like to write some stories that were not "Oz" stories, because I thought I had written about Oz long enough; but since that volume was published I have been fairly deluged with letters from children imploring me to "write more about Dorothy," and "more about Oz," and since I write only to please the children I shall try to respect their wishes. There are some new characters in this book that ought to win your love. I'm very fond of the shaggy man myself, and I think you will like him, too. As for Polychrome--the Rainbow's Daughter--and stupid little Button-Bright, they seem to have brought a new element of fun into these Oz stories, and I am glad I discovered them. Yet I am anxious to have you write and tell me how you like them. Since this book was written I have received some very remarkable News from The Land of Oz, which has greatly astonished me. I believe it will astonish you, too, my dears, when you hear it. But it is such a long and exciting story that it must be saved for another book--and perhaps that book will be the last story that will ever be told about the Land of Oz. L. FRANK BAUM Coronado, 1909. 1. The Way to Butterfield "Please, miss," said the shaggy man, "can you tell me the road to Butterfield?" Dorothy looked him over. Yes, he was shaggy, all right, but there was a twinkle in his eye that seemed pleasant. "Oh yes," she replied; "I can tell you. But it isn't this road at all." "No?" "You cross the ten-acre lot, follow the lane to the highway, go north to the five branches, and take--let me see--" "To be sure, miss; see as far as Butterfield, if you like," said the shaggy man. "You take the branch next the willow stump, I b'lieve; or else the branch by the gopher holes; or else--" "Won't any of 'em do, miss?" "'Course not, Shaggy Man. You must take the right road to get to Butterfield." "And is that the one by the gopher stump, or--" "Dear me!" cried Dorothy. "I shall have to show you the way, you're so stupid. Wait a minute till I run in the house and get my sunbonnet." The shaggy man waited. He had an oat-straw in his mouth, which he chewed slowly as if it tasted good; but it didn't. There was an apple-tree beside the house, and some apples had fallen to the ground. The shaggy man thought they would taste better than the oat-straw, so he walked over to get some. A little black dog with bright brown eyes dashed out of the farm-house and ran madly toward the shaggy man, who had already picked up three apples and put them in one of the big wide pockets of his shaggy coat. The little dog barked and made a dive for the shaggy man's leg; but he grabbed the dog by the neck and put it in his big pocket along with the apples. He took more apples, afterward, for many were on the ground; and each one that he tossed into his pocket hit the little dog somewhere upon the head or back, and made him growl. The little dog's name was Toto, and he was sorry he had been put in the shaggy man's pocket. Pretty soon Dorothy came out of the house with her sunbonnet, and she called out: "Come on, Shaggy Man, if you want me to show you the road to Butterfield." She climbed the fence into the ten-acre lot and he followed her, walking slowly and stumbling over the little hillocks in the pasture as if he was thinking of something else and did not notice them. "My, but you're clumsy!" said the little girl. "Are your feet tired?" "No, miss; it's my whiskers; they tire very easily in this warm weather," said he. "I wish it would snow, don't you?" "'Course not, Shaggy Man," replied Dorothy, giving him a severe look. "If it snowed in August it would spoil the corn and the oats and the wheat; and then Uncle Henry wouldn't have any crops; and that would make him poor; and--" "Never mind," said the shaggy man. "It won't snow, I guess. Is this the lane?" "Yes," replied Dorothy, climbing another fence; "I'll go as far as the highway with you." "Thankee, miss; you're very kind for your size, I'm sure," said he gratefully. "It isn't everyone who knows the road to Butterfield," Dorothy remarked as she tripped along the lane; "but I've driven there many a time with Uncle Henry, and so I b'lieve I could find it blindfolded." "Don't do that, miss," said the shaggy man earnestly; "you might make a mistake." "I won't," she answered, laughing. "Here's the highway. Now it's the second--no, the third turn to the left--or else it's the fourth. Let's see. The first one is by the elm tree, and the second is by the gopher holes; and then--" "Then what?" he inquired, putting his hands in his coat pockets. Toto grabbed a finger and bit it; the shaggy man took his hand out of that pocket quickly, and said "Oh!" Dorothy did not notice. She was shading her eyes from the sun with her arm, looking anxiously down the road. "Come on," she commanded. "It's only a little way farther, so I may as well show you." After a while, they came to the place where five roads branched in different directions; Dorothy pointed to one, and said: "That's it, Shaggy Man." "I'm much obliged, miss," he said, and started along another road. "Not that one!" she cried; "you're going wrong." He stopped. "I thought you said that other was the road to Butterfield," said he, running his fingers through his shaggy whiskers in a puzzled way. "So it is." "But I don't want to go to Butterfield, miss." "You don't?" "Of course not. I wanted you to show me the road, so I shouldn't go there by mistake." "Oh! Where DO you want to go, then?" "I'm not particular, miss." This answer astonished the little girl; and it made her provoked, too, to think she had taken all this trouble for nothing. "There are a good many roads here," observed the shaggy man, turning slowly around, like a human windmill. "Seems to me a person could go 'most anywhere, from this place." Dorothy turned around too, and gazed in surprise. There WERE a good many roads; more than she had ever seen before. She tried to count them, knowing there ought to be five, but when she had counted seventeen she grew bewildered and stopped, for the roads were as many as the spokes of a wheel and ran in every direction from the place where they stood; so if she kept on counting she was likely to count some of the roads twice. "Dear me!" she exclaimed. "There used to be only five roads, highway and all. And now--why, where's the highway, Shaggy Man?" "Can't say, miss," he responded, sitting down upon the ground as if tired with standing. "Wasn't it here a minute ago?" "I thought so," she answered, greatly perplexed. "And I saw the gopher holes, too, and the dead stump; but they're not here now. These roads are all strange--and what a lot of them there are! Where do you suppose they all go to?" "Roads," observed the shaggy man, "don't go anywhere. They stay in one place, so folks can walk on them." He put his hand in his side-pocket and drew out an apple--quick, before Toto could bite him again. The little dog got his head out this time and said "Bow-wow!" so loudly that it made Dorothy jump. "O, Toto!" she cried; "where did you come from?" "I brought him along," said the shaggy man. "What for?" she asked. "To guard these apples in my pocket, miss, so no one would steal them." With one hand the shaggy man held the apple, which he began eating, while with the other hand he pulled Toto out of his pocket and dropped him to the ground. Of course Toto made for Dorothy at once, barking joyfully at his release from the dark pocket. When the child had patted his head lovingly, he sat down before her, his red tongue hanging out one side of his mouth, and looked up into her face with his bright brown eyes, as if asking her what they should do next. Dorothy didn't know. She looked around her anxiously for some familiar landmark; but everything was strange. Between the branches of the many roads were green meadows and a few shrubs and trees, but she couldn't see anywhere the farm-house from which she had just come, or anything she had ever seen before--except the shaggy man and Toto. Besides this, she had turned around and around so many times trying to find out where she was, that now she couldn't even tell which direction the farm-house ought to be in; and this began to worry her and make her feel anxious. "I'm 'fraid, Shaggy Man," she said, with a sigh, "that we're lost!" "That's nothing to be afraid of," he replied, throwing away the core of his apple and beginning to eat another one. "Each of these roads must lead somewhere, or it wouldn't be here. So what does it matter?" "I want to go home again," she said. "Well, why don't you?" said he. "I don't know which road to take." "That is too bad," he said, shaking his shaggy head gravely. "I wish I could help you; but I can't. I'm a stranger in these parts." "Seems as if I were, too," she said, sitting down beside him. "It's funny. A few minutes ago I was home, and I just came to show you the way to Butterfield--" "So I shouldn't make a mistake and go there--" "And now I'm lost myself and don't know how to get home!" "Have an apple," suggested the shaggy man, handing her one with pretty red cheeks. "I'm not hungry," said Dorothy, pushing it away. "But you may be, to-morrow; then you'll be sorry you didn't eat the apple," said he. "If I am, I'll eat the apple then," promised Dorothy. "Perhaps there won't be any apple then," he returned, beginning to eat the red-cheeked one himself. "Dogs sometimes can find their way home better than people," he went on; "perhaps your dog can lead you back to the farm." "Will you, Toto?" asked Dorothy. Toto wagged his tail vigorously. "All right," said the girl; "let's go home." Toto looked around a minute and dashed up one of the roads. "Good-bye, Shaggy Man," called Dorothy, and ran after Toto. The little dog pranced briskly along for some distance; when he turned around and looked at his mistress questioningly. "Oh, don't 'spect ME to tell you anything; I don't know the way," she said. "You'll have to find it yourself." But Toto couldn't. He wagged his tail, and sneezed, and shook his ears, and trotted back where they had left the shaggy man. From here he started along another road; then came back and tried another; but each time he found the way strange and decided it would not take them to the farm-house. Finally, when Dorothy had begun to tire with chasing after him, Toto sat down panting beside the shaggy man and gave up. Dorothy sat down, too, very thoughtful. The little girl had encountered some queer adventures since she came to live at the farm; but this was the queerest of them all. To get lost in fifteen minutes, so near to her home and in the unromantic State of Kansas, was an experience that fairly bewildered her. "Will your folks worry?" asked the shaggy man, his eyes twinkling in a pleasant way. "I s'pose so," answered Dorothy with a sigh. "Uncle Henry says there's ALWAYS something happening to me; but I've always come home safe at the last. So perhaps he'll take comfort and think I'll come home safe this time." "I'm sure you will," said the shaggy man, smilingly nodding at her. "Good little girls never come to any harm, you know. For my part, I'm good, too; so nothing ever hurts me." Dorothy looked at him curiously. His clothes were shaggy, his boots were shaggy and full of holes, and his hair and whiskers were shaggy. But his smile was sweet and his eyes were kind. "Why didn't you want to go to Butterfield?" she asked. "Because a man lives there who owes me fifteen cents, and if I went to Butterfield and he saw me he'd want to pay me the money. I don't want money, my dear." "Why not?" she inquired. "Money," declared the shaggy man, "makes people proud and haughty. I don't want to be proud and haughty. All I want is to have people love me; and as long as I own the Love Magnet, everyone I meet is sure to love me dearly." "The Love Magnet! Why, what's that?" "I'll show you, if you won't tell any one," he answered, in a low, mysterious voice. "There isn't any one to tell, 'cept Toto," said the girl. The shaggy man searched in one pocket, carefully; and in another pocket; and in a third. At last he drew out a small parcel wrapped in crumpled paper and tied with a cotton string. He unwound the string, opened the parcel, and took out a bit of metal shaped like a horseshoe. It was dull and brown, and not very pretty. "This, my dear," said he, impressively, "is the wonderful Love Magnet. It was given me by an Eskimo in the Sandwich Islands--where there are no sandwiches at all--and as long as I carry it every living thing I meet will love me dearly." "Why didn't the Eskimo keep it?" she asked, looking at the Magnet with interest. "He got tired of being loved and longed for some one to hate him. So he gave me the Magnet and the very next day a grizzly bear ate him." "Wasn't he sorry then?" she inquired. "He didn't say," replied the shaggy man, wrapping and tying the Love Magnet with great care and putting it away in another pocket. "But the bear didn't seem sorry a bit," he added. "Did you know the bear?" asked Dorothy. "Yes; we used to play ball together in the Caviar Islands. The bear loved me because I had the Love Magnet. I couldn't blame him for eating the Eskimo, because it was his nature to do so." "Once," said Dorothy, "I knew a Hungry Tiger who longed to eat fat babies, because it was his nature to; but he never ate any because he had a Conscience." "This bear," replied the shaggy man, with a sigh, "had no Conscience, you see." The shaggy man sat silent for several minutes, apparently considering the cases of the bear and the tiger, while Toto watched him with an air of great interest. The little dog was doubtless thinking of his ride in the shaggy man's pocket and planning to keep out of reach in the future. At last the shaggy man turned and inquired, "What's your name, little girl?" "My name's Dorothy," said she, jumping up again, "but what are we going to do? We can't stay here forever, you know." "Let's take the seventh road," he suggested. "Seven is a lucky number for little girls named Dorothy." "The seventh from where?" "From where you begin to count." So she counted seven roads, and the seventh looked just like all the others; but the shaggy man got up from the ground where he had been sitting and started down this road as if sure it was the best way to go; and Dorothy and Toto followed him. 2. Dorothy Meets Button-Bright The seventh road was a good road, and curved this way and that--winding through green meadows and fields covered with daisies and buttercups and past groups of shady trees. There were no houses of any sort to be seen, and for some distance they met with no living creature at all. Dorothy began to fear they were getting a good way from the farm-house, since here everything was strange to her; but it would do no good at all to go back where the other roads all met, because the next one they chose might lead her just as far from home. She kept on beside the shaggy man, who whistled cheerful tunes to beguile the journey, until by and by they followed a turn in the road and saw before them a big chestnut tree making a shady spot over the highway. In the shade sat a little boy dressed in sailor clothes, who was digging a hole in the earth with a bit of wood. He must have been digging some time, because the hole was already big enough to drop a football into. Dorothy and Toto and the shaggy man came to a halt before the little boy, who kept on digging in a sober and persistent fashion. "Who are you?" asked the girl. He looked up at her calmly. His face was round and chubby and his eyes were big, blue and earnest. "I'm Button-Bright," said he. "But what's your real name?" she inquired. "Button-Bright." "That isn't a really-truly name!" she exclaimed. "Isn't it?" he asked, still digging. "'Course not. It's just a--a thing to call you by. You must have a name." "Must I?" "To be sure. What does your mama call you?" He paused in his digging and tried to think. "Papa always said I was bright as a button; so mama always called me Button-Bright," he said. "What is your papa's name?" "Just Papa." "What else?" "Don't know." "Never mind," said the shaggy man, smiling. "We'll call the boy Button-Bright, as his mama does. That name is as good as any, and better than some." Dorothy watched the boy dig. "Where do you live?" she asked. "Don't know," was the reply. "How did you come here?" "Don't know," he said again. "Don't you know where you came from?" "No," said he. "Why, he must be lost," she said to the shaggy man. She turned to the boy once more. "What are you going to do?" she inquired. "Dig," said he. "But you can't dig forever; and what are you going to do then?" she persisted. "Don't know," said the boy. "But you MUST know SOMETHING," declared Dorothy, getting provoked. "Must I?" he asked, looking up in surprise. "Of course you must." "What must I know?" "What's going to become of you, for one thing," she answered. "Do YOU know what's going to become of me?" he asked. "Not--not 'zactly," she admitted. "Do you know what's going to become of YOU?" he continued, earnestly. "I can't say I do," replied Dorothy, remembering her present difficulties. The shaggy man laughed. "No one knows everything, Dorothy," he said. "But Button-Bright doesn't seem to know ANYthing," she declared. "Do you, Button-Bright?" He shook his head, which had pretty curls all over it, and replied with perfect calmness: "Don't know." Never before had Dorothy met with anyone who could give her so little information. The boy was evidently lost, and his people would be sure to worry about him. He seemed two or three years younger than Dorothy, and was prettily dressed, as if someone loved him dearly and took much pains to make him look well. How, then, did he come to be in this lonely road? she wondered. Near Button-Bright, on the ground, lay a sailor hat with a gilt anchor on the band. His sailor trousers were long and wide at the bottom, and the broad collar of his blouse had gold anchors sewed on its corners. The boy was still digging at his hole. "Have you ever been to sea?" asked Dorothy. "To see what?" answered Button-Bright. "I mean, have you ever been where there's water?" "Yes," said Button-Bright; "there's a well in our back yard." "You don't understand," cried Dorothy. "I mean, have you ever been on a big ship floating on a big ocean?" "Don't know," said he. "Then why do you wear sailor clothes?" "Don't know," he answered, again. Dorothy was in despair. "You're just AWFUL stupid, Button-Bright," she said. "Am I?" he asked. "Yes, you are." "Why?" looking up at her with big eyes. She was going to say: "Don't know," but stopped herself in time. "That's for you to answer," she replied. "It's no use asking Button-Bright questions," said the shaggy man, who had been eating another apple; "but someone ought to take care of the poor little chap, don't you think? So he'd better come along with us." Toto had been looking with great curiosity in the hole which the boy was digging, and growing more and more excited every minute, perhaps thinking that Button-Bright was after some wild animal. The little dog began barking loudly and jumped into the hole himself, where he began to dig with his tiny paws, making the earth fly in all directions. It spattered over the boy. Dorothy seized him and raised him to his feet, brushing his clothes with her hand. "Stop that, Toto!" she called. "There aren't any mice or woodchucks in that hole, so don't be foolish." Toto stopped, sniffed at the hole suspiciously, and jumped out of it, wagging his tail as if he had done something important. "Well," said the shaggy man, "let's start on, or we won't get anywhere before night comes." "Where do you expect to get to?" asked Dorothy. "I'm like Button-Bright. I don't know," answered the shaggy man, with a laugh. "But I've learned from long experience that every road leads somewhere, or there wouldn't be any road; so it's likely that if we travel long enough, my dear, we will come to some place or another in the end. What place it will be we can't even guess at this moment, but we're sure to find out when we get there." "Why, yes," said Dorothy; "that seems reas'n'ble, Shaggy Man." 3. A Queer Village Button-Bright took the shaggy man's hand willingly; for the shaggy man had the Love Magnet, you know, which was the reason Button-Bright had loved him at once. They started on, with Dorothy on one side, and Toto on the other, the little party trudging along more cheerfully than you might have supposed. The girl was getting used to queer adventures, which interested her very much. Wherever Dorothy went Toto was sure to go, like Mary's little lamb. Button-Bright didn't seem a bit afraid or worried because he was lost, and the shaggy man had no home, perhaps, and was as happy in one place as in another. Before long they saw ahead of them a fine big arch spanning the road, and when they came nearer they found that the arch was beautifully carved and decorated with rich colors. A row of peacocks with spread tails ran along the top of it, and all the feathers were gorgeously painted. In the center was a large fox's head, and the fox wore a shrewd and knowing expression and had large spectacles over its eyes and a small golden crown with shiny points on top of its head. While the travelers were looking with curiosity at this beautiful arch there suddenly marched out of it a company of soldiers--only the soldiers were all foxes dressed in uniforms. They wore green jackets and yellow pantaloons, and their little round caps and their high boots were a bright red color. Also, there was a big red bow tied about the middle of each long, bushy tail. Each soldier was armed with a wooden sword having an edge of sharp teeth set in a row, and the sight of these teeth at first caused Dorothy to shudder. A captain marched in front of the company of fox-soldiers, his uniform embroidered with gold braid to make it handsomer than the others. Almost before our friends realized it the soldiers had surrounded them on all sides, and the captain was calling out in a harsh voice: "Surrender! You are our prisoners." "What's a pris'ner?" asked Button-Bright. "A prisoner is a captive," replied the fox-captain, strutting up and down with much dignity. "What's a captive?" asked Button-Bright. "You're one," said the captain. That made the shaggy man laugh "Good afternoon, captain," he said, bowing politely to all the foxes and very low to their commander. "I trust you are in good health, and that your families are all well?" The fox-captain looked at the shaggy man, and his sharp features grew pleasant and smiling. "We're pretty well, thank you, Shaggy Man," said he; and Dorothy knew that the Love Magnet was working and that all the foxes now loved the shaggy man because of it. But Toto didn't know this, for he began barking angrily and tried to bite the captain's hairy leg where it showed between his red boots and his yellow pantaloons. "Stop, Toto!" cried the little girl, seizing the dog in her arms. "These are our friends." "Why, so we are!" remarked the captain in tones of astonishment. "I thought at first we were enemies, but it seems you are friends instead. You must come with me to see King Dox." "Who's he?" asked Button-Bright, with earnest eyes. "King Dox of Foxville; the great and wise sovereign who rules over our community." "What's sov'rin, and what's c'u'nity?" inquired Button-Bright. "Don't ask so many questions, little boy." "Why?" "Ah, why indeed?" exclaimed the captain, looking at Button-Bright admiringly. "If you don't ask questions you will learn nothing. True enough. I was wrong. You're a very clever little boy, come to think of it--very clever indeed. But now, friends, please come with me, for it is my duty to escort you at once to the royal palace." The soldiers marched back through the arch again, and with them marched the shaggy man, Dorothy, Toto, and Button-Bright. Once through the opening they found a fine, big city spread out before them, all the houses of carved marble in beautiful colors. The decorations were mostly birds and other fowl, such as peacocks, pheasants, turkeys, prairie-chickens, ducks, and geese. Over each doorway was carved a head representing the fox who lived in that house, this effect being quite pretty and unusual. As our friends marched along, some of the foxes came out on the porches and balconies to get a view of the strangers. These foxes were all handsomely dressed, the girl-foxes and women-foxes wearing gowns of feathers woven together effectively and colored in bright hues which Dorothy thought were quite artistic and decidedly attractive. Button-Bright stared until his eyes were big and round, and he would have stumbled and fallen more than once had not the shaggy man grasped his hand tightly. They were all interested, and Toto was so excited he wanted to bark every minute and to chase and fight every fox he caught sight of; but Dorothy held his little wiggling body fast in her arms and commanded him to be good and behave himself. So he finally quieted down, like a wise doggy, deciding there were too many foxes in Foxville to fight at one time. By-and-by they came to a big square, and in the center of the square stood the royal palace. Dorothy knew it at once because it had over its great door the carved head of a fox just like the one she had seen on the arch, and this fox was the only one who wore a golden crown. There were many fox-soldiers guarding the door, but they bowed to the captain and admitted him without question. The captain led them through many rooms, where richly dressed foxes were sitting on beautiful chairs or sipping tea, which was being passed around by fox-servants in white aprons. They came to a big doorway covered with heavy curtains of cloth of gold. Beside this doorway stood a huge drum. The fox-captain went to this drum and knocked his knees against it--first one knee and then the other--so that the drum said: "Boom-boom." "You must all do exactly what I do," ordered the captain; so the shaggy man pounded the drum with his knees, and so did Dorothy and so did Button-Bright. The boy wanted to keep on pounding it with his little fat knees, because he liked the sound of it; but the captain stopped him. Toto couldn't pound the drum with his knees and he didn't know enough to wag his tail against it, so Dorothy pounded the drum for him and that made him bark, and when the little dog barked the fox-captain scowled. The golden curtains drew back far enough to make an opening, through which marched the captain with the others. The broad, long room they entered was decorated in gold with stained-glass windows of splendid colors. In the corner of the room upon a richly carved golden throne, sat the fox-king, surrounded by a group of other foxes, all of whom wore great spectacles over their eyes, making them look solemn and important. Dorothy knew the King at once, because she had seen his head carved on the arch and over the doorway of the palace. Having met with several other kings in her travels, she knew what to do, and at once made a low bow before the throne. The shaggy man bowed, too, and Button-Bright bobbed his head and said "Hello." "Most wise and noble Potentate of Foxville," said the captain, addressing the King in a pompous voice, "I humbly beg to report that I found these strangers on the road leading to your Foxy Majesty's dominions, and have therefore brought them before you, as is my duty." "So--so," said the King, looking at them keenly. "What brought you here, strangers?" "Our legs, may it please your Royal Hairiness," replied the shaggy man. "What is your business here?" was the next question. "To get away as soon as possible," said the shaggy man. The King didn't know about the Magnet, of course; but it made him love the shaggy man at once. "Do just as you please about going away," he said; "but I'd like to show you the sights of my city and to entertain your party while you are here. We feel highly honored to have little Dorothy with us, I assure you, and we appreciate her kindness in making us a visit. For whatever country Dorothy visits is sure to become famous." This speech greatly surprised the little girl, who asked: "How did your Majesty know my name?" "Why, everybody knows you, my dear," said the Fox-King. "Don't you realize that? You are quite an important personage since Princess Ozma of Oz made you her friend." "Do you know Ozma?" she asked, wondering. "I regret to say that I do not," he answered, sadly; "but I hope to meet her soon. You know the Princess Ozma is to celebrate her birthday on the twenty-first of this month." "Is she?" said Dorothy. "I didn't know that." "Yes; it is to be the most brilliant royal ceremony ever held in any city in Fairyland, and I hope you will try to get me an invitation." Dorothy thought a moment. "I'm sure Ozma would invite you if I asked her," she said; "but how could you get to the Land of Oz and the Emerald City? It's a good way from Kansas." "Kansas!" he exclaimed, surprised. "Why, yes; we are in Kansas now, aren't we?" she returned. "What a queer notion!" cried the Fox-King, beginning to laugh. "Whatever made you think this is Kansas?" "I left Uncle Henry's farm only about two hours ago; that's the reason," she said, rather perplexed. "But, tell me, my dear, did you ever see so wonderful a city as Foxville in Kansas?" he questioned. "No, your Majesty." "And haven't you traveled from Oz to Kansas in less than half a jiffy, by means of the Silver Shoes and the Magic Belt?" "Yes, your Majesty," she acknowledged. "Then why do you wonder that an hour or two could bring you to Foxville, which is nearer to Oz than it is to Kansas?" "Dear me!" exclaimed Dorothy; "is this another fairy adventure?" "It seems to be," said the Fox-King, smiling. Dorothy turned to the shaggy man, and her face was grave and reproachful. "Are you a magician? or a fairy in disguise?" she asked. "Did you enchant me when you asked the way to Butterfield?" The shaggy man shook his head. "Who ever heard of a shaggy fairy?" he replied. "No, Dorothy, my dear; I'm not to blame for this journey in any way, I assure you. There's been something strange about me ever since I owned the Love Magnet; but I don't know what it is any more than you do. I didn't try to get you away from home, at all. If you want to find your way back to the farm I'll go with you willingly, and do my best to help you." "Never mind," said the little girl, thoughtfully. "There isn't so much to see in Kansas as there is here, and I guess Aunt Em won't be VERY much worried; that is, if I don't stay away too long." "That's right," declared the Fox-King, nodding approval. "Be contented with your lot, whatever it happens to be, if you are wise. Which reminds me that you have a new companion on this adventure--he looks very clever and bright." "He is," said Dorothy; and the shaggy man added: "That's his name, your Royal Foxiness--Button-Bright." 4. King Dox It was amusing to note the expression on the face of King Dox as he looked the boy over, from his sailor hat to his stubby shoes, and it was equally diverting to watch Button-Bright stare at the King in return. No fox ever beheld a fresher, fairer child's face, and no child had ever before heard a fox talk, or met with one who dressed so handsomely and ruled so big a city. I am sorry to say that no one had ever told the little boy much about fairies of any kind; this being the case, it is easy to understand how much this strange experience startled and astonished him. "How do you like us?" asked the King. "Don't know," said Button-Bright. "Of course you don't. It's too short an acquaintance," returned his Majesty. "What do you suppose my name is?" "Don't know," said Button-Bright. "How should you? Well, I'll tell you. My private name is Dox, but a King can't be called by his private name; he has to take one that is official. Therefore my official name is King Renard the Fourth. Ren-ard with the accent on the 'Ren'." "What's 'ren'?" asked Button-Bright. "How clever!" exclaimed the King, turning a pleased face toward his counselors. "This boy is indeed remarkably bright. 'What's 'ren'?' he asks; and of course 'ren' is nothing at all, all by itself. Yes, he's very bright indeed." "That question is what your Majesty might call foxy," said one of the counselors, an old grey fox. "So it is," declared the King. Turning again to Button-Bright, he asked: "Having told you my name, what would you call me?" "King Dox," said the boy. "Why?" "'Cause 'ren''s nothing at all," was the reply. "Good! Very good indeed! You certainly have a brilliant mind. Do you know why two and two make four?" "No," said Button-Bright. "Clever! clever indeed! Of course you don't know. Nobody knows why; we only know it's so, and can't tell why it's so. Button-Bright, those curls and blue eyes do not go well with so much wisdom. They make you look too youthful, and hide your real cleverness. Therefore, I will do you a great favor. I will confer upon you the head of a fox, so that you may hereafter look as bright as you really are." As he spoke the King waved his paw toward the boy, and at once the pretty curls and fresh round face and big blue eyes were gone, while in their place a fox's head appeared upon Button-Bright's shoulders--a hairy head with a sharp nose, pointed ears, and keen little eyes. "Oh, don't do that!" cried Dorothy, shrinking back from her transformed companion with a shocked and dismayed face. "Too late, my dear; it's done. But you also shall have a fox's head if you can prove you're as clever as Button-Bright." "I don't want it; it's dreadful!" she exclaimed; and, hearing this verdict, Button-Bright began to boo-hoo just as if he were still a little boy. "How can you call that lovely head dreadful?" asked the King. "It's a much prettier face than he had before, to my notion, and my wife says I'm a good judge of beauty. Don't cry, little fox-boy. Laugh and be proud, because you are so highly favored. How do you like the new head, Button-Bright?" "D-d-don't n-n-n-know!" sobbed the child. "Please, PLEASE change him back again, your Majesty!" begged Dorothy. King Renard IV shook his head. "I can't do that," he said; "I haven't the power, even if I wanted to. No, Button-Bright must wear his fox head, and he'll be sure to love it dearly as soon as he gets used to it." Both the shaggy man and Dorothy looked grave and anxious, for they were sorrowful that such a misfortune had overtaken their little companion. Toto barked at the fox-boy once or twice, not realizing it was his former friend who now wore the animal head; but Dorothy cuffed the dog and made him stop. As for the foxes, they all seemed to think Button-Bright's new head very becoming and that their King had conferred a great honor on this little stranger. It was funny to see the boy reach up to feel of his sharp nose and wide mouth, and wail afresh with grief. He wagged his ears in a comical manner and tears were in his little black eyes. But Dorothy couldn't laugh at her friend just yet, because she felt so sorry. Just then three little fox-princesses, daughters of the King, entered the room, and when they saw Button-Bright one exclaimed: "How lovely he is!" and the next one cried in delight: "How sweet he is!" and the third princess clapped her hands with pleasure and said, "How beautiful he is!" Button-Bright stopped crying and asked timidly: "Am I?" "In all the world there is not another face so pretty," declared the biggest fox-princess. "You must live with us always, and be our brother," said the next. "We shall all love you dearly," the third said. This praise did much to comfort the boy, and he looked around and tried to smile. It was a pitiful attempt, because the fox face was new and stiff, and Dorothy thought his expression more stupid than before the transformation. "I think we ought to be going now," said the shaggy man, uneasily, for he didn't know what the King might take into his head to do next. "Don't leave us yet, I beg of you," pleaded King Renard. "I intend to have several days of feasting and merry-making in honor of your visit." "Have it after we're gone, for we can't wait," said Dorothy, decidedly. But seeing this displeased the King, she added: "If I'm going to get Ozma to invite you to her party I'll have to find her as soon as poss'ble, you know." In spite of all the beauty of Foxville and the gorgeous dresses of its inhabitants, both the girl and the shaggy man felt they were not quite safe there, and would be glad to see the last of it. "But it is now evening," the King reminded them, "and you must stay with us until morning, anyhow. Therefore, I invite you to be my guests at dinner, and to attend the theater afterward and sit in the royal box. To-morrow morning, if you really insist upon it, you may resume your journey." They consented to this, and some of the fox-servants led them to a suite of lovely rooms in the big palace. Button-Bright was afraid to be left alone, so Dorothy took him into her own room. While a maid-fox dressed the little girl's hair--which was a bit tangled--and put some bright, fresh ribbons in it, another maid-fox combed the hair on poor Button-Bright's face and head and brushed it carefully, tying a pink bow to each of his pointed ears. The maids wanted to dress the children in fine costumes of woven feathers, such as all the foxes wore; but neither of them consented to that. "A sailor suit and a fox head do not go well together," said one of the maids, "for no fox was ever a sailor that I can remember." "I'm not a fox!" cried Button-Bright. "Alas, no," agreed the maid. "But you've got a lovely fox head on your skinny shoulders, and that's ALMOST as good as being a fox." The boy, reminded of his misfortune, began to cry again. Dorothy petted and comforted him and promised to find some way to restore him his own head. "If we can manage to get to Ozma," she said, "the Princess will change you back to yourself in half a second; so you just wear that fox head as comf't'bly as you can, dear, and don't worry about it at all. It isn't nearly as pretty as your own head, no matter what the foxes say; but you can get along with it for a little while longer, can't you?" "Don't know," said Button-Bright, doubtfully; but he didn't cry any more after that. Dorothy let the maids pin ribbons to her shoulders, after which they were ready for the King's dinner. When they met the shaggy man in the splendid drawing room of the palace they found him just the same as before. He had refused to give up his shaggy clothes for new ones, because if he did that he would no longer be the shaggy man, he said, and he might have to get acquainted with himself all over again. He told Dorothy he had brushed his shaggy hair and whiskers; but she thought he must have brushed them the wrong way, for they were quite as shaggy as before. As for the company of foxes assembled to dine with the strangers, they were most beautifully costumed, and their rich dresses made Dorothy's simple gown and Button-Bright's sailor suit and the shaggy man's shaggy clothes look commonplace. But they treated their guests with great respect and the King's dinner was a very good dinner indeed. Foxes, as you know, are fond of chicken and other fowl; so they served chicken soup and roasted turkey and stewed duck and fried grouse and broiled quail and goose pie, and as the cooking was excellent the King's guests enjoyed the meal and ate heartily of the various dishes. The party went to the theater, where they saw a play acted by foxes dressed in costumes of brilliantly colored feathers. The play was about a fox-girl who was stolen by some wicked wolves and carried to their cave; and just as they were about to kill her and eat her a company of fox-soldiers marched up, saved the girl, and put all the wicked wolves to death. "How do you like it?" the King asked Dorothy. "Pretty well," she answered. "It reminds me of one of Mr. Aesop's fables." "Don't mention Aesop to me, I beg of you!" exclaimed King Dox. "I hate that man's name. He wrote a good deal about foxes, but always made them out cruel and wicked, whereas we are gentle and kind, as you may see." "But his fables showed you to be wise and clever, and more shrewd than other animals," said the shaggy man, thoughtfully. "So we are. There is no question about our knowing more than men do," replied the King, proudly. "But we employ our wisdom to do good, instead of harm; so that horrid Aesop did not know what he was talking about." They did not like to contradict him, because they felt he ought to know the nature of foxes better than men did; so they sat still and watched the play, and Button-Bright became so interested that for the time he forgot he wore a fox head. Afterward they went back to the palace and slept in soft beds stuffed with feathers; for the foxes raised many fowl for food, and used their feathers for clothing and to sleep upon. Dorothy wondered why the animals living in Foxville did not wear just their own hairy skins as wild foxes do; when she mentioned it to King Dox he said they clothed themselves because they were civilized. "But you were born without clothes," she observed, "and you don't seem to me to need them." "So were human beings born without clothes," he replied; "and until they became civilized they wore only their natural skins. But to become civilized means to dress as elaborately and prettily as possible, and to make a show of your clothes so your neighbors will envy you, and for that reason both civilized foxes and civilized humans spend most of their time dressing themselves." "I don't," declared the shaggy man. "That is true," said the King, looking at him carefully; "but perhaps you are not civilized." After a sound sleep and a good night's rest they had their breakfast with the King and then bade his Majesty good-bye. "You've been kind to us--'cept poor Button-Bright," said Dorothy, "and we've had a nice time in Foxville." "Then," said King Dox, "perhaps you'll be good enough to get me an invitation to Princess Ozma's birthday celebration." "I'll try," she promised; "if I see her in time." "It's on the twenty-first, remember," he continued; "and if you'll just see that I'm invited I'll find a way to cross the Dreadful Desert into the marvelous Land of Oz. I've always wanted to visit the Emerald City, so I'm sure it was fortunate you arrived here just when you did, you being Princess Ozma's friend and able to assist me in getting the invitation." "If I see Ozma I'll ask her to invite you," she replied. The Fox-King had a delightful luncheon put up for them, which the shaggy man shoved in his pocket, and the fox-captain escorted them to an arch at the side of the village opposite the one by which they had entered. Here they found more soldiers guarding the road. "Are you afraid of enemies?" asked Dorothy. "No; because we are watchful and able to protect ourselves," answered the captain. "But this road leads to another village peopled by big, stupid beasts who might cause us trouble if they thought we were afraid of them." "What beasts are they?" asked the shaggy man. The captain hesitated to answer. Finally, he said: "You will learn all about them when you arrive at their city. But do not be afraid of them. Button-Bright is so wonderfully clever and has now such an intelligent face that I'm sure he will manage to find a way to protect you." This made Dorothy and the shaggy man rather uneasy, for they had not so much confidence in the fox-boy's wisdom as the captain seemed to have. But as their escort would say no more about the beasts, they bade him good-bye and proceeded on their journey. 5. The Rainbow's Daughter Toto, now allowed to run about as he pleased, was glad to be free again and able to bark at the birds and chase the butterflies. The country around them was charming, yet in the pretty fields of wild-flowers and groves of leafy trees were no houses whatever, or sign of any inhabitants. Birds flew through the air and cunning white rabbits darted amongst the tall grasses and green bushes; Dorothy noticed even the ants toiling busily along the roadway, bearing gigantic loads of clover seed; but of people there were none at all. They walked briskly on for an hour or two, for even little Button-Bright was a good walker and did not tire easily. At length as they turned a curve in the road they beheld just before them a curious sight. A little girl, radiant and beautiful, shapely as a fairy and exquisitely dressed, was dancing gracefully in the middle of the lonely road, whirling slowly this way and that, her dainty feet twinkling in sprightly fashion. She was clad in flowing, fluffy robes of soft material that reminded Dorothy of woven cobwebs, only it was colored in soft tintings of violet, rose, topaz, olive, azure, and white, mingled together most harmoniously in stripes which melted one into the other with soft blendings. Her hair was like spun gold and flowed around her in a cloud, no strand being fastened or confined by either pin or ornament or ribbon. Filled with wonder and admiration our friends approached and stood watching this fascinating dance. The girl was no taller than Dorothy, although more slender; nor did she seem any older than our little heroine. Suddenly she paused and abandoned the dance, as if for the first time observing the presence of strangers. As she faced them, shy as a frightened fawn, poised upon one foot as if to fly the next instant, Dorothy was astonished to see tears flowing from her violet eyes and trickling down her lovely rose-hued cheeks. That the dainty maiden should dance and weep at the same time was indeed surprising; so Dorothy asked in a soft, sympathetic voice: "Are you unhappy, little girl?" "Very!" was the reply; "I am lost." "Why, so are we," said Dorothy, smiling; "but we don't cry about it." "Don't you? Why not?" "'Cause I've been lost before, and always got found again," answered Dorothy simply. "But I've never been lost before," murmured the dainty maiden, "and I'm worried and afraid." "You were dancing," remarked Dorothy, in a puzzled tone of voice. "Oh, that was just to keep warm," explained the maiden, quickly. "It was not because I felt happy or gay, I assure you." Dorothy looked at her closely. Her gauzy flowing robes might not be very warm, yet the weather wasn't at all chilly, but rather mild and balmy, like a spring day. "Who are you, dear?" she asked, gently. "I'm Polychrome," was the reply. "Polly whom?" "Polychrome. I'm the Daughter of the Rainbow." "Oh!" said Dorothy with a gasp; "I didn't know the Rainbow had children. But I MIGHT have known it, before you spoke. You couldn't really be anything else." "Why not?" inquired Polychrome, as if surprised. "Because you're so lovely and sweet." The little maiden smiled through her tears, came up to Dorothy, and placed her slender fingers in the Kansas girl's chubby hand. "You'll be my friend--won't you?" she said, pleadingly. "Of course." "And what is your name?" "I'm Dorothy; and this is my friend Shaggy Man, who owns the Love Magnet; and this is Button-Bright--only you don't see him as he really is because the Fox-King carelessly changed his head into a fox head. But the real Button-Bright is good to look at, and I hope to get him changed back to himself, some time." The Rainbow's Daughter nodded cheerfully, no longer afraid of her new companions. "But who is this?" she asked, pointing to Toto, who was sitting before her wagging his tail in the most friendly manner and admiring the pretty maid with his bright eyes. "Is this, also, some enchanted person?" "Oh no, Polly--I may call you Polly, mayn't I? Your whole name's awful hard to say." "Call me Polly if you wish, Dorothy." "Well, Polly, Toto's just a dog; but he has more sense than Button-Bright, to tell the truth; and I'm very fond of him." "So am I," said Polychrome, bending gracefully to pat Toto's head. "But how did the Rainbow's Daughter ever get on this lonely road, and become lost?" asked the shaggy man, who had listened wonderingly to all this. "Why, my father stretched his rainbow over here this morning, so that one end of it touched this road," was the reply; "and I was dancing upon the pretty rays, as I love to do, and never noticed I was getting too far over the bend in the circle. Suddenly I began to slide, and I went faster and faster until at last I bumped on the ground, at the very end. Just then father lifted the rainbow again, without noticing me at all, and though I tried to seize the end of it and hold fast, it melted away entirely and I was left alone and helpless on the cold, hard earth!" "It doesn't seem cold to me, Polly," said Dorothy; "but perhaps you're not warmly dressed." "I'm so used to living nearer the sun," replied the Rainbow's Daughter, "that at first I feared I would freeze down here. But my dance has warmed me some, and now I wonder how I am ever to get home again." "Won't your father miss you, and look for you, and let down another rainbow for you?" "Perhaps so, but he's busy just now because it rains in so many parts of the world at this season, and he has to set his rainbow in a lot of different places. What would you advise me to do, Dorothy?" "Come with us," was the answer. "I'm going to try to find my way to the Emerald City, which is in the fairy Land of Oz. The Emerald City is ruled by a friend of mine, the Princess Ozma, and if we can manage to get there I'm sure she will know a way to send you home to your father again." "Do you really think so?" asked Polychrome, anxiously. "I'm pretty sure." "Then I'll go with you," said the little maid; "for travel will help keep me warm, and father can find me in one part of the world as well as another--if he gets time to look for me." "Come along, then," said the shaggy man, cheerfully; and they started on once more. Polly walked beside Dorothy a while, holding her new friend's hand as if she feared to let it go; but her nature seemed as light and buoyant as her fleecy robes, for suddenly she darted ahead and whirled round in a giddy dance. Then she tripped back to them with sparkling eyes and smiling cheeks, having regained her usual happy mood and forgotten all her worry about being lost. They found her a charming companion, and her dancing and laughter--for she laughed at times like the tinkling of a silver bell--did much to enliven their journey and keep them contented. 6. The City Of Beasts When noon came they opened the Fox-King's basket of luncheon, and found a nice roasted turkey with cranberry sauce and some slices of bread and butter. As they sat on the grass by the roadside the shaggy man cut up the turkey with his pocket-knife and passed slices of it around. "Haven't you any dewdrops, or mist-cakes, or cloudbuns?" asked Polychrome, longingly. "'Course not," replied Dorothy. "We eat solid things, down here on the earth. But there's a bottle of cold tea. Try some, won't you?" The Rainbow's Daughter watched Button-Bright devour one leg of the turkey. "Is it good?" she asked. He nodded. "Do you think I could eat it?" "Not this," said Button-Bright. "But I mean another piece?" "Don't know," he replied. "Well, I'm going to try, for I'm very hungry," she decided, and took a thin slice of the white breast of turkey which the shaggy man cut for her, as well as a bit of bread and butter. When she tasted it Polychrome thought the turkey was good--better even than mist-cakes; but a little satisfied her hunger and she finished with a tiny sip of cold tea. "That's about as much as a fly would eat," said Dorothy, who was making a good meal herself. "But I know some people in Oz who eat nothing at all." "Who are they?" inquired the shaggy man. "One is a scarecrow who's stuffed with straw, and the other a woodman made out of tin. They haven't any appetites inside of 'em, you see; so they never eat anything at all." "Are they alive?" asked Button-Bright. "Oh yes," replied Dorothy; "and they're very clever and very nice, too. If we get to Oz I'll introduce them to you." "Do you really expect to get to Oz?" inquired the shaggy man, taking a drink of cold tea. "I don't know just what to 'spect," answered the child, seriously; "but I've noticed if I happen to get lost I'm almost sure to come to the Land of Oz in the end, somehow 'r other; so I may get there this time. But I can't promise, you know; all I can do is wait and see." "Will the Scarecrow scare me?" asked Button-Bright. "No; 'cause you're not a crow," she returned. "He has the loveliest smile you ever saw--only it's painted on and he can't help it." Luncheon being over they started again upon their journey, the shaggy man, Dorothy and Button-Bright walking soberly along, side by side, and the Rainbow's Daughter dancing merrily before them. Sometimes she darted along the road so swiftly that she was nearly out of sight, then she came tripping back to greet them with her silvery laughter. But once she came back more sedately, to say: "There's a city a little way off." "I 'spected that," returned Dorothy; "for the fox-people warned us there was one on this road. It's filled with stupid beasts of some sort, but we musn't be afraid of 'em 'cause they won't hurt us." "All right," said Button-Bright; but Polychrome didn't know whether it was all right or not. "It's a big city," she said, "and the road runs straight through it." "Never mind," said the shaggy man; "as long as I carry the Love Magnet every living thing will love me, and you may be sure I shan't allow any of my friends to be harmed in any way." This comforted them somewhat, and they moved on again. Pretty soon they came to a signpost that read: "HAF A MYLE TO DUNKITON." "Oh," said the shaggy man, "if they're donkeys, we've nothing to fear at all." "They may kick," said Dorothy, doubtfully. "Then we will cut some switches, and make them behave," he replied. At the first tree he cut himself a long, slender switch from one of the branches, and shorter switches for the others. "Don't be afraid to order the beasts around," he said; "they're used to it." Before long the road brought them to the gates of the city. There was a high wall all around, which had been whitewashed, and the gate just before our travelers was a mere opening in the wall, with no bars across it. No towers or steeples or domes showed above the enclosure, nor was any living thing to be seen as our friends drew near. Suddenly, as they were about to boldly enter through the opening, there arose a harsh clamor of sound that swelled and echoed on every side, until they were nearly deafened by the racket and had to put their fingers to their ears to keep the noise out. It was like the firing of many cannon, only there were no cannon-balls or other missiles to be seen; it was like the rolling of mighty thunder, only not a cloud was in the sky; it was like the roar of countless breakers on a rugged seashore, only there was no sea or other water anywhere about. They hesitated to advance; but, as the noise did no harm, they entered through the whitewashed wall and quickly discovered the cause of the turmoil. Inside were suspended many sheets of tin or thin iron, and against these metal sheets a row of donkeys were pounding their heels with vicious kicks. The shaggy man ran up to the nearest donkey and gave the beast a sharp blow with his switch. "Stop that noise!" he shouted; and the donkey stopped kicking the metal sheet and turned its head to look with surprise at the shaggy man. He switched the next donkey, and made him stop, and then the next, so that gradually the rattling of heels ceased and the awful noise subsided. The donkeys stood in a group and eyed the strangers with fear and trembling. "What do you mean by making such a racket?" asked the shaggy man, sternly. "We were scaring away the foxes," said one of the donkeys, meekly. "Usually they run fast enough when they hear the noise, which makes them afraid." "There are no foxes here," said the shaggy man. "I beg to differ with you. There's one, anyhow," replied the donkey, sitting upright on its haunches and waving a hoof toward Button-Bright. "We saw him coming and thought the whole army of foxes was marching to attack us." "Button-Bright isn't a fox," explained the shaggy man. "He's only wearing a fox head for a time, until he can get his own head back." "Oh, I see," remarked the donkey, waving its left ear reflectively. "I'm sorry we made such a mistake, and had all our work and worry for nothing." The other donkeys by this time were sitting up and examining the strangers with big, glassy eyes. They made a queer picture, indeed; for they wore wide, white collars around their necks and the collars had many scallops and points. The gentlemen-donkeys wore high pointed caps set between their great ears, and the lady-donkeys wore sunbonnets with holes cut in the top for the ears to stick through. But they had no other clothing except their hairy skins, although many wore gold and silver bangles on their front wrists and bands of different metals on their rear ankles. When they were kicking they had braced themselves with their front legs, but now they all stood or sat upright on their hind legs and used the front ones as arms. Having no fingers or hands the beasts were rather clumsy, as you may guess; but Dorothy was surprised to observe how many things they could do with their stiff, heavy hoofs. Some of the donkeys were white, some were brown, or gray, or black, or spotted; but their hair was sleek and smooth and their broad collars and caps gave them a neat, if whimsical, appearance. "This is a nice way to welcome visitors, I must say!" remarked the shaggy man, in a reproachful tone. "Oh, we did not mean to be impolite," replied a grey donkey which had not spoken before. "But you were not expected, nor did you send in your visiting cards, as it is proper to do." "There is some truth in that," admitted the shaggy man; "but, now you are informed that we are important and distinguished travelers, I trust you will accord us proper consideration." These big words delighted the donkeys, and made them bow to the shaggy man with great respect. Said the grey one: "You shall be taken before his great and glorious Majesty King Kik-a-bray, who will greet you as becomes your exalted stations." "That's right," answered Dorothy. "Take us to some one who knows something." "Oh, we all know something, my child, or we shouldn't be donkeys," asserted the grey one, with dignity. "The word 'donkey' means 'clever,' you know." "I didn't know it," she replied. "I thought it meant 'stupid'." "Not at all, my child. If you will look in the Encyclopedia Donkaniara you will find I'm correct. But come; I will myself lead you before our splendid, exalted, and most intellectual ruler." All donkeys love big words, so it is no wonder the grey one used so many of them. 7. The Shaggy Man's Transformation They found the houses of the town all low and square and built of bricks, neatly whitewashed inside and out. The houses were not set in rows, forming regular streets, but placed here and there in a haphazard manner which made it puzzling for a stranger to find his way. "Stupid people must have streets and numbered houses in their cities, to guide them where to go," observed the grey donkey, as he walked before the visitors on his hind legs, in an awkward but comical manner; "but clever donkeys know their way about without such absurd marks. Moreover, a mixed city is much prettier than one with straight streets." Dorothy did not agree with this, but she said nothing to contradict it. Presently she saw a sign on a house that read: "Madam de Fayke, Hoofist," and she asked their conductor: "What's a 'hoofist,' please?" "One who reads your fortune in your hoofs," replied the grey donkey. "Oh, I see," said the little girl. "You are quite civilized here." "Dunkiton," he replied, "is the center of the world's highest civilization." They came to a house where two youthful donkeys were whitewashing the wall, and Dorothy stopped a moment to watch them. They dipped the ends of their tails, which were much like paint-brushes, into a pail of whitewash, backed up against the house, and wagged their tails right and left until the whitewash was rubbed on the wall, after which they dipped these funny brushes in the pail again and repeated the performance. "That must be fun," said Button-Bright. "No, it's work," replied the old donkey; "but we make our youngsters do all the whitewashing, to keep them out of mischief." "Don't they go to school?" asked Dorothy. "All donkeys are born wise," was the reply, "so the only school we need is the school of experience. Books are only for those who know nothing, and so are obliged to learn things from other people." "In other words, the more stupid one is, the more he thinks he knows," observed the shaggy man. The grey donkey paid no attention to this speech because he had just stopped before a house which had painted over the doorway a pair of hoofs, with a donkey tail between them and a rude crown and sceptre above. "I'll see if his magnificent Majesty King Kik-a-bray is at home," said he. He lifted his head and called "Whee-haw! whee-haw! whee-haw!" three times, in a shocking voice, turning about and kicking with his heels against the panel of the door. For a time there was no reply; then the door opened far enough to permit a donkey's head to stick out and look at them. It was a white head, with big, awful ears and round, solemn eyes. "Have the foxes gone?" it asked, in a trembling voice. "They haven't been here, most stupendous Majesty," replied the grey one. "The new arrivals prove to be travelers of distinction." "Oh," said the King, in a relieved tone of voice. "Let them come in." He opened the door wide, and the party marched into a big room, which, Dorothy thought, looked quite unlike a king's palace. There were mats of woven grasses on the floor and the place was clean and neat; but his Majesty had no other furniture at all--perhaps because he didn't need it. He squatted down in the center of the room and a little brown donkey ran and brought a big gold crown which it placed on the monarch's head, and a golden staff with a jeweled ball at the end of it, which the King held between his front hoofs as he sat upright. "Now then," said his Majesty, waving his long ears gently to and fro, "tell me why you are here, and what you expect me to do for you." He eyed Button-Bright rather sharply, as if afraid of the little boy's queer head, though it was the shaggy man who undertook to reply. "Most noble and supreme ruler of Dunkiton," he said, trying not to laugh in the solemn King's face, "we are strangers traveling through your dominions and have entered your magnificent city because the road led through it, and there was no way to go around. All we desire is to pay our respects to your Majesty--the cleverest king in all the world, I'm sure--and then to continue on our way." This polite speech pleased the King very much; indeed, it pleased him so much that it proved an unlucky speech for the shaggy man. Perhaps the Love Magnet helped to win his Majesty's affections as well as the flattery, but however this may be, the white donkey looked kindly upon the speaker and said: "Only a donkey should be able to use such fine, big words, and you are too wise and admirable in all ways to be a mere man. Also, I feel that I love you as well as I do my own favored people, so I will bestow upon you the greatest gift within my power--a donkey's head." As he spoke he waved his jeweled staff. Although the shaggy man cried out and tried to leap backward and escape, it proved of no use. Suddenly his own head was gone and a donkey head appeared in its place--a brown, shaggy head so absurd and droll that Dorothy and Polly both broke into merry laughter, and even Button-Bright's fox face wore a smile. "Dear me! dear me!" cried the shaggy man, feeling of his shaggy new head and his long ears. "What a misfortune--what a great misfortune! Give me back my own head, you stupid king--if you love me at all!" "Don't you like it?" asked the King, surprised. "Hee-haw! I hate it! Take it away, quick!" said the shaggy man. "But I can't do that," was the reply. "My magic works only one way. I can DO things, but I can't UNdo them. You'll have to find the Truth Pond, and bathe in its water, in order to get back your own head. But I advise you not to do that. This head is much more beautiful than the old one." "That's a matter of taste," said Dorothy. "Where is the Truth Pond?" asked the shaggy man, earnestly. "Somewhere in the Land of Oz; but just the exact location of it I can not tell," was the answer. "Don't worry, Shaggy Man," said Dorothy, smiling because her friend wagged his new ears so comically. "If the Truth Pond is in Oz, we'll be sure to find it when we get there." "Oh! Are you going to the Land of Oz?" asked King Kik-a-bray. "I don't know," she replied, "but we've been told we are nearer the Land of Oz than to Kansas, and if that's so, the quickest way for me to get home is to find Ozma." "Haw-haw! Do you know the mighty Princess Ozma?" asked the King, his tone both surprised and eager. "'Course I do; she's my friend," said Dorothy. "Then perhaps you'll do me a favor," continued the white donkey, much excited. "What is it?" she asked. "Perhaps you can get me an invitation to Princess Ozma's birthday celebration, which will be the grandest royal function ever held in Fairyland. I'd love to go." "Hee-haw! You deserve punishment, rather than reward, for giving me this dreadful head," said the shaggy man, sorrowfully. "I wish you wouldn't say 'hee-haw' so much," Polychrome begged him; "it makes cold chills run down my back." "But I can't help it, my dear; my donkey head wants to bray continually," he replied. "Doesn't your fox head want to yelp every minute?" he asked Button-Bright. "Don't know," said the boy, still staring at the shaggy man's ears. These seemed to interest him greatly, and the sight also made him forget his own fox head, which was a comfort. "What do you think, Polly? Shall I promise the donkey king an invitation to Ozma's party?" asked Dorothy of the Rainbow's Daughter, who was flitting about the room like a sunbeam because she could never keep still. "Do as you please, dear," answered Polychrome. "He might help to amuse the guests of the Princess." "Then, if you will give us some supper and a place to sleep to-night, and let us get started on our journey early to-morrow morning," said Dorothy to the King, "I'll ask Ozma to invite you--if I happen to get to Oz." "Good! Hee-haw! Excellent!" cried Kik-a-bray, much pleased. "You shall all have fine suppers and good beds. What food would you prefer, a bran mash or ripe oats in the shell?" "Neither one," replied Dorothy, promptly. "Perhaps plain hay, or some sweet juicy grass would suit you better," suggested Kik-a-bray, musingly. "Is that all you have to eat?" asked the girl. "What more do you desire?" "Well, you see we're not donkeys," she explained, "and so we're used to other food. The foxes gave us a nice supper in Foxville." "We'd like some dewdrops and mist-cakes," said Polychrome. "I'd prefer apples and a ham sandwich," declared the shaggy man, "for although I've a donkey head, I still have my own particular stomach." "I want pie," said Button-Bright. "I think some beefsteak and chocolate layer-cake would taste best," said Dorothy. "Hee-haw! I declare!" exclaimed the King. "It seems each one of you wants a different food. How queer all living creatures are, except donkeys!" "And donkeys like you are queerest of all," laughed Polychrome. "Well," decided the King, "I suppose my Magic Staff will produce the things you crave; if you are lacking in good taste it is not my fault." With this, he waved his staff with the jeweled ball, and before them instantly appeared a tea-table, set with linen and pretty dishes, and on the table were the very things each had wished for. Dorothy's beefsteak was smoking hot, and the shaggy man's apples were plump and rosy-cheeked. The King had not thought to provide chairs, so they all stood in their places around the table and ate with good appetite, being hungry. The Rainbow's Daughter found three tiny dewdrops on a crystal plate, and Button-Bright had a big slice of apple pie, which he devoured eagerly. Afterward the King called the brown donkey, which was his favorite servant, and bade it lead his guests to the vacant house where they were to pass the night. It had only one room and no furniture except beds of clean straw and a few mats of woven grasses; but our travelers were contented with these simple things because they realized it was the best the Donkey-King had to offer them. As soon as it was dark they lay down on the mats and slept comfortably until morning. At daybreak there was a dreadful noise throughout the city. Every donkey in the place brayed. When he heard this the shaggy man woke up and called out "Hee-haw!" as loud as he could. "Stop that!" said Button-Bright, in a cross voice. Both Dorothy and Polly looked at the shaggy man reproachfully. "I couldn't help it, my dears," he said, as if ashamed of his bray; "but I'll try not to do it again." Of coursed they forgave him, for as he still had the Love Magnet in his pocket they were all obliged to love him as much as ever. They did not see the King again, but Kik-a-bray remembered them; for a table appeared again in their room with the same food upon it as on the night before. "Don't want pie for breakfus'," said Button-Bright. "I'll give you some of my beefsteak," proposed Dorothy; "there's plenty for us all." That suited the boy better, but the shaggy man said he was content with his apples and sandwiches, although he ended the meal by eating Button-Bright's pie. Polly liked her dewdrops and mist-cakes better than any other food, so they all enjoyed an excellent breakfast. Toto had the scraps left from the beefsteak, and he stood up nicely on his hind legs while Dorothy fed them to him. Breakfast ended, they passed through the village to the side opposite that by which they had entered, the brown servant-donkey guiding them through the maze of scattered houses. There was the road again, leading far away into the unknown country beyond. "King Kik-a-bray says you must not forget his invitation," said the brown donkey, as they passed through the opening in the wall. "I shan't," promised Dorothy. Perhaps no one ever beheld a more strangely assorted group than the one which now walked along the road, through pretty green fields and past groves of feathery pepper-trees and fragrant mimosa. Polychrome, her beautiful gauzy robes floating around her like a rainbow cloud, went first, dancing back and forth and darting now here to pluck a wild-flower or there to watch a beetle crawl across the path. Toto ran after her at times, barking joyously the while, only to become sober again and trot along at Dorothy's heels. The little Kansas girl walked holding Button-Bright's hand clasped in her own, and the wee boy with his fox head covered by the sailor hat presented an odd appearance. Strangest of all, perhaps, was the shaggy man, with his shaggy donkey head, who shuffled along in the rear with his hands thrust deep in his big pockets. None of the party was really unhappy. All were straying in an unknown land and had suffered more or less annoyance and discomfort; but they realized they were having a fairy adventure in a fairy country, and were much interested in finding out what would happen next. 8. The Musicker About the middle of the forenoon they began to go up a long hill. By-and-by this hill suddenly dropped down into a pretty valley, where the travelers saw, to their surprise, a small house standing by the road-side. It was the first house they had seen, and they hastened into the valley to discover who lived there. No one was in sight as they approached, but when they began to get nearer the house they heard queer sounds coming from it. They could not make these out at first, but as they became louder our friends thought they heard a sort of music like that made by a wheezy hand-organ; the music fell upon their ears in this way: Tiddle-widdle-iddle oom pom-pom! Oom, pom-pom! oom, pom-pom! Tiddle-tiddle-tiddle oom pom-pom! Oom, pom-pom--pah! "What is it, a band or a mouth-organ?" asked Dorothy. "Don't know," said Button-Bright. "Sounds to me like a played-out phonograph," said the shaggy man, lifting his enormous ears to listen. "Oh, there just COULDN'T be a funnygraf in Fairyland!" cried Dorothy. "It's rather pretty, isn't it?" asked Polychrome, trying to dance to the strains. Tiddle-widdle-iddle, oom pom-pom, Oom pom-pom; oom pom-pom! came the music to their ears, more distinctly as they drew nearer the house. Presently, they saw a little fat man sitting on a bench before the door. He wore a red, braided jacket that reached to his waist, a blue waistcoat, and white trousers with gold stripes down the sides. On his bald head was perched a little, round, red cap held in place by a rubber elastic underneath his chin. His face was round, his eyes a faded blue, and he wore white cotton gloves. The man leaned on a stout gold-headed cane, bending forward on his seat to watch his visitors approach. Singularly enough, the musical sounds they had heard seemed to come from the inside of the fat man himself; for he was playing no instrument nor was any to be seen near him. They came up and stood in a row, staring at him, and he stared back while the queer sounds came from him as before: Tiddle-iddle-iddle, oom pom-pom, Oom, pom-pom; oom pom-pom! Tiddle-widdle-iddle, oom pom-pom, Oom, pom-pom--pah! "Why, he's a reg'lar musicker!" said Button-Bright. "What's a musicker?" asked Dorothy. "Him!" said the boy. Hearing this, the fat man sat up a little stiffer than before, as if he had received a compliment, and still came the sounds: Tiddle-widdle-iddle, oom pom-pom, Oom pom-pom, oom-- "Stop it!" cried the shaggy man, earnestly. "Stop that dreadful noise." The fat man looked at him sadly and began his reply. When he spoke the music changed and the words seemed to accompany the notes. He said--or rather sang: It isn't a noise that you hear, But Music, harmonic and clear. My breath makes me play Like an organ, all day-- That bass note is in my left ear. "How funny!" exclaimed Dorothy; "he says his breath makes the music." "That's all nonsense," declared the shaggy man; but now the music began again, and they all listened carefully. My lungs are full of reeds like those In organs, therefore I suppose, If I breathe in or out my nose, The reeds are bound to play. So as I breathe to live, you know, I squeeze out music as I go; I'm very sorry this is so-- Forgive my piping, pray! "Poor man," said Polychrome; "he can't help it. What a great misfortune it is!" "Yes," replied the shaggy man; "we are only obliged to hear this music a short time, until we leave him and go away; but the poor fellow must listen to himself as long as he lives, and that is enough to drive him crazy. Don't you think so?" "Don't know," said Button-Bright. Toto said, "Bow-wow!" and the others laughed. "Perhaps that's why he lives all alone," suggested Dorothy. "Yes; if he had neighbors, they might do him an injury," responded the shaggy man. All this while the little fat musicker was breathing the notes: Tiddle-tiddle-iddle, oom, pom-pom, and they had to speak loud in order to hear themselves. The shaggy man said: "Who are you, sir?" The reply came in the shape of this sing-song: I'm Allegro da Capo, a very famous man; Just find another, high or low, to match me if you can. Some people try, but can't, to play And have to practice every day; But I've been musical always, since first my life began. "Why, I b'lieve he's proud of it," exclaimed Dorothy; "and seems to me I've heard worse music than he makes." "Where?" asked Button-Bright. "I've forgotten, just now. But Mr. Da Capo is certainly a strange person--isn't he?--and p'r'aps he's the only one of his kind in all the world." This praise seemed to please the little fat musicker, for he swelled out his chest, looked important and sang as follows: I wear no band around me, And yet I am a band! I do not strain to make my strains But, on the other hand, My toot is always destitute Of flats or other errors; To see sharp and be natural are For me but minor terrors. "I don't quite understand that," said Polychrome, with a puzzled look; "but perhaps it's because I'm accustomed only to the music of the spheres." "What's that?" asked Button-Bright. "Oh, Polly means the atmosphere and hemisphere, I s'pose," explained Dorothy. "Oh," said Button-Bright. "Bow-wow!" said Toto. But the musicker was still breathing his constant Oom, pom-pom; Oom pom-pom-- and it seemed to jar on the shaggy man's nerves. "Stop it, can't you?" he cried angrily; "or breathe in a whisper; or put a clothes-pin on your nose. Do something, anyhow!" But the fat one, with a sad look, sang this answer: Music hath charms, and it may Soothe even the savage, they say; So if savage you feel Just list to my reel, For sooth to say that's the real way. The shaggy man had to laugh at this, and when he laughed he stretched his donkey mouth wide open. Said Dorothy: "I don't know how good his poetry is, but it seems to fit the notes, so that's all that can be 'xpected." "I like it," said Button-Bright, who was staring hard at the musicker, his little legs spread wide apart. To the surprise of his companions, the boy asked this long question: "If I swallowed a mouth-organ, what would I be?" "An organette," said the shaggy man. "But come, my dears; I think the best thing we can do is to continue on our journey before Button-Bright swallows anything. We must try to find that Land of Oz, you know." Hearing this speech the musicker sang, quickly: If you go to the Land of Oz Please take me along, because On Ozma's birthday I'm anxious to play The loveliest song ever was. "No thank you," said Dorothy; "we prefer to travel alone. But if I see Ozma I'll tell her you want to come to her birthday party." "Let's be going," urged the shaggy man, anxiously. Polly was already dancing along the road, far in advance, and the others turned to follow her. Toto did not like the fat musicker and made a grab for his chubby leg. Dorothy quickly caught up the growling little dog and hurried after her companions, who were walking faster than usual in order to get out of hearing. They had to climb a hill, and until they got to the top they could not escape the musicker's monotonous piping: Oom, pom-pom; oom, pom-pom; Tiddle-iddle-widdle, oom, pom-pom; Oom, pom-pom--pah! As they passed the brow of the hill, however, and descended on the other side, the sounds gradually died away, whereat they all felt much relieved. "I'm glad I don't have to live with the organ-man; aren't you, Polly?" said Dorothy. "Yes indeed," answered the Rainbow's Daughter. "He's nice," declared Button-Bright, soberly. "I hope your Princess Ozma won't invite him to her birthday celebration," remarked the shaggy man; "for the fellow's music would drive her guests all crazy. You've given me an idea, Button-Bright; I believe the musicker must have swallowed an accordeon in his youth." "What's 'cordeon?" asked the boy. "It's a kind of pleating," explained Dorothy, putting down the dog. "Bow-wow!" said Toto, and ran away at a mad gallop to chase a bumble-bee. 9. Facing the Scoodlers The country wasn't so pretty now. Before the travelers appeared a rocky plain covered with hills on which grew nothing green. They were nearing some low mountains, too, and the road, which before had been smooth and pleasant to walk upon, grew rough and uneven. Button-Bright's little feet stumbled more than once, and Polychrome ceased her dancing because the walking was now so difficult that she had no trouble to keep warm. It had become afternoon, yet there wasn't a thing for their luncheon except two apples which the shaggy man had taken from the breakfast table. He divided these into four pieces and gave a portion to each of his companions. Dorothy and Button-Bright were glad to get theirs; but Polly was satisfied with a small bite, and Toto did not like apples. "Do you know," asked the Rainbow's Daughter, "if this is the right road to the Emerald City?" "No, I don't," replied Dorothy, "but it's the only road in this part of the country, so we may as well go to the end of it." "It looks now as if it might end pretty soon," remarked the shaggy man; "and what shall we do if it does?" "Don't know," said Button-Bright. "If I had my Magic Belt," replied Dorothy, thoughtfully, "it could do us a lot of good just now." "What is your Magic Belt?" asked Polychrome. "It's a thing I captured from the Nome King one day, and it can do 'most any wonderful thing. But I left it with Ozma, you know; 'cause magic won't work in Kansas, but only in fairy countries." "Is this a fairy country?" asked Button-Bright. "I should think you'd know," said the little girl, gravely. "If it wasn't a fairy country you couldn't have a fox head and the shaggy man couldn't have a donkey head, and the Rainbow's Daughter would be invis'ble." "What's that?" asked the boy. "You don't seem to know anything, Button-Bright. Invis'ble is a thing you can't see." "Then Toto's invis'ble," declared the boy, and Dorothy found he was right. Toto had disappeared from view, but they could hear him barking furiously among the heaps of grey rock ahead of them. They moved forward a little faster to see what the dog was barking at, and found perched upon a point of rock by the roadside a curious creature. It had the form of a man, middle-sized and rather slender and graceful; but as it sat silent and motionless upon the peak they could see that its face was black as ink, and it wore a black cloth costume made like a union suit and fitting tight to its skin. Its hands were black, too, and its toes curled down, like a bird's. The creature was black all over except its hair, which was fine, and yellow, banged in front across the black forehead and cut close at the sides. The eyes, which were fixed steadily upon the barking dog, were small and sparkling and looked like the eyes of a weasel. "What in the world do you s'pose that is?" asked Dorothy in a hushed voice, as the little group of travelers stood watching the strange creature. "Don't know," said Button-Bright. The thing gave a jump and turned half around, sitting in the same place but with the other side of its body facing them. Instead of being black, it was now pure white, with a face like that of a clown in a circus and hair of a brilliant purple. The creature could bend either way, and its white toes now curled the same way the black ones on the other side had done. "It has a face both front and back," whispered Dorothy, wonderingly; "only there's no back at all, but two fronts." Having made the turn, the being sat motionless as before, while Toto barked louder at the white man than he had done at the black one. "Once," said the shaggy man, "I had a jumping jack like that, with two faces." "Was it alive?" asked Button-Bright. "No," replied the shaggy man; "it worked on strings and was made of wood." "Wonder if this works with strings," said Dorothy; but Polychrome cried "Look!" for another creature just like the first had suddenly appeared sitting on another rock, its black side toward them. The two twisted their heads around and showed a black face on the white side of one and a white face on the black side of the other. "How curious," said Polychrome; "and how loose their heads seem to be! Are they friendly to us, do you think?" "Can't tell, Polly," replied Dorothy. "Let's ask 'em." The creatures flopped first one way and then the other, showing black or white by turns; and now another joined them, appearing on another rock. Our friends had come to a little hollow in the hills, and the place where they now stood was surrounded by jagged peaks of rock, except where the road ran through. "Now there are four of them," said the shaggy man. "Five," declared Polychrome. "Six," said Dorothy. "Lots of 'em!" cried Button-Bright; and so there were--quite a row of the two-sided black and white creatures sitting on the rocks all around. Toto stopped barking and ran between Dorothy's feet, where he crouched down as if afraid. The creatures did not look pleasant or friendly, to be sure, and the shaggy man's donkey face became solemn, indeed. "Ask 'em who they are, and what they want," whispered Dorothy; so the shaggy man called out in a loud voice: "Who are you?" "Scoodlers!" they yelled in chorus, their voices sharp and shrill. "What do you want?" called the shaggy man. "You!" they yelled, pointing their thin fingers at the group; and they all flopped around, so they were white, and then all flopped back again, so they were black. "But what do you want us for?" asked the shaggy man, uneasily. "Soup!" they all shouted, as if with one voice. "Goodness me!" said Dorothy, trembling a little; "the Scoodlers must be reg'lar cannibals." "Don't want to be soup," protested Button-Bright, beginning to cry. "Hush, dear," said the little girl, trying to comfort him; "we don't any of us want to be soup. But don't worry; the shaggy man will take care of us." "Will he?" asked Polychrome, who did not like the Scoodlers at all, and kept close to Dorothy. "I'll try," promised the shaggy man; but he looked worried. Happening just then to feel the Love Magnet in his pocket, he said to the creatures, with more confidence: "Don't you love me?" "Yes!" they shouted, all together. "Then you mustn't harm me, or my friends," said the shaggy man, firmly. "We love you in soup!" they yelled, and in a flash turned their white sides to the front. "How dreadful!" said Dorothy. "This is a time, Shaggy Man, when you get loved too much." "Don't want to be soup!" wailed Button-Bright again; and Toto began to whine dismally, as if he didn't want to be soup, either. "The only thing to do," said the shaggy man to his friends, in a low tone, "is to get out of this pocket in the rocks as soon as we can, and leave the Scoodlers behind us. Follow me, my dears, and don't pay any attention to what they do or say." With this, he began to march along the road to the opening in the rocks ahead, and the others kept close behind him. But the Scoodlers closed up in front, as if to bar their way, and so the shaggy man stooped down and picked up a loose stone, which he threw at the creatures to scare them from the path. At this the Scoodlers raised a howl. Two of them picked their heads from their shoulders and hurled them at the shaggy man with such force that he fell over in a heap, greatly astonished. The two now ran forward with swift leaps, caught up their heads, and put them on again, after which they sprang back to their positions on the rocks. 10. Escaping the Soup-Kettle The shaggy man got up and felt of himself to see if he was hurt; but he was not. One of the heads had struck his breast and the other his left shoulder; yet though they had knocked him down, the heads were not hard enough to bruise him. "Come on," he said firmly; "we've got to get out of here some way," and forward he started again. The Scoodlers began yelling and throwing their heads in great numbers at our frightened friends. The shaggy man was knocked over again, and so was Button-Bright, who kicked his heels against the ground and howled as loud as he could, although he was not hurt a bit. One head struck Toto, who first yelped and then grabbed the head by an ear and started running away with it. The Scoodlers who had thrown their heads began to scramble down and run to pick them up, with wonderful quickness; but the one whose head Toto had stolen found it hard to get it back again. The head couldn't see the body with either pair of its eyes, because the dog was in the way, so the headless Scoodler stumbled around over the rocks and tripped on them more than once in its effort to regain its top. Toto was trying to get outside the rocks and roll the head down the hill; but some of the other Scoodlers came to the rescue of their unfortunate comrade and pelted the dog with their own heads until he was obliged to drop his burden and hurry back to Dorothy. The little girl and the Rainbow's Daughter had both escaped the shower of heads, but they saw now that it would be useless to try to run away from the dreadful Scoodlers. "We may as well submit," declared the shaggy man, in a rueful voice, as he got upon his feet again. He turned toward their foes and asked: "What do you want us to do?" "Come!" they cried, in a triumphant chorus, and at once sprang from the rocks and surrounded their captives on all sides. One funny thing about the Scoodlers was they could walk in either direction, coming or going, without turning around; because they had two faces and, as Dorothy said, "two front sides," and their feet were shaped like the letter T upside down. They moved with great rapidity and there was something about their glittering eyes and contrasting colors and removable heads that inspired the poor prisoners with horror, and made them long to escape. But the creatures led their captives away from the rocks and the road, down the hill by a side path until they came before a low mountain of rock that looked like a huge bowl turned upside down. At the edge of this mountain was a deep gulf--so deep that when you looked into it there was nothing but blackness below. Across the gulf was a narrow bridge of rock, and at the other end of the bridge was an arched opening that led into the mountain. Over this bridge the Scoodlers led their prisoners, through the opening into the mountain, which they found to be an immense hollow dome lighted by several holes in the roof. All around the circular space were built rock houses, set close together, each with a door in the front wall. None of these houses was more than six feet wide, but the Scoodlers were thin people sidewise and did not need much room. So vast was the dome that there was a large space in the middle of the cave, in front of all these houses, where the creatures might congregate as in a great hall. It made Dorothy shudder to see a huge iron kettle suspended by a stout chain in the middle of the place, and underneath the kettle a great heap of kindling wood and shavings, ready to light. "What's that?" asked the shaggy man, drawing back as they approached this place, so that they were forced to push him forward. "The Soup Kettle!" yelled the Scoodlers, and then they shouted in the next breath: "We're hungry!" Button-Bright, holding Dorothy's hand in one chubby fist and Polly's hand in the other, was so affected by this shout that he began to cry again, repeating the protest: "Don't want to be soup, I don't!" "Never mind," said the shaggy man, consolingly; "I ought to make enough soup to feed them all, I'm so big; so I'll ask them to put me in the kettle first." "All right," said Button-Bright, more cheerfully. But the Scoodlers were not ready to make soup yet. They led the captives into a house at the farthest side of the cave--a house somewhat wider than the others. "Who lives here?" asked the Rainbow's Daughter. The Scoodlers nearest her replied: "The Queen." It made Dorothy hopeful to learn that a woman ruled over these fierce creatures, but a moment later they were ushered by two or three of the escort into a gloomy, bare room--and her hope died away. For the Queen of the Scoodlers proved to be much more dreadful in appearance than any of her people. One side of her was fiery red, with jet-black hair and green eyes and the other side of her was bright yellow, with crimson hair and black eyes. She wore a short skirt of red and yellow and her hair, instead of being banged, was a tangle of short curls upon which rested a circular crown of silver--much dented and twisted because the Queen had thrown her head at so many things so many times. Her form was lean and bony and both her faces were deeply wrinkled. "What have we here?" asked the Queen sharply, as our friends were made to stand before her. "Soup!" cried the guard of Scoodlers, speaking together. "We're not!" said Dorothy, indignantly; "we're nothing of the sort." "Ah, but you will be soon," retorted the Queen, a grim smile making her look more dreadful than before. "Pardon me, most beautiful vision," said the shaggy man, bowing before the queen politely. "I must request your Serene Highness to let us go our way without being made into soup. For I own the Love Magnet, and whoever meets me must love me and all my friends." "True," replied the Queen. "We love you very much; so much that we intend to eat your broth with real pleasure. But tell me, do you think I am so beautiful?" "You won't be at all beautiful if you eat me," he said, shaking his head sadly. "Handsome is as handsome does, you know." The Queen turned to Button-Bright. "Do YOU think I'm beautiful?" she asked. "No," said the boy; "you're ugly." "I think you're a fright," said Dorothy. "If you could see yourself you'd be terribly scared," added Polly. The Queen scowled at them and flopped from her red side to her yellow side. "Take them away," she commanded the guard, "and at six o'clock run them through the meat chopper and start the soup kettle boiling. And put plenty of salt in the broth this time, or I'll punish the cooks severely." "Any onions, your Majesty?" asked one of the guard. "Plenty of onions and garlic and a dash of red pepper. Now, go!" The Scoodlers led the captives away and shut them up in one of the houses, leaving only a single Scoodler to keep guard. The place was a sort of store-house; containing bags of potatoes and baskets of carrots, onions and turnips. "These," said their guard, pointing to the vegetables, "we use to flavor our soups with." The prisoners were rather disheartened by this time, for they saw no way to escape and did not know how soon it would be six o'clock and time for the meatchopper to begin work. But the shaggy man was brave and did not intend to submit to such a horrid fate without a struggle. "I'm going to fight for our lives," he whispered to the children, "for if I fail we will be no worse off than before, and to sit here quietly until we are made into soup would be foolish and cowardly." The Scoodler on guard stood near the doorway, turning first his white side toward them and then his black side, as if he wanted to show to all of his greedy four eyes the sight of so many fat prisoners. The captives sat in a sorrowful group at the other end of the room--except Polychrome, who danced back and forth in the little place to keep herself warm, for she felt the chill of the cave. Whenever she approached the shaggy man he would whisper something in her ear, and Polly would nod her pretty head as if she understood. The shaggy man told Dorothy and Button-Bright to stand before him while he emptied the potatoes out of one of the sacks. When this had been secretly done, little Polychrome, dancing near to the guard, suddenly reached out her hand and slapped his face, the next instant whirling away from him quickly to rejoin her friends. The angry Scoodler at once picked off his head and hurled it at the Rainbow's Daughter; but the shaggy man was expecting that, and caught the head very neatly, putting it in the sack, which he tied at the mouth. The body of the guard, not having the eyes of its head to guide it, ran here and there in an aimless manner, and the shaggy man easily dodged it and opened the door. Fortunately, there was no one in the big cave at that moment, so he told Dorothy and Polly to run as fast as they could for the entrance, and out across the narrow bridge. "I'll carry Button-Bright," he said, for he knew the little boy's legs were too short to run fast. Dorothy picked up Toto and then seized Polly's hand and ran swiftly toward the entrance to the cave. The shaggy man perched Button-Bright on his shoulders and ran after them. They moved so quickly and their escape was so wholly unexpected that they had almost reached the bridge when one of the Scoodlers looked out of his house and saw them. The creature raised a shrill cry that brought all of its fellows bounding out of the numerous doors, and at once they started in chase. Dorothy and Polly had reached the bridge and crossed it when the Scoodlers began throwing their heads. One of the queer missiles struck the shaggy man on his back and nearly knocked him over; but he was at the mouth of the cave now, so he set down Button-Bright and told the boy to run across the bridge to Dorothy. Then the shaggy man turned around and faced his enemies, standing just outside the opening, and as fast as they threw their heads at him he caught them and tossed them into the black gulf below. The headless bodies of the foremost Scoodlers kept the others from running close up, but they also threw their heads in an effort to stop the escaping prisoners. The shaggy man caught them all and sent them whirling down into the black gulf. Among them he noticed the crimson and yellow head of the Queen, and this he tossed after the others with right good will. Presently every Scoodler of the lot had thrown its head, and every head was down in the deep gulf, and now the helpless bodies of the creatures were mixed together in the cave and wriggling around in a vain attempt to discover what had become of their heads. The shaggy man laughed and walked across the bridge to rejoin his companions. "It's lucky I learned to play base-ball when I was young," he remarked, "for I caught all those heads easily and never missed one. But come along, little ones; the Scoodlers will never bother us or anyone else any more." Button-Bright was still frightened and kept insisting, "I don't want to be soup!" for the victory had been gained so suddenly that the boy could not realize they were free and safe. But the shaggy man assured him that all danger of their being made into soup was now past, as the Scoodlers would be unable to eat soup for some time to come. So now, anxious to get away from the horrid gloomy cave as soon as possible, they hastened up the hillside and regained the road just beyond the place where they had first met the Scoodlers; and you may be sure they were glad to find their feet on the old familiar path again. 11. Johnny Dooit Does It "It's getting awful rough walking," said Dorothy, as they trudged along. Button-Bright gave a deep sigh and said he was hungry. Indeed, all were hungry, and thirsty, too; for they had eaten nothing but the apples since breakfast; so their steps lagged and they grew silent and weary. At last they slowly passed over the crest of a barren hill and saw before them a line of green trees with a strip of grass at their feet. An agreeable fragrance was wafted toward them. Our travelers, hot and tired, ran forward on beholding this refreshing sight and were not long in coming to the trees. Here they found a spring of pure bubbling water, around which the grass was full of wild strawberry plants, their pretty red berries ripe and ready to eat. Some of the trees bore yellow oranges and some russet pears, so the hungry adventurers suddenly found themselves provided with plenty to eat and to drink. They lost no time in picking the biggest strawberries and ripest oranges and soon had feasted to their hearts' content. Walking beyond the line of trees they saw before them a fearful, dismal desert, everywhere gray sand. At the edge of this awful waste was a large, white sign with black letters neatly painted upon it and the letters made these words: ALL PERSONS ARE WARNED NOT TO VENTURE UPON THIS DESERT For the Deadly Sands will Turn Any Living Flesh to Dust in an instant. Beyond This Barrier is the LAND OF OZ But no one can Reach that Beautiful Country because of these Destroying Sands "Oh," said Dorothy, when the shaggy man had read the sign aloud; "I've seen this desert before, and it's true no one can live who tries to walk upon the sands." "Then we musn't try it," answered the shaggy man thoughtfully. "But as we can't go ahead and there's no use going back, what shall we do next?" "Don't know," said Button-Bright. "I'm sure I don't know, either," added Dorothy, despondently. "I wish father would come for me," sighed the pretty Rainbow's Daughter, "I would take you all to live upon the rainbow, where you could dance along its rays from morning till night, without a care or worry of any sort. But I suppose father's too busy just now to search the world for me." "Don't want to dance," said Button-Bright, sitting down wearily upon the soft grass. "It's very good of you, Polly," said Dorothy; "but there are other things that would suit me better than dancing on rainbows. I'm 'fraid they'd be kind of soft an' squashy under foot, anyhow, although they're so pretty to look at." This didn't help to solve the problem, and they all fell silent and looked at one another questioningly. "Really, I don't know what to do," muttered the shaggy man, gazing hard at Toto; and the little dog wagged his tail and said "Bow-wow!" just as if he could not tell, either, what to do. Button-Bright got a stick and began to dig in the earth, and the others watched him for a while in deep thought. Finally, the shaggy man said: "It's nearly evening, now; so we may as well sleep in this pretty place and get rested; perhaps by morning we can decide what is best to be done." There was little chance to make beds for the children, but the leaves of the trees grew thickly and would serve to keep off the night dews, so the shaggy man piled soft grasses in the thickest shade and when it was dark they lay down and slept peacefully until morning. Long after the others were asleep, however, the shaggy man sat in the starlight by the spring, gazing thoughtfully into its bubbling waters. Suddenly he smiled and nodded to himself as if he had found a good thought, after which he, too, laid himself down under a tree and was soon lost in slumber. In the bright morning sunshine, as they ate of the strawberries and sweet juicy pears, Dorothy said: "Polly, can you do any magic?" "No dear," answered Polychrome, shaking her dainty head. "You ought to know SOME magic, being the Rainbow's Daughter," continued Dorothy, earnestly. "But we who live on the rainbow among the fleecy clouds have no use for magic," replied Polychrome. "What I'd like," said Dorothy, "is to find some way to cross the desert to the Land of Oz and its Emerald City. I've crossed it already, you know, more than once. First a cyclone carried my house over, and some Silver Shoes brought me back again--in half a second. Then Ozma took me over on her Magic Carpet, and the Nome King's Magic Belt took me home that time. You see it was magic that did it every time 'cept the first, and we can't 'spect a cyclone to happen along and take us to the Emerald City now." "No indeed," returned Polly, with a shudder, "I hate cyclones, anyway." "That's why I wanted to find out if you could do any magic," said the little Kansas girl. "I'm sure I can't; and I'm sure Button-Bright can't; and the only magic the shaggy man has is the Love Magnet, which won't help us much." "Don't be too sure of that, my dear," spoke the shaggy man, a smile on his donkey face. "I may not be able to do magic myself, but I can call to us a powerful friend who loves me because I own the Love Magnet, and this friend surely will be able to help us." "Who is your friend?" asked Dorothy. "Johnny Dooit." "What can Johnny do?" "Anything," answered the shaggy man, with confidence. "Ask him to come," she exclaimed, eagerly. The shaggy man took the Love Magnet from his pocket and unwrapped the paper that surrounded it. Holding the charm in the palm of his hand he looked at it steadily and said these words: "Dear Johnny Dooit, come to me. I need you bad as bad can be." "Well, here I am," said a cheery little voice; "but you shouldn't say you need me bad, 'cause I'm always, ALWAYS, good." At this they quickly whirled around to find a funny little man sitting on a big copper chest, puffing smoke from a long pipe. His hair was grey, his whiskers were grey; and these whiskers were so long that he had wound the ends of them around his waist and tied them in a hard knot underneath the leather apron that reached from his chin nearly to his feet, and which was soiled and scratched as if it had been used a long time. His nose was broad, and stuck up a little; but his eyes were twinkling and merry. The little man's hands and arms were as hard and tough as the leather in his apron, and Dorothy thought Johnny Dooit looked as if he had done a lot of hard work in his lifetime. "Good morning, Johnny," said the shaggy man. "Thank you for coming to me so quickly." "I never waste time," said the newcomer, promptly. "But what's happened to you? Where did you get that donkey head? Really, I wouldn't have known you at all, Shaggy Man, if I hadn't looked at your feet." The shaggy man introduced Johnny Dooit to Dorothy and Toto and Button-Bright and the Rainbow's Daughter, and told him the story of their adventures, adding that they were anxious now to reach the Emerald City in the Land of Oz, where Dorothy had friends who would take care of them and send them safe home again. "But," said he, "we find that we can't cross this desert, which turns all living flesh that touches it into dust; so I have asked you to come and help us." Johnny Dooit puffed his pipe and looked carefully at the dreadful desert in front of them--stretching so far away they could not see its end. "You must ride," he said, briskly. "What in?" asked the shaggy man. "In a sand-boat, which has runners like a sled and sails like a ship. The wind will blow you swiftly across the desert and the sand cannot touch your flesh to turn it into dust." "Good!" cried Dorothy, clapping her hands delightedly. "That was the way the Magic Carpet took us across. We didn't have to touch the horrid sand at all." "But where is the sand-boat?" asked the shaggy man, looking all around him. "I'll make you one," said Johnny Dooit. As he spoke, he knocked the ashes from his pipe and put it in his pocket. Then he unlocked the copper chest and lifted the lid, and Dorothy saw it was full of shining tools of all sorts and shapes. Johnny Dooit moved quickly now--so quickly that they were astonished at the work he was able to accomplish. He had in his chest a tool for everything he wanted to do, and these must have been magic tools because they did their work so fast and so well. The man hummed a little song as he worked, and Dorothy tried to listen to it. She thought the words were something like these: The only way to do a thing Is do it when you can, And do it cheerfully, and sing And work and think and plan. The only real unhappy one Is he who dares to shirk; The only really happy one Is he who cares to work. Whatever Johnny Dooit was singing he was certainly doing things, and they all stood by and watched him in amazement. He seized an axe and in a couple of chops felled a tree. Next he took a saw and in a few minutes sawed the tree-trunk into broad, long boards. He then nailed the boards together into the shape of a boat, about twelve feet long and four feet wide. He cut from another tree a long, slender pole which, when trimmed of its branches and fastened upright in the center of the boat, served as a mast. From the chest he drew a coil of rope and a big bundle of canvas, and with these--still humming his song--he rigged up a sail, arranging it so it could be raised or lowered upon the mast. Dorothy fairly gasped with wonder to see the thing grow so speedily before her eyes, and both Button-Bright and Polly looked on with the same absorbed interest. "It ought to be painted," said Johnny Dooit, tossing his tools back into the chest, "for that would make it look prettier. But 'though I can paint it for you in three seconds it would take an hour to dry, and that's a waste of time." "We don't care how it looks," said the shaggy man, "if only it will take us across the desert." "It will do that," declared Johnny Dooit. "All you need worry about is tipping over. Did you ever sail a ship?" "I've seen one sailed," said the shaggy man. "Good. Sail this boat the way you've seen a ship sailed, and you'll be across the sands before you know it." With this he slammed down the lid of the chest, and the noise made them all wink. While they were winking the workman disappeared, tools and all. 12. The Deadly Desert Crossed "Oh, that's too bad!" cried Dorothy; "I wanted to thank Johnny Dooit for all his kindness to us." "He hasn't time to listen to thanks," replied the shaggy man; "but I'm sure he knows we are grateful. I suppose he is already at work in some other part of the world." They now looked more carefully at the sand-boat, and saw that the bottom was modeled with two sharp runners which would glide through the sand. The front of the sand-boat was pointed like the bow of a ship, and there was a rudder at the stern to steer by. It had been built just at the edge of the desert, so that all its length lay upon the gray sand except the after part, which still rested on the strip of grass. "Get in, my dears," said the shaggy man; "I'm sure I can manage this boat as well as any sailor. All you need do is sit still in your places." Dorothy got in, Toto in her arms, and sat on the bottom of the boat just in front of the mast. Button-Bright sat in front of Dorothy, while Polly leaned over the bow. The shaggy man knelt behind the mast. When all were ready he raised the sail half-way. The wind caught it. At once the sand-boat started forward--slowly at first, then with added speed. The shaggy man pulled the sail way up, and they flew so fast over the Deadly Desert that every one held fast to the sides of the boat and scarcely dared to breathe. The sand lay in billows, and was in places very uneven, so that the boat rocked dangerously from side to side; but it never quite tipped over, and the speed was so great that the shaggy man himself became frightened and began to wonder how he could make the ship go slower. "It we're spilled in this sand, in the middle of the desert," Dorothy thought to herself, "we'll be nothing but dust in a few minutes, and that will be the end of us." But they were not spilled, and by-and-by Polychrome, who was clinging to the bow and looking straight ahead, saw a dark line before them and wondered what it was. It grew plainer every second, until she discovered it to be a row of jagged rocks at the end of the desert, while high above these rocks she could see a tableland of green grass and beautiful trees. "Look out!" she screamed to the shaggy man. "Go slowly, or we shall smash into the rocks." He heard her, and tried to pull down the sail; but the wind would not let go of the broad canvas and the ropes had become tangled. Nearer and nearer they drew to the great rocks, and the shaggy man was in despair because he could do nothing to stop the wild rush of the sand-boat. They reached the edge of the desert and bumped squarely into the rocks. There was a crash as Dorothy, Button-Bright, Toto and Polly flew up in the air in a curve like a skyrocket's, one after another landing high upon the grass, where they rolled and tumbled for a time before they could stop themselves. The shaggy man flew after them, head first, and lighted in a heap beside Toto, who, being much excited at the time, seized one of the donkey ears between his teeth and shook and worried it as hard as he could, growling angrily. The shaggy man made the little dog let go, and sat up to look around him. Dorothy was feeling one of her front teeth, which was loosened by knocking against her knee as she fell. Polly was looking sorrowfully at a rent in her pretty gauze gown, and Button-Bright's fox head had stuck fast in a gopher hole and he was wiggling his little fat legs frantically in an effort to get free. Otherwise they were unhurt by the adventure; so the shaggy man stood up and pulled Button-Bright out of the hole and went to the edge of the desert to look at the sand-boat. It was a mere mass of splinters now, crushed out of shape against the rocks. The wind had torn away the sail and carried it to the top of a tall tree, where the fragments of it fluttered like a white flag. "Well," he said, cheerfully, "we're here; but where the here is I don't know." "It must be some part of the Land of Oz," observed Dorothy, coming to his side. "Must it?" "'Course it must. We're across the desert, aren't we? And somewhere in the middle of Oz is the Emerald City." "To be sure," said the shaggy man, nodding. "Let's go there." "But I don't see any people about, to show us the way," she continued. "Let's hunt for them," he suggested. "There must be people somewhere; but perhaps they did not expect us, and so are not at hand to give us a welcome." 13. The Truth Pond They now made a more careful examination of the country around them. All was fresh and beautiful after the sultriness of the desert, and the sunshine and sweet, crisp air were delightful to the wanderers. Little mounds of yellowish green were away at the right, while on the left waved a group of tall leafy trees bearing yellow blossoms that looked like tassels and pompoms. Among the grasses carpeting the ground were pretty buttercups and cowslips and marigolds. After looking at these a moment Dorothy said reflectively: "We must be in the Country of the Winkies, for the color of that country is yellow, and you will notice that 'most everything here is yellow that has any color at all." "But I thought this was the Land of Oz," replied the shaggy man, as if greatly disappointed. "So it is," she declared; "but there are four parts to the Land of Oz. The North Country is purple, and it's the Country of the Gillikins. The East Country is blue, and that's the Country of the Munchkins. Down at the South is the red Country of the Quadlings, and here, in the West, the yellow Country of the Winkies. This is the part that is ruled by the Tin Woodman, you know." "Who's he?" asked Button-Bright. "Why, he's the tin man I told you about. His name is Nick Chopper, and he has a lovely heart given him by the wonderful Wizard." "Where does HE live?" asked the boy. "The Wizard? Oh, he lives in the Emerald City, which is just in the middle of Oz, where the corners of the four countries meet." "Oh," said Button-Bright, puzzled by this explanation. "We must be some distance from the Emerald City," remarked the shaggy man. "That's true," she replied; "so we'd better start on and see if we can find any of the Winkies. They're nice people," she continued, as the little party began walking toward the group of trees, "and I came here once with my friends the Scarecrow, and the Tin Woodman, and the Cowardly Lion, to fight a wicked witch who had made all the Winkies her slaves." "Did you conquer her?" asked Polly. "Why, I melted her with a bucket of water, and that was the end of her," replied Dorothy. "After that the people were free, you know, and they made Nick Chopper--that's the Tin Woodman--their Emp'ror." "What's that?" asked Button-Bright. "Emp'ror? Oh, it's something like an alderman, I guess." "Oh," said the boy. "But I thought Princess Ozma ruled Oz," said the shaggy man. "So she does; she rules the Emerald City and all the four countries of Oz; but each country has another little ruler, not so big as Ozma. It's like the officers of an army, you see; the little rulers are all captains, and Ozma's the general." By this time they had reached the trees, which stood in a perfect circle and just far enough apart so that their thick branches touched--or "shook hands," as Button-Bright remarked. Under the shade of the trees they found, in the center of the circle, a crystal pool, its water as still as glass. It must have been deep, too, for when Polychrome bent over it she gave a little sigh of pleasure. "Why, it's a mirror!" she cried; for she could see all her pretty face and fluffy, rainbow-tinted gown reflected in the pool, as natural as life. Dorothy bent over, too, and began to arrange her hair, blown by the desert wind into straggling tangles. Button-Bright leaned over the edge next, and then began to cry, for the sight of his fox head frightened the poor little fellow. "I guess I won't look," remarked the shaggy man, sadly, for he didn't like his donkey head, either. While Polly and Dorothy tried to comfort Button-Bright, the shaggy man sat down near the edge of the pool, where his image could not be reflected, and stared at the water thoughtfully. As he did this he noticed a silver plate fastened to a rock just under the surface of the water, and on the silver plate was engraved these words: THE TRUTH POND "Ah!" cried the shaggy man, springing to his feet with eager joy; "we've found it at last." "Found what?" asked Dorothy, running to him. "The Truth Pond. Now, at last, I may get rid of this frightful head; for we were told, you remember, that only the Truth Pond could restore to me my proper face." "Me, too!" shouted Button-Bright, trotting up to them. "Of course," said Dorothy. "It will cure you both of your bad heads, I guess. Isn't it lucky we found it?" "It is, indeed," replied the shaggy man. "I hated dreadfully to go to Princess Ozma looking like this; and she's to have a birthday celebration, too." Just then a splash startled them, for Button-Bright, in his anxiety to see the pool that would "cure" him, had stepped too near the edge and tumbled heels over head into the water. Down he went, out of sight entirely, so that only his sailor hat floated on the top of the Truth Pond. He soon bobbed up, and the shaggy man seized him by his sailor collar and dragged him to the shore, dripping and gasping for breath. They all looked upon the boy wonderingly, for the fox head with its sharp nose and pointed ears was gone, and in its place appeared the chubby round face and blue eyes and pretty curls that had belonged to Button-Bright before King Dox of Foxville transformed him. "Oh, what a darling!" cried Polly, and would have hugged the little one had he not been so wet. Their joyful exclamations made the child rub the water out of his eyes and look at his friends questioningly. "You're all right now, dear," said Dorothy. "Come and look at yourself." She led him to the pool, and although there were still a few ripples on the surface of the water he could see his reflection plainly. "It's me!" he said, in a pleased yet awed whisper. "'Course it is," replied the girl, "and we're all as glad as you are, Button-Bright." "Well," announced the shaggy man, "it's my turn next." He took off his shaggy coat and laid it on the grass and dived head first into the Truth Pond. When he came up the donkey head had disappeared, and the shaggy man's own shaggy head was in its place, with the water dripping in little streams from his shaggy whiskers. He scrambled ashore and shook himself to get off some of the wet, and then leaned over the pool to look admiringly at his reflected face. "I may not be strictly beautiful, even now," he said to his companions, who watched him with smiling faces; "but I'm so much handsomer than any donkey that I feel as proud as I can be." "You're all right, Shaggy Man," declared Dorothy. "And Button-Bright is all right, too. So let's thank the Truth Pond for being so nice, and start on our journey to the Emerald City." "I hate to leave it," murmured the shaggy man, with a sigh. "A truth pond wouldn't be a bad thing to carry around with us." But he put on his coat and started with the others in search of some one to direct them on their way. 14. Tik-Tok and Billina They had not walked far across the flower-strewn meadows when they came upon a fine road leading toward the northwest and winding gracefully among the pretty yellow hills. "That way," said Dorothy, "must be the direction of the Emerald City. We'd better follow the road until we meet some one or come to a house." The sun soon dried Button-Bright's sailor suit and the shaggy man's shaggy clothes, and so pleased were they at regaining their own heads that they did not mind at all the brief discomfort of getting wet. "It's good to be able to whistle again," remarked the shaggy man, "for those donkey lips were so thick I could not whistle a note with them." He warbled a tune as merrily as any bird. "You'll look more natural at the birthday celebration, too," said Dorothy, happy in seeing her friends so happy. Polychrome was dancing ahead in her usual sprightly manner, whirling gaily along the smooth, level road, until she passed from sight around the curve of one of the mounds. Suddenly they heard her exclaim "Oh!" and she appeared again, running toward them at full speed. "What's the matter, Polly?" asked Dorothy, perplexed. There was no need for the Rainbow's Daughter to answer, for turning the bend in the road there came advancing slowly toward them a funny round man made of burnished copper, gleaming brightly in the sun. Perched on the copper man's shoulder sat a yellow hen, with fluffy feathers and a pearl necklace around her throat. "Oh, Tik-tok!" cried Dorothy, running forward. When she came to him, the copper man lifted the little girl in his copper arms and kissed her cheek with his copper lips. "Oh, Billina!" cried Dorothy, in a glad voice, and the yellow hen flew to her arms, to be hugged and petted by turns. The others were curiously crowding around the group, and the girl said to them: "It's Tik-tok and Billina; and oh! I'm so glad to see them again." "Wel-come to Oz," said the copper man in a monotonous voice. Dorothy sat right down in the road, the yellow hen in her arms, and began to stroke Billina's back. Said the hen: "Dorothy, dear, I've got some wonderful news to tell you." "Tell it quick, Billina!" said the girl. Just then Toto, who had been growling to himself in a cross way, gave a sharp bark and flew at the yellow hen, who ruffled her feathers and let out such an angry screech that Dorothy was startled. "Stop, Toto! Stop that this minute!" she commanded. "Can't you see that Billina is my friend?" In spite of this warning had she not grabbed Toto quickly by the neck the little dog would have done the yellow hen a mischief, and even now he struggled madly to escape Dorothy's grasp. She slapped his ears once or twice and told him to behave, and the yellow hen flew to Tik-tok's shoulder again, where she was safe. "What a brute!" croaked Billina, glaring down at the little dog. "Toto isn't a brute," replied Dorothy, "but at home Uncle Henry has to whip him sometimes for chasing the chickens. Now look here, Toto," she added, holding up her finger and speaking sternly to him, "you've got to understand that Billina is one of my dearest friends, and musn't be hurt--now or ever." Toto wagged his tail as if he understood. "The miserable thing can't talk," said Billina, with a sneer. "Yes, he can," replied Dorothy; "he talks with his tail, and I know everything he says. If you could wag your tail, Billina, you wouldn't need words to talk with." "Nonsense!" said Billina. "It isn't nonsense at all. Just now Toto says he's sorry, and that he'll try to love you for my sake. Don't you, Toto?" "Bow-wow!" said Toto, wagging his tail again. "But I've such wonderful news for you, Dorothy," cried the yellow hen; "I've--" "Wait a minute, dear," interrupted the little girl; "I've got to introduce you all, first. That's manners, Billina. This," turning to her traveling companions, "is Mr. Tik-tok, who works by machinery 'cause his thoughts wind up, and his talk winds up, and his action winds up--like a clock." "Do they all wind up together?" asked the shaggy man. "No; each one separate. But he works just lovely, and Tik-tok was a good friend to me once, and saved my life--and Billina's life, too." "Is he alive?" asked Button-Bright, looking hard at the copper man. "Oh, no, but his machinery makes him just as good as alive." She turned to the copper man and said politely: "Mr. Tik-tok, these are my new friends: the shaggy man, and Polly the Rainbow's Daughter, and Button-Bright, and Toto. Only Toto isn't a new friend, 'cause he's been to Oz before." The copper man bowed low, removing his copper hat as he did so. "I'm ve-ry pleased to meet Dor-o-thy's fr-r-r-r---" Here he stopped short. "Oh, I guess his speech needs winding!" said the little girl, running behind the copper man to get the key off a hook at his back. She wound him up at a place under his right arm and he went on to say: "Par-don me for run-ning down. I was a-bout to say I am pleased to meet Dor-o-thy's friends, who must be my friends." The words were somewhat jerky, but plain to understand. "And this is Billina," continued Dorothy, introducing the yellow hen, and they all bowed to her in turn. "I've such wonderful news," said the hen, turning her head so that one bright eye looked full at Dorothy. "What is it, dear?" asked the girl. "I've hatched out ten of the loveliest chicks you ever saw." "Oh, how nice! And where are they, Billina?" "I left them at home. But they're beauties, I assure you, and all wonderfully clever. I've named them Dorothy." "Which one?" asked the girl. "All of them," replied Billina. "That's funny. Why did you name them all with the same name?" "It was so hard to tell them apart," explained the hen. "Now, when I call 'Dorothy,' they all come running to me in a bunch; it's much easier, after all, than having a separate name for each." "I'm just dying to see 'em, Billina," said Dorothy, eagerly. "But tell me, my friends, how did you happen to be here, in the Country of the Winkies, the first of all to meet us?" "I'll tell you," answered Tik-tok, in his monotonous voice, all the sounds of his words being on one level--"Prin-cess Oz-ma saw you in her mag-ic pic-ture, and knew you were com-ing here; so she sent Bil-lin-a and me to wel-come you as she could not come her-self; so that--fiz-i-dig-le cum-so-lut-ing hy-ber-gob-ble in-tu-zib-ick--" "Good gracious! Whatever's the matter now?" cried Dorothy, as the copper man continued to babble these unmeaning words, which no one could understand at all because they had no sense. "Don't know," said Button-Bright, who was half scared. Polly whirled away to a distance and turned to look at the copper man in a fright. "His thoughts have run down, this time," remarked Billina composedly, as she sat on Tik-tok's shoulder and pruned her sleek feathers. "When he can't think, he can't talk properly, any more than you can. You'll have to wind up his thoughts, Dorothy, or else I'll have to finish his story myself." Dorothy ran around and got the key again and wound up Tik-tok under his left arm, after which he could speak plainly again. "Par-don me," he said, "but when my thoughts run down, my speech has no mean-ing, for words are formed on-ly by thought. I was a-bout to say that Oz-ma sent us to wel-come you and in-vite you to come straight to the Em-er-ald Ci-ty. She was too bus-y to come her-self, for she is pre-par-ing for her birth-day cel-e-bra-tion, which is to be a grand af-fair." "I've heard of it," said Dorothy, "and I'm glad we've come in time to attend. Is it far from here to the Emerald City?" "Not ve-ry far," answered Tik-tok, "and we have plen-ty of time. To-night we will stop at the pal-ace of the Tin Wood-man, and to-mor-row night we will ar-rive at the Em-er-ald Ci-ty." "Goody!" cried Dorothy. "I'd like to see dear Nick Chopper again. How's his heart?" "It's fine," said Billina; "the Tin Woodman says it gets softer and kindlier every day. He's waiting at his castle to welcome you, Dorothy; but he couldn't come with us because he's getting polished as bright as possible for Ozma's party." "Well then," said Dorothy, "let's start on, and we can talk more as we go." They proceeded on their journey in a friendly group, for Polychrome had discovered that the copper man was harmless and was no longer afraid of him. Button-Bright was also reassured, and took quite a fancy to Tik-tok. He wanted the clockwork man to open himself, so that he might see the wheels go round; but that was a thing Tik-tok could not do. Button-Bright then wanted to wind up the copper man, and Dorothy promised he should do so as soon as any part of the machinery ran down. This pleased Button-Bright, who held fast to one of Tik-tok's copper hands as he trudged along the road, while Dorothy walked on the other side of her old friend and Billina perched by turns upon his shoulder or his copper hat. Polly once more joyously danced ahead and Toto ran after her, barking with glee. The shaggy man was left to walk behind; but he didn't seem to mind that a bit, and whistled merrily or looked curiously upon the pretty scenes they passed. At last they came to a hilltop from which the tin castle of Nick Chopper could plainly be seen, its towers glistening magnificently under the rays of the declining sun. "How pretty!" exclaimed Dorothy. "I've never seen the Emp'ror's new house before." "He built it because the old castle was damp, and likely to rust his tin body," said Billina. "All those towers and steeples and domes and gables took a lot of tin, as you can see." "Is it a toy?" asked Button-Bright softly. "No, dear," answered Dorothy; "it's better than that. It's the fairy dwelling of a fairy prince." 15. The Emperor's Tin Castle The grounds around Nick Chopper's new house were laid out in pretty flower-beds, with fountains of crystal water and statues of tin representing the Emperor's personal friends. Dorothy was astonished and delighted to find a tin statue of herself standing on a tin pedestal at a bend in the avenue leading up to the entrance. It was life-size and showed her in her sunbonnet with her basket on her arm, just as she had first appeared in the Land of Oz. "Oh, Toto--you're there too!" she exclaimed; and sure enough there was the tin figure of Toto lying at the tin Dorothy's feet. Also, Dorothy saw figures of the Scarecrow, and the Wizard, and Ozma, and of many others, including Tik-tok. They reached the grand tin entrance to the tin castle, and the Tin Woodman himself came running out of the door to embrace little Dorothy and give her a glad welcome. He welcomed her friends as well, and the Rainbow's Daughter he declared to be the loveliest vision his tin eyes had ever beheld. He patted Button-Bright's curly head tenderly, for he was fond of children, and turned to the shaggy man and shook both his hands at the same time. Nick Chopper, the Emperor of the Winkies, who was also known throughout the Land of Oz as the Tin Woodman, was certainly a remarkable person. He was neatly made, all of tin, nicely soldered at the joints, and his various limbs were cleverly hinged to his body so that he could use them nearly as well as if they had been common flesh. Once, he told the shaggy man, he had been made all of flesh and bones, as other people are, and then he chopped wood in the forests to earn his living. But the axe slipped so often and cut off parts of him--which he had replaced with tin--that finally there was no flesh left, nothing but tin; so he became a real tin woodman. The wonderful Wizard of Oz had given him an excellent heart to replace his old one, and he didn't at all mind being tin. Every one loved him, he loved every one; and he was therefore as happy as the day was long. The Emperor was proud of his new tin castle, and showed his visitors through all the rooms. Every bit of the furniture was made of brightly polished tin--the tables, chairs, beds, and all--even the floors and walls were of tin. "I suppose," said he, "that there are no cleverer tinsmiths in all the world than the Winkies. It would be hard to match this castle in Kansas; wouldn't it, little Dorothy?" "Very hard," replied the child, gravely. "It must have cost a lot of money," remarked the shaggy man. "Money! Money in Oz!" cried the Tin Woodman. "What a queer idea! Did you suppose we are so vulgar as to use money here?" "Why not?" asked the shaggy man. "If we used money to buy things with, instead of love and kindness and the desire to please one another, then we should be no better than the rest of the world," declared the Tin Woodman. "Fortunately money is not known in the Land of Oz at all. We have no rich, and no poor; for what one wishes the others all try to give him, in order to make him happy, and no one in all Oz cares to have more than he can use." "Good!" cried the shaggy man, greatly pleased to hear this. "I also despise money--a man in Butterfield owes me fifteen cents, and I will not take it from him. The Land of Oz is surely the most favored land in all the world, and its people the happiest. I should like to live here always." The Tin Woodman listened with respectful attention. Already he loved the shaggy man, although he did not yet know of the Love Magnet. So he said: "If you can prove to the Princess Ozma that you are honest and true and worthy of our friendship, you may indeed live here all your days, and be as happy as we are." "I'll try to prove that," said the shaggy man, earnestly. "And now," continued the Emperor, "you must all go to your rooms and prepare for dinner, which will presently be served in the grand tin dining-hall. I am sorry, Shaggy Man, that I can not offer you a change of clothing; but I dress only in tin, myself, and I suppose that would not suit you." "I care little about dress," said the shaggy man, indifferently. "So I should imagine," replied the Emperor, with true politeness. They were shown to their rooms and permitted to make such toilets as they could, and soon they assembled again in the grand tin dining-hall, even Toto being present. For the Emperor was fond of Dorothy's little dog, and the girl explained to her friends that in Oz all animals were treated with as much consideration as the people--"if they behave themselves," she added. Toto behaved himself, and sat in a tin high-chair beside Dorothy and ate his dinner from a tin platter. Indeed, they all ate from tin dishes, but these were of pretty shapes and brightly polished; Dorothy thought they were just as good as silver. Button-Bright looked curiously at the man who had "no appetite inside him," for the Tin Woodman, although he had prepared so fine a feast for his guests, ate not a mouthful himself, sitting patiently in his place to see that all built so they could eat were well and plentifully served. What pleased Button-Bright most about the dinner was the tin orchestra that played sweet music while the company ate. The players were not tin, being just ordinary Winkies; but the instruments they played upon were all tin--tin trumpets, tin fiddles, tin drums and cymbals and flutes and horns and all. They played so nicely the "Shining Emperor Waltz," composed expressly in honor of the Tin Woodman by Mr. H. M. Wogglebug, T.E., that Polly could not resist dancing to it. After she had tasted a few dewdrops, freshly gathered for her, she danced gracefully to the music while the others finished their repast; and when she whirled until her fleecy draperies of rainbow hues enveloped her like a cloud, the Tin Woodman was so delighted that he clapped his tin hands until the noise of them drowned the sound of the cymbals. Altogether it was a merry meal, although Polychrome ate little and the host nothing at all. "I'm sorry the Rainbow's Daughter missed her mist-cakes," said the Tin Woodman to Dorothy; "but by a mistake Miss Polly's mist-cakes were mislaid and not missed until now. I'll try to have some for her breakfast." They spent the evening telling stories, and the next morning left the splendid tin castle and set out upon the road to the Emerald City. The Tin Woodman went with them, of course, having by this time been so brightly polished that he sparkled like silver. His axe, which he always carried with him, had a steel blade that was tin plated and a handle covered with tin plate beautifully engraved and set with diamonds. The Winkies assembled before the castle gates and cheered their Emperor as he marched away, and it was easy to see that they all loved him dearly. 16. Visiting the Pumpkin-Field Dorothy let Button-Bright wind up the clock-work in the copper man this morning--his thinking machine first, then his speech, and finally his action; so he would doubtless run perfectly until they had reached the Emerald City. The copper man and the tin man were good friends, and not so much alike as you might think. For one was alive and the other moved by means of machinery; one was tall and angular and the other short and round. You could love the Tin Woodman because he had a fine nature, kindly and simple; but the machine man you could only admire without loving, since to love such a thing as he was as impossible as to love a sewing-machine or an automobile. Yet Tik-tok was popular with the people of Oz because he was so trustworthy, reliable and true; he was sure to do exactly what he was wound up to do, at all times and in all circumstances. Perhaps it is better to be a machine that does its duty than a flesh-and-blood person who will not, for a dead truth is better than a live falsehood. About noon the travelers reached a large field of pumpkins--a vegetable quite appropriate to the yellow country of the Winkies--and some of the pumpkins which grew there were of remarkable size. Just before they entered upon this field they saw three little mounds that looked like graves, with a pretty headstone to each one of them. "What is this?" asked Dorothy, in wonder. "It's Jack Pumpkinhead's private graveyard," replied the Tin Woodman. "But I thought nobody ever died in Oz," she said. "Nor do they; although if one is bad, he may be condemned and killed by the good citizens," he answered. Dorothy ran over to the little graves and read the words engraved upon the tombstones. The first one said: Here Lies the Mortal Part of JACK PUMPKINHEAD Which Spoiled April 9th. She then went to the next stone, which read: Here Lies the Mortal Part of JACK PUMPKINHEAD Which Spoiled October 2nd. On the third stone were carved these words: Here Lies the Mortal Part of JACK PUMPKINHEAD Which Spoiled January 24th. "Poor Jack!" sighed Dorothy. "I'm sorry he had to die in three parts, for I hoped to see him again." "So you shall," declared the Tin Woodman, "since he is still alive. Come with me to his house, for Jack is now a farmer and lives in this very pumpkin field." They walked over to a monstrous big, hollow pumpkin which had a door and windows cut through the rind. There was a stovepipe running through the stem, and six steps had been built leading up to the front door. They walked up to this door and looked in. Seated on a bench was a man clothed in a spotted shirt, a red vest, and faded blue trousers, whose body was merely sticks of wood, jointed clumsily together. On his neck was set a round, yellow pumpkin, with a face carved on it such as a boy often carves on a jack-lantern. This queer man was engaged in snapping slippery pumpkin-seeds with his wooden fingers, trying to hit a target on the other side of the room with them. He did not know he had visitors until Dorothy exclaimed: "Why, it's Jack Pumpkinhead himself!" He turned and saw them, and at once came forward to greet the little Kansas girl and Nick Chopper, and to be introduced to their new friends. Button-Bright was at first rather shy with the quaint Pumpkinhead, but Jack's face was so jolly and smiling--being carved that way--that the boy soon grew to like him. "I thought a while ago that you were buried in three parts," said Dorothy, "but now I see you're just the same as ever." "Not quite the same, my dear, for my mouth is a little more one-sided than it used to be; but pretty nearly the same. I've a new head, and this is the fourth one I've owned since Ozma first made me and brought me to life by sprinkling me with the Magic Powder." "What became of the other heads, Jack?" "They spoiled and I buried them, for they were not even fit for pies. Each time Ozma has carved me a new head just like the old one, and as my body is by far the largest part of me, I am still Jack Pumpkinhead, no matter how often I change my upper end. Once we had a dreadful time to find another pumpkin, as they were out of season, and so I was obliged to wear my old head a little longer than was strictly healthy. But after this sad experience I resolved to raise pumpkins myself, so as never to be caught again without one handy; and now I have this fine field that you see before you. Some grow pretty big--too big to be used for heads--so I dug out this one and use it for a house." "Isn't it damp?" asked Dorothy. "Not very. There isn't much left but the shell, you see, and it will last a long time yet." "I think you are brighter than you used to be, Jack," said the Tin Woodman. "Your last head was a stupid one." "The seeds in this one are better," was the reply. "Are you going to Ozma's party?" asked Dorothy. "Yes," said he, "I wouldn't miss it for anything. Ozma's my parent, you know, because she built my body and carved my pumpkin head. I'll follow you to the Emerald City to-morrow, where we shall meet again. I can't go to-day, because I have to plant fresh pumpkin-seeds and water the young vines. But give my love to Ozma, and tell her I'll be there in time for the jubilation." "We will," she promised; and then they all left him and resumed their journey. 17. The Royal Chariot Arrives The neat yellow houses of the Winkies were now to be seen standing here and there along the roadway, giving the country a more cheerful and civilized look. They were farm-houses, though, and set far apart; for in the Land of Oz there were no towns or villages except the magnificent Emerald City in its center. Hedges of evergreen or of yellow roses bordered the broad highway and the farms showed the care of their industrious inhabitants. The nearer the travelers came to the great city the more prosperous the country became, and they crossed many bridges over the sparkling streams and rivulets that watered the lands. As they walked leisurely along the shaggy man said to the Tin Woodman: "What sort of a Magic Powder was it that made your friend the Pumpkinhead live?" "It was called the Powder of Life," was the answer; "and it was invented by a crooked Sorcerer who lived in the mountains of the North Country. A Witch named Mombi got some of this powder from the crooked Sorcerer and took it home with her. Ozma lived with the Witch then, for it was before she became our Princess, while Mombi had transformed her into the shape of a boy. Well, while Mombi was gone to the crooked Sorcerer's, the boy made this pumpkin-headed man to amuse himself, and also with the hope of frightening the Witch with it when she returned. But Mombi was not scared, and she sprinkled the Pumpkinhead with her Magic Powder of Life, to see if the Powder would work. Ozma was watching, and saw the Pumpkinhead come to life; so that night she took the pepper-box containing the Powder and ran away with it and with Jack, in search of adventures. "Next day they found a wooden Saw-Horse standing by the roadside, and sprinkled it with the Powder. It came to life at once, and Jack Pumpkinhead rode the Saw-Horse to the Emerald City." "What became of the Saw-Horse, afterward?" asked the shaggy man, much interested in this story. "Oh, it's alive yet, and you will probably meet it presently in the Emerald City. Afterward, Ozma used the last of the Powder to bring the Flying Gump to life; but as soon as it had carried her away from her enemies the Gump was taken apart, so it doesn't exist any more." "It's too bad the Powder of Life was all used up," remarked the shaggy man; "it would be a handy thing to have around." "I am not so sure of that, sir," answered the Tin Woodman. "A while ago the crooked Sorcerer who invented the Magic Powder fell down a precipice and was killed. All his possessions went to a relative--an old woman named Dyna, who lives in the Emerald City. She went to the mountains where the Sorcerer had lived and brought away everything she thought of value. Among them was a small bottle of the Powder of Life; but of course Dyna didn't know it was a Magic Powder, at all. It happened she had once had a big blue bear for a pet; but the bear choked to death on a fishbone one day, and she loved it so dearly that Dyna made a rug of its skin, leaving the head and four paws on the hide. She kept the rug on the floor of her front parlor." "I've seen rugs like that," said the shaggy man, nodding, "but never one made from a blue bear." "Well," continued the Tin Woodman, "the old woman had an idea that the Powder in the bottle must be moth-powder, because it smelled something like moth-powder; so one day she sprinkled it on her bear rug to keep the moths out of it. She said, looking lovingly at the skin: 'I wish my dear bear were alive again!' To her horror, the bear rug at once came to life, having been sprinkled with the Magic Powder; and now this live bear rug is a great trial to her, and makes her a lot of trouble." "Why?" asked the shaggy man. "Well, it stands up on its four feet and walks all around, and gets in the way; and that spoils it for a rug. It can't speak, although it is alive; for, while its head might say words, it has no breath in a solid body to push the words out of its mouth. It's a very slimpsy affair altogether, that bear rug, and the old woman is sorry it came to life. Every day she has to scold it, and make it lie down flat on the parlor floor to be walked upon; but sometimes when she goes to market the rug will hump up its back skin, and stand on its four feet, and trot along after her." "I should think Dyna would like that," said Dorothy. "Well, she doesn't; because every one knows it isn't a real bear, but just a hollow skin, and so of no actual use in the world except for a rug," answered the Tin Woodman. "Therefore I believe it is a good thing that all the Magic Powder of Life is now used up, as it can not cause any more trouble." "Perhaps you're right," said the shaggy man, thoughtfully. At noon they stopped at a farmhouse, where it delighted the farmer and his wife to be able to give them a good luncheon. The farm people knew Dorothy, having seen her when she was in the country before, and they treated the little girl with as much respect as they did the Emperor, because she was a friend of the powerful Princess Ozma. They had not proceeded far after leaving this farm-house before coming to a high bridge over a broad river. This river, the Tin Woodman informed them, was the boundary between the Country of the Winkies and the territory of the Emerald City. The city itself was still a long way off, but all around it was a green meadow as pretty as a well-kept lawn, and in this were neither houses nor farms to spoil the beauty of the scene. From the top of the high bridge they could see far away the magnificent spires and splendid domes of the superb city, sparkling like brilliant jewels as they towered above the emerald walls. The shaggy man drew a deep breath of awe and amazement, for never had he dreamed that such a grand and beautiful place could exist--even in the fairyland of Oz. Polly was so pleased that her violet eyes sparkled like amethysts, and she danced away from her companions across the bridge and into a group of feathery trees lining both the roadsides. These trees she stopped to look at with pleasure and surprise, for their leaves were shaped like ostrich plumes, their feather edges beautifully curled; and all the plumes were tinted in the same dainty rainbow hues that appeared in Polychrome's own pretty gauze gown. "Father ought to see these trees," she murmured; "they are almost as lovely as his own rainbows." Then she gave a start of terror, for beneath the trees came stalking two great beasts, either one big enough to crush the little Daughter of the Rainbow with one blow of his paws, or to eat her up with one snap of his enormous jaws. One was a tawny lion, as tall as a horse, nearly; the other a striped tiger almost the same size. Polly was too frightened to scream or to stir; she stood still with a wildly beating heart until Dorothy rushed past her and with a glad cry threw her arms around the huge lion's neck, hugging and kissing the beast with evident joy. "Oh, I'm SO glad to see you again!" cried the little Kansas girl. "And the Hungry Tiger, too! How fine you're both looking. Are you well and happy?" "We certainly are, Dorothy," answered the Lion, in a deep voice that sounded pleasant and kind; "and we are greatly pleased that you have come to Ozma's party. It's going to be a grand affair, I promise you." "There will be lots of fat babies at the celebration, I hear," remarked the Hungry Tiger, yawning so that his mouth opened dreadfully wide and showed all his big, sharp teeth; "but of course I can't eat any of 'em." "Is your Conscience still in good order?" asked Dorothy, anxiously. "Yes; it rules me like a tyrant," answered the Tiger, sorrowfully. "I can imagine nothing more unpleasant than to own a Conscience," and he winked slyly at his friend the Lion. "You're fooling me!" said Dorothy, with a laugh. "I don't b'lieve you'd eat a baby if you lost your Conscience. Come here, Polly," she called, "and be introduced to my friends." Polly advanced rather shyly. "You have some queer friends, Dorothy," she said. "The queerness doesn't matter so long as they're friends," was the answer. "This is the Cowardly Lion, who isn't a coward at all, but just thinks he is. The Wizard gave him some courage once, and he has part of it left." The Lion bowed with great dignity to Polly. "You are very lovely, my dear," said he. "I hope we shall be friends when we are better acquainted." "And this is the Hungry Tiger," continued Dorothy. "He says he longs to eat fat babies; but the truth is he is never hungry at all, 'cause he gets plenty to eat; and I don't s'pose he'd hurt anybody even if he WAS hungry." "Hush, Dorothy," whispered the Tiger; "you'll ruin my reputation if you are not more discreet. It isn't what we are, but what folks think we are, that counts in this world. And come to think of it Miss Polly would make a fine variegated breakfast, I'm sure." 18. The Emerald City The others now came up, and the Tin Woodman greeted the Lion and the Tiger cordially. Button-Bright yelled with fear when Dorothy first took his hand and led him toward the great beasts; but the girl insisted they were kind and good, and so the boy mustered up courage enough to pat their heads; after they had spoken to him gently and he had looked into their intelligent eyes his fear vanished entirely and he was so delighted with the animals that he wanted to keep close to them and stroke their soft fur every minute. As for the shaggy man, he might have been afraid if he had met the beasts alone, or in any other country, but so many were the marvels in; the Land of Oz that he was no longer easily surprised, and Dorothy's friendship for the Lion and Tiger was enough to assure him they were safe companions. Toto barked at the Cowardly Lion in joyous greeting, for he knew the beast of old and loved him, and it was funny to see how gently the Lion raised his huge paw to pat Toto's head. The little dog smelled of the Tiger's nose, and the Tiger politely shook paws with him; so they were quite likely to become firm friends. Tik-tok and Billina knew the beasts well, so merely bade them good day and asked after their healths and inquired about the Princess Ozma. Now it was seen that the Cowardly Lion and the Hungry Tiger were drawing behind them a splendid golden chariot, to which they were harnessed by golden cords. The body of the chariot was decorated on the outside with designs in clusters of sparkling emeralds, while inside it was lined with a green and gold satin, and the cushions of the seats were of green plush embroidered in gold with a crown, underneath which was a monogram. "Why, it's Ozma's own royal chariot!" exclaimed Dorothy. "Yes," said the Cowardly Lion; "Ozma sent us to meet you here, for she feared you would be weary with your long walk and she wished you to enter the City in a style becoming your exalted rank." "What!" cried Polly, looking at Dorothy curiously. "Do you belong to the nobility?" "Just in Oz I do," said the child, "'cause Ozma made me a Princess, you know. But when I'm home in Kansas I'm only a country girl, and have to help with the churning and wipe the dishes while Aunt Em washes 'em. Do you have to help wash dishes on the rainbow, Polly?" "No, dear," answered Polychrome, smiling. "Well, I don't have to work any in Oz, either," said Dorothy. "It's kind of fun to be a Princess once in a while; don't you think so?" "Dorothy and Polychrome and Button-Bright are all to ride in the chariot," said the Lion. "So get in, my dears, and be careful not to mar the gold or put your dusty feet on the embroidery." Button-Bright was delighted to ride behind such a superb team, and he told Dorothy it made him feel like an actor in a circus. As the strides of the animals brought them nearer to the Emerald City every one bowed respectfully to the children, as well as to the Tin Woodman, Tik-tok, and the shaggy man, who were following behind. The Yellow Hen had perched upon the back of the chariot, where she could tell Dorothy more about her wonderful chickens as they rode. And so the grand chariot came finally to the high wall surrounding the City, and paused before the magnificent jewel-studded gates. These were opened by a cheerful-looking little man who wore green spectacles over his eyes. Dorothy introduced him to her friends as the Guardian of the Gates, and they noticed a big bunch of keys suspended on the golden chain that hung around his neck. The chariot passed through the outer gates into a fine arched chamber built in the thick wall, and through the inner gates into the streets of the Emerald City. Polychrome exclaimed in rapture at the wondrous beauty that met her eyes on every side as they rode through this stately and imposing City, the equal of which has never been discovered, even in Fairyland. Button-Bright could only say "My!" so amazing was the sight; but his eyes were wide open and he tried to look in every direction at the same time, so as not to miss anything. The shaggy man was fairly astounded at what he saw, for the graceful and handsome buildings were covered with plates of gold and set with emeralds so splendid and valuable that in any other part of the world any one of them would have been worth a fortune to its owner. The sidewalks were superb marble slabs polished as smooth as glass, and the curbs that separated the walks from the broad street were also set thick with clustered emeralds. There were many people on these walks--men, women and children--all dressed in handsome garments of silk or satin or velvet, with beautiful jewels. Better even than this: all seemed happy and contented, for their faces were smiling and free from care, and music and laughter might be heard on every side. "Don't they work at all?" asked the shaggy man. "To be sure they work," replied the Tin Woodman; "this fair city could not be built or cared for without labor, nor could the fruit and vegetables and other food be provided for the inhabitants to eat. But no one works more than half his time, and the people of Oz enjoy their labors as much as they do their play." "It's wonderful!" declared the shaggy man. "I do hope Ozma will let me live here." The chariot, winding through many charming streets, paused before a building so vast and noble and elegant that even Button-Bright guessed at once that it was the Royal Palace. Its gardens and ample grounds were surrounded by a separate wall, not so high or thick as the wall around the City, but more daintily designed and built all of green marble. The gates flew open as the chariot appeared before them, and the Cowardly Lion and Hungry Tiger trotted up a jeweled driveway to the front door of the palace and stopped short. "Here we are!" said Dorothy, gaily, and helped Button-Bright from the chariot. Polychrome leaped out lightly after them, and they were greeted by a crowd of gorgeously dressed servants who bowed low as the visitors mounted the marble steps. At their head was a pretty little maid with dark hair and eyes, dressed all in green embroidered with silver. Dorothy ran up to her with evident pleasure, and exclaimed: "O, Jellia Jamb! I'm so glad to see you again. Where's Ozma?" "In her room, your Highness," replied the little maid demurely, for this was Ozma's favorite attendant. "She wishes you to come to her as soon as you have rested and changed your dress, Princess Dorothy. And you and your friends are to dine with her this evening." "When is her birthday, Jellia?" asked the girl. "Day after to-morrow, your Highness." "And where's the Scarecrow?" "He's gone into the Munchkin country to get some fresh straw to stuff himself with, in honor of Ozma's celebration," replied the maid. "He returns to the Emerald City to-morrow, he said." By this time, Tok-tok, the Tin Woodman, and the shaggy man had arrived and the chariot had gone around to the back of the palace, Billina going with the Lion and Tiger to see her chickens after her absence from them. But Toto stayed close beside Dorothy. "Come in, please," said Jellia Jamb; "it shall be our pleasant duty to escort all of you to the rooms prepared for your use." The shaggy man hesitated. Dorothy had never known him to be ashamed of his shaggy looks before, but now that he was surrounded by so much magnificence and splendor the shaggy man felt sadly out of place. Dorothy assured him that all her friends were welcome at Ozma's palace, so he carefully dusted his shaggy shoes with his shaggy handkerchief and entered the grand hall after the others. Tik-tok lived at the Royal Palace and the Tin Woodman always had the same room whenever he visited Ozma, so these two went at once to remove the dust of the journey from their shining bodies. Dorothy also had a pretty suite of rooms which she always occupied when in the Emerald City; but several servants walked ahead politely to show the way, although she was quite sure she could find the rooms herself. She took Button-Bright with her, because he seemed too small to be left alone in such a big palace; but Jellia Jamb herself ushered the beautiful Daughter of the Rainbow to her apartments, because it was easy to see that Polychrome was used to splendid palaces and was therefore entitled to especial attention. 19. The Shaggy Man's Welcome The shaggy man stood in the great hall, his shaggy hat in his hands, wondering what would become of him. He had never been a guest in a fine palace before; perhaps he had never been a guest anywhere. In the big, cold, outside world people did not invite shaggy men to their homes, and this shaggy man of ours had slept more in hay-lofts and stables than in comfortable rooms. When the others left the great hall he eyed the splendidly dressed servants of the Princess Ozma as if he expected to be ordered out; but one of them bowed before him as respectfully as if he had been a prince, and said: "Permit me, sir, to conduct you to your apartments." The shaggy man drew a long breath and took courage. "Very well," he answered. "I'm ready." Through the big hall they went, up the grand staircase carpeted thick with velvet, and so along a wide corridor to a carved doorway. Here the servant paused, and opening the door said with polite deference: "Be good enough to enter, sir, and make yourself at home in the rooms our Royal Ozma has ordered prepared for you. Whatever you see is for you to use and enjoy, as if your own. The Princess dines at seven, and I shall be here in time to lead you to the drawing-room, where you will be privileged to meet the lovely Ruler of Oz. Is there any command, in the meantime, with which you desire to honor me?" "No," said the shaggy man; "but I'm much obliged." He entered the room and shut the door, and for a time stood in bewilderment, admiring the grandeur before him. He had been given one of the handsomest apartments in the most magnificent palace in the world, and you can not wonder that his good fortune astonished and awed him until he grew used to his surroundings. The furniture was upholstered in cloth of gold, with the royal crown embroidered upon it in scarlet. The rug upon the marble floor was so thick and soft that he could not hear the sound of his own footsteps, and upon the walls were splendid tapestries woven with scenes from the Land of Oz. Books and ornaments were scattered about in profusion, and the shaggy man thought he had never seen so many pretty things in one place before. In one corner played a tinkling fountain of perfumed water, and in another was a table bearing a golden tray loaded with freshly gathered fruit, including several of the red-cheeked apples that the shaggy man loved. At the farther end of this charming room was an open doorway, and he crossed over to find himself in a bedroom containing more comforts than the shaggy man had ever before imagined. The bedstead was of gold and set with many brilliant diamonds, and the coverlet had designs of pearls and rubies sewed upon it. At one side of the bedroom was a dainty dressing-room with closets containing a large assortment of fresh clothing; and beyond this was the bath--a large room having a marble pool big enough to swim in, with white marble steps leading down to the water. Around the edge of the pool were set rows of fine emeralds as large as door-knobs, while the water of the bath was clear as crystal. For a time the shaggy man gazed upon all this luxury with silent amazement. Then he decided, being wise in his way, to take advantage of his good fortune. He removed his shaggy boots and his shaggy clothing, and bathed in the pool with rare enjoyment. After he had dried himself with the soft towels he went into the dressing-room and took fresh linen from the drawers and put it on, finding that everything fitted him exactly. He examined the contents of the closets and selected an elegant suit of clothing. Strangely enough, everything about it was shaggy, although so new and beautiful, and he sighed with contentment to realize that he could now be finely dressed and still be the shaggy man. His coat was of rose-colored velvet, trimmed with shags and bobtails, with buttons of blood-red rubies and golden shags around the edges. His vest was a shaggy satin of a delicate cream color, and his knee-breeches of rose velvet trimmed like the coat. Shaggy creamy stockings of silk, and shaggy slippers of rose leather with ruby buckles, completed his costume, and when he was thus attired the shaggy man looked at himself in a long mirror with great admiration. On a table he found a mother-of-pearl chest decorated with delicate silver vines and flowers of clustered rubies, and on the cover was a silver plate engraved with these words: THE SHAGGY MAN: HIS BOX OF ORNAMENTS The chest was not locked, so he opened it and was almost dazzled by the brilliance of the rich jewels it contained. After admiring the pretty things, he took out a fine golden watch with a big chain, several handsome finger-rings, and an ornament of rubies to pin upon the breast of his shaggy shirt-bosom. Having carefully brushed his hair and whiskers all the wrong way to make them look as shaggy as possible, the shaggy man breathed a deep sigh of joy and decided he was ready to meet the Royal Princess as soon as she sent for him. While he waited he returned to the beautiful sitting room and ate several of the red-cheeked apples to pass away the time. Meanwhile, Dorothy had dressed herself in a pretty gown of soft grey embroidered with silver, and put a blue-and-gold suit of satin upon little Button-Bright, who looked as sweet as a cherub in it. Followed by the boy and Toto--the dog with a new green ribbon around his neck--she hastened down to the splendid drawing-room of the palace, where, seated upon an exquisite throne of carved malachite and nestled amongst its green satin cushions was the lovely Princess Ozma, waiting eagerly to welcome her friend. 20. Princess Ozma Of Oz The royal historians of Oz, who are fine writers and know any number of big words, have often tried to describe the rare beauty of Ozma and failed because the words were not good enough. So of course I cannot hope to tell you how great was the charm of this little Princess, or how her loveliness put to shame all the sparkling jewels and magnificent luxury that surrounded her in this her royal palace. Whatever else was beautiful or dainty or delightful of itself faded to dullness when contrasted with Ozma's bewitching face, and it has often been said by those who know that no other ruler in all the world can ever hope to equal the gracious charm of her manner. Everything about Ozma attracted one, and she inspired love and the sweetest affection rather than awe or ordinary admiration. Dorothy threw her arms around her little friend and hugged and kissed her rapturously, and Toto barked joyfully and Button-Bright smiled a happy smile and consented to sit on the soft cushions close beside the Princess. "Why didn't you send me word you were going to have a birthday party?" asked the little Kansas girl, when the first greetings were over. "Didn't I?" asked Ozma, her pretty eyes dancing with merriment. "Did you?" replied Dorothy, trying to think. "Who do you imagine, dear, mixed up those roads, so as to start you wandering in the direction of Oz?" inquired the Princess. "Oh! I never 'spected YOU of that," cried Dorothy. "I've watched you in my Magic Picture all the way here," declared Ozma, "and twice I thought I should have to use the Magic Belt to save you and transport you to the Emerald City. Once was when the Scoodlers caught you, and again when you reached the Deadly Desert. But the shaggy man was able to help you out both times, so I did not interfere." "Do you know who Button-Bright is?" asked Dorothy. "No; I never saw him until you found him in the road, and then only in my Magic Picture." "And did you send Polly to us?" "No, dear; the Rainbow's Daughter slid from her father's pretty arch just in time to meet you." "Well," said Dorothy, "I've promised King Dox of Foxville and King Kik-a-bray of Dunkiton that I'd ask you to invite them to your party." "I have already done that," returned Ozma, "because I thought it would please you to favor them." "Did you 'vite the Musicker?" asked Button-Bright. "No; because he would be too noisy, and might interfere with the comfort of others. When music is not very good, and is indulged in all the time, it is better that the performer should be alone," said the Princess. "I like the Musicker's music," declared the boy, gravely. "But I don't," said Dorothy. "Well, there will be plenty of music at my celebration," promised Ozma; "so I've an idea Button-Bright won't miss the Musicker at all." Just then Polychrome danced in, and Ozma rose to greet the Rainbow's Daughter in her sweetest and most cordial manner. Dorothy thought she had never seen two prettier creatures together than these lovely maidens; but Polly knew at once her own dainty beauty could not match that of Ozma, yet was not a bit jealous because this was so. The Wizard of Oz was announced, and a dried-up, little, old man, clothed all in black, entered the drawing-room. His face was cheery and his eyes twinkling with humor, so Polly and Button-Bright were not at all afraid of the wonderful personage whose fame as a humbug magician had spread throughout the world. After greeting Dorothy with much affection, he stood modestly behind Ozma's throne and listened to the lively prattle of the young people. Now the shaggy man appeared, and so startling was his appearance, all clad in shaggy new raiment, that Dorothy cried "Oh!" and clasped her hands impulsively as she examined her friend with pleased eyes. "He's still shaggy, all right," remarked Button-Bright; and Ozma nodded brightly because she had meant the shaggy man to remain shaggy when she provided his new clothes for him. Dorothy led him toward the throne, as he was shy in such fine company, and presented him gracefully to the Princess, saying: "This, your Highness, is my friend, the shaggy man, who owns the Love Magnet." "You are welcome to Oz," said the girl Ruler, in gracious accents. "But tell me, sir, where did you get the Love Magnet which you say you own?" The shaggy man grew red and looked downcast, as he answered in a low voice: "I stole it, your Majesty." "Oh, Shaggy Man!" cried Dorothy. "How dreadful! And you told me the Eskimo gave you the Love Magnet." He shuffled first on one foot and then on the other, much embarrassed. "I told you a falsehood, Dorothy," he said; "but now, having bathed in the Truth Pond, I must tell nothing but the truth." "Why did you steal it?" asked Ozma, gently. "Because no one loved me, or cared for me," said the shaggy man, "and I wanted to be loved a great deal. It was owned by a girl in Butterfield who was loved too much, so that the young men quarreled over her, which made her unhappy. After I had stolen the Magnet from her, only one young man continued to love the girl, and she married him and regained her happiness." "Are you sorry you stole it?" asked the Princess. "No, your Highness; I'm glad," he answered; "for it has pleased me to be loved, and if Dorothy had not cared for me I could not have accompanied her to this beautiful Land of Oz, or met its kind-hearted Ruler. Now that I'm here, I hope to remain, and to become one of your Majesty's most faithful subjects." "But in Oz we are loved for ourselves alone, and for our kindness to one another, and for our good deeds," she said. "I'll give up the Love Magnet," said the shaggy man, eagerly; "Dorothy shall have it." "But every one loves Dorothy already," declared the Wizard. "Then Button-Bright shall have it." "Don't want it," said the boy, promptly. "Then I'll give it to the Wizard, for I'm sure the lovely Princess Ozma does not need it." "All my people love the Wizard, too," announced the Princess, laughing; "so we will hang the Love Magnet over the gates of the Emerald City, that whoever shall enter or leave the gates may be loved and loving." "That is a good idea," said the shaggy man; "I agree to it most willingly." Those assembled now went in to dinner, which you can imagine was a grand affair; and afterward Ozma asked the Wizard to give them an exhibition of his magic. The Wizard took eight tiny white piglets from an inside pocket and set them on the table. One was dressed like a clown, and performed funny antics, and the others leaped over the spoons and dishes and ran around the table like race-horses, and turned hand-springs and were so sprightly and amusing that they kept the company in one roar of merry laughter. The Wizard had trained these pets to do many curious things, and they were so little and so cunning and soft that Polychrome loved to pick them up as they passed near her place and fondle them as if they were kittens. It was late when the entertainment ended, and they separated to go to their rooms. "To-morrow," said Ozma, "my invited guests will arrive, and you will find among them some interesting and curious people, I promise you. The next day will be my birthday, and the festivities will be held on the broad green just outside the gates of the City, where all my people can assemble without being crowded." "I hope the Scarecrow won't be late," said Dorothy, anxiously. "Oh, he is sure to return to-morrow," answered Ozma. "He wanted new straw to stuff himself with, so he went to the Munchkin Country, where straw is plentiful." With this the Princess bade her guests good night and went to her own room. 21. Dorothy Receives the Guests Next morning Dorothy's breakfast was served in her own pretty sitting room, and she sent to invite Polly and the shaggy man to join her and Button-Bright at the meal. They came gladly, and Toto also had breakfast with them, so that the little party that had traveled together to Oz was once more reunited. No sooner had they finished eating than they heard the distant blast of many trumpets, and the sound of a brass band playing martial music; so they all went out upon the balcony. This was at the front of the palace and overlooked the streets of the City, being higher than the wall that shut in the palace grounds. They saw approaching down the street a band of musicians, playing as hard and loud as they could, while the people of the Emerald City crowded the sidewalks and cheered so lustily that they almost drowned the noise of the drums and horns. Dorothy looked to see what they were cheering at, and discovered that behind the band was the famous Scarecrow, riding proudly upon the back of a wooden Saw-Horse which pranced along the street almost as gracefully as if it had been made of flesh. Its hoofs, or rather the ends of its wooden legs, were shod with plates of solid gold, and the saddle strapped to the wooden body was richly embroidered and glistened with jewels. As he reached the palace the Scarecrow looked up and saw Dorothy, and at once waved his peaked hat at her in greeting. He rode up to the front door and dismounted, and the band stopped playing and went away and the crowds of people returned to their dwellings. By the time Dorothy and her friends had re-entered her room, the Scarecrow was there, and he gave the girl a hearty embrace and shook the hands of the others with his own squashy hands, which were white gloves filled with straw. The shaggy man, Button-Bright, and Polychrome stared hard at this celebrated person, who was acknowledged to be the most popular and most beloved man in all the Land of Oz. "Why, your face has been newly painted!" exclaimed Dorothy, when the first greetings were over. "I had it touched up a bit by the Munchkin farmer who first made me," answered the Scarecrow, pleasantly. "My complexion had become a bit grey and faded, you know, and the paint had peeled off one end of my mouth, so I couldn't talk quite straight. Now I feel like myself again, and I may say without immodesty that my body is stuffed with the loveliest oat-straw in all Oz." He pushed against his chest. "Hear me crunkle?" he asked. "Yes," said Dorothy; "you sound fine." Button-Bright was wonderfully attracted by the strawman, and so was Polly. The shaggy man treated him with great respect, because he was so queerly made. Jellia Jamb now came to say that Ozma wanted Princess Dorothy to receive the invited guests in the Throne-Room, as they arrived. The Ruler was herself busy ordering the preparations for the morrow's festivities, so she wished her friend to act in her place. Dorothy willingly agreed, being the only other Princess in the Emerald City; so she went to the great Throne-Room and sat in Ozma's seat, placing Polly on one side of her and Button-Bright on the other. The Scarecrow stood at the left of the throne and the Tin Woodman at the right, while the Wonderful Wizard and the shaggy man stood behind. The Cowardly Lion and the Hungry Tiger came in, with bright new bows of ribbon on their collars and tails. After greeting Dorothy affectionately the huge beasts lay down at the foot of the throne. While they waited, the Scarecrow, who was near the little boy, asked: "Why are you called Button-Bright?" "Don't know," was the answer. "Oh yes, you do, dear," said Dorothy. "Tell the Scarecrow how you got your name." "Papa always said I was bright as a button, so mama always called me Button-Bright," announced the boy. "Where is your mama?" asked the Scarecrow. "Don't know," said Button-Bright. "Where is your home?" asked the Scarecrow. "Don't know," said Button-Bright. "Don't you want to find your mama again?" asked the Scarecrow. "Don't know," said Button-Bright, calmly. The Scarecrow looked thoughtful. "Your papa may have been right," he observed; "but there are many kinds of buttons, you see. There are silver and gold buttons, which are highly polished and glitter brightly. There are pearl and rubber buttons, and other kinds, with surfaces more or less bright. But there is still another sort of button which is covered with dull cloth, and that must be the sort your papa meant when he said you were bright as a button. Don't you think so?" "Don't know," said Button-Bright. Jack Pumpkinhead arrived, wearing a pair of new, white kid gloves; and he brought a birthday present for Ozma consisting of a necklace of pumpkin-seeds. In each seed was set a sparkling carolite, which is considered the rarest and most beautiful gem that exists. The necklace was in a plush case and Jellia Jamb put it on a table with the Princess Ozma's other presents. Next came a tall, beautiful woman clothed in a splendid trailing gown, trimmed with exquisite lace as fine as cobweb. This was the important Sorceress known as Glinda the Good, who had been of great assistance to both Ozma and Dorothy. There was no humbug about her magic, you may be sure, and Glinda was as kind as she was powerful. She greeted Dorothy most lovingly, and kissed Button-Bright and Polly, and smiled upon the shaggy man, after which Jellia Jamb led the Sorceress to one of the most magnificent rooms of the royal palace and appointed fifty servants to wait upon her. The next arrival was Mr. H. M. Woggle-Bug, T.E.; the "H. M." meaning Highly Magnified and the "T.E." meaning Thoroughly Educated. The Woggle-Bug was head professor at the Royal College of Oz, and he had composed a fine Ode in honor of Ozma's birthday. This he wanted to read to them; but the Scarecrow wouldn't let him. Soon they heard a clucking sound and a chorus of "cheep! cheep!" and a servant threw open the door to allow Billina and her ten fluffy chicks to enter the Throne-Room. As the Yellow Hen marched proudly at the head of her family, Dorothy cried, "Oh, you lovely things!" and ran down from her seat to pet the little yellow downy balls. Billina wore a pearl necklace, and around the neck of each chicken was a tiny gold chain holding a locket with the letter "D" engraved upon the outside. "Open the lockets, Dorothy," said Billina. The girl obeyed and found a picture of herself in each locket. "They were named after you, my dear," continued the Yellow Hen, "so I wanted all my chickens to wear your picture. Cluck--cluck! come here, Dorothy--this minute!" she cried, for the chickens were scattered and wandering all around the big room. They obeyed the call at once, and came running as fast as they could, fluttering their fluffy wings in a laughable way. It was lucky that Billina gathered the little ones under her soft breast just then, for Tik-tok came in and tramped up to the throne on his flat copper feet. "I am all wound up and work-ing fine-ly," said the clock-work man to Dorothy. "I can hear him tick," declared Button-Bright. "You are quite the polished gentleman," said the Tin Woodman. "Stand up here beside the shaggy man, Tik-tok, and help receive the company." Dorothy placed soft cushions in a corner for Billina and her chicks, and had just returned to the Throne and seated herself when the playing of the royal band outside the palace announced the approach of distinguished guests. And my, how they did stare when the High Chamberlain threw open the doors and the visitors entered the Throne-Room! First walked a gingerbread man neatly formed and baked to a lovely brown tint. He wore a silk hat and carried a candy cane prettily striped with red and yellow. His shirt-front and cuffs were white frosting, and the buttons on his coat were licorice drops. Behind the gingerbread man came a child with flaxen hair and merry blue eyes, dressed in white pajamas, with sandals on the soles of its pretty bare feet. The child looked around smiling and thrust its hands into the pockets of the pajamas. Close after it came a big rubber bear, walking erect on its hind feet. The bear had twinkling black eyes, and its body looked as if it had been pumped full of air. Following these curious visitors were two tall, thin men and two short, fat men, all four dressed in gorgeous uniforms. Ozma's High Chamberlain now hurried forward to announce the names of the new arrivals, calling out in a loud voice: "His Gracious and Most Edible Majesty, King Dough the First, Ruler of the Two Kingdoms of Hiland and Loland. Also the Head Boolywag of his Majesty, known as Chick the Cherub, and their faithful friend Para Bruin, the rubber bear." These great personages bowed low as their names were called, and Dorothy hastened to introduce them to the assembled company. They were the first foreign arrivals, and the friends of Princess Ozma were polite to them and tried to make them feel that they were welcome. Chick the Cherub shook hands with every one, including Billina, and was so joyous and frank and full of good spirits that John Dough's Head Booleywag at once became a prime favorite. "Is it a boy or a girl?" whispered Dorothy. "Don't know," said Button-Bright. "Goodness me! what a queer lot of people you are," exclaimed the rubber bear, looking at the assembled company. "So're you," said Button-Bright, gravely. "Is King Dough good to eat?" "He's too good to eat," laughed Chick the Cherub. "I hope none of you are fond of gingerbread," said the King, rather anxiously. "We should never think of eating our visitors, if we were," declared the Scarecrow; "so please do not worry, for you will be perfectly safe while you remain in Oz." "Why do they call you Chick?" the Yellow Hen asked the child. "Because I'm an Incubator Baby, and never had any parents," replied the Head Booleywag. "My chicks have a parent, and I'm it," said Billina. "I'm glad of that," answered the Cherub, "because they'll have more fun worrying you than if they were brought up in an Incubator. The Incubator never worries, you know." King John Dough had brought for Ozma's birthday present a lovely gingerbread crown, with rows of small pearls around it and a fine big pearl in each of its five points. After this had been received by Dorothy with proper thanks and placed on the table with the other presents, the visitors from Hiland and Loland were escorted to their rooms by the High Chamberlain. They had no sooner departed than the band before the palace began to play again, announcing more arrivals, and as these were doubtless from foreign parts the High Chamberlain hurried back to receive them in his most official manner. 22. Important Arrivals First entered a band of Ryls from the Happy Valley, all merry little sprites like fairy elves. A dozen crooked Knooks followed from the great Forest of Burzee. They had long whiskers and pointed caps and curling toes, yet were no taller than Button-Bright's shoulder. With this group came a man so easy to recognize and so important and dearly beloved throughout the known world, that all present rose to their feet and bowed their heads in respectful homage, even before the High Chamberlain knelt to announce his name. "The most Mighty and Loyal Friend of Children, His Supreme Highness--Santa Claus!" said the Chamberlain, in an awed voice. "Well, well, well! Glad to see you--glad to meet you all!" cried Santa Claus, briskly, as he trotted up the long room. He was round as an apple, with a fresh rosy face, laughing eyes, and a bushy beard as white as snow. A red cloak trimmed with beautiful ermine hung from his shoulders and upon his back was a basket filled with pretty presents for the Princess Ozma. "Hello, Dorothy; still having adventures?" he asked in his jolly way, as he took the girl's hand in both his own. "How did you know my name, Santa?" she replied, feeling more shy in the presence of this immortal saint than she ever had before in her young life. "Why, don't I see you every Christmas Eve, when you're asleep?" he rejoined, pinching her blushing cheek. "Oh, do you?" "And here's Button-Bright, I declare!" cried Santa Claus, holding up the boy to kiss him. "What a long way from home you are; dear me!" "Do you know Button-Bright, too?" questioned Dorothy, eagerly. "Indeed I do. I've visited his home several Christmas Eves." "And do you know his father?" asked the girl. "Certainly, my dear. Who else do you suppose brings him his Christmas neckties and stockings?" with a sly wink at the Wizard. "Then where does he live? We're just crazy to know, 'cause Button-Bright's lost," she said. Santa laughed and laid his finger aside of his nose as if thinking what to reply. He leaned over and whispered something in the Wizard's ear, at which the Wizard smiled and nodded as if he understood. Now Santa Claus spied Polychrome, and trotted over to where she stood. "Seems to me the Rainbow's Daughter is farther from home than any of you," he observed, looking at the pretty maiden admiringly. "I'll have to tell your father where you are, Polly, and send him to get you." "Please do, dear Santa Claus," implored the little maid, beseechingly. "But just now we must all have a jolly good time at Ozma's party," said the old gentleman, turning to put his presents on the table with the others already there. "It isn't often I find time to leave my castle, as you know; but Ozma invited me and I just couldn't help coming to celebrate the happy occasion." "I'm so glad!" exclaimed Dorothy. "These are my Ryls," pointing to the little sprites squatting around him. "Their business is to paint the colors of the flowers when they bud and bloom; but I brought the merry fellows along to see Oz, and they've left their paint-pots behind them. Also I brought these crooked Knooks, whom I love. My dears, the Knooks are much nicer than they look, for their duty is to water and care for the young trees of the forest, and they do their work faithfully and well. It's hard work, though, and it makes my Knooks crooked and gnarled, like the trees themselves; but their hearts are big and kind, as are the hearts of all who do good in our beautiful world." "I've read of the Ryls and Knooks," said Dorothy, looking upon these little workers with interest. Santa Claus turned to talk with the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman, and he also said a kind word to the shaggy man, and afterward went away to ride the Saw-Horse around the Emerald City. "For," said he, "I must see all the grand sights while I am here and have the chance, and Ozma has promised to let me ride the Saw-Horse because I'm getting fat and short of breath." "Where are your reindeer?" asked Polychrome. "I left them at home, for it is too warm for them in this sunny country," he answered. "They're used to winter weather when they travel." In a flash he was gone, and the Ryls and Knooks with him; but they could all hear the golden hoofs of the Saw-Horse ringing on the marble pavement outside, as he pranced away with his noble rider. Presently the band played again, and the High Chamberlain announced: "Her Gracious Majesty, the Queen of Merryland." They looked earnestly to discover whom this queen might be, and saw advancing up the room an exquisite wax doll dressed in dainty fluffs and ruffles and spangled gown. She was almost as big as Button-Bright, and her cheeks and mouth and eyebrow were prettily painted in delicate colors. Her blue eyes stared a bit, being of glass, yet the expression upon her Majesty's face was quite pleasant and decidedly winning. With the Queen of Merryland were four wooden soldiers, two stalking ahead of her with much dignity and two following behind, like a royal bodyguard. The soldiers were painted in bright colors and carried wooden guns, and after them came a fat little man who attracted attention at once, although he seemed modest and retiring. For he was made of candy, and carried a tin sugar-sifter filled with powdered sugar, with which he dusted himself frequently so that he wouldn't stick to things if he touched them. The High Chamberlain had called him "The Candy Man of Merryland," and Dorothy saw that one of his thumbs looked as if it had been bitten off by some one who was fond of candy and couldn't resist the temptation. The wax doll Queen spoke prettily to Dorothy and the others, and sent her loving greetings to Ozma before she retired to the rooms prepared for her. She had brought a birthday present wrapped in tissue paper and tied with pink and blue ribbons, and one of the wooden soldiers placed it on the table with the other gifts. But the Candy Man did not go to his room, because he said he preferred to stay and talk with the Scarecrow and Tik-tok and the Wizard and Tin Woodman, whom he declared the queerest people he had ever met. Button-Bright was glad the Candy Man stayed in the Throne Room, because the boy thought this guest smelled deliciously of wintergreen and maple sugar. The Braided Man now entered the room, having been fortunate enough to receive an invitation to the Princess Ozma's party. He was from a cave halfway between the Invisible Valley and the Country of the Gargoyles, and his hair and whiskers were so long that he was obliged to plait them into many braids that hung to his feet, and every braid was tied with a bow of colored ribbon. "I've brought Princess Ozma a box of flutters for her birthday," said the Braided Man, earnestly; "and I hope she will like them, for they are the finest quality I have ever made." "I'm sure she will be greatly pleased," said Dorothy, who remembered the Braided Man well; and the Wizard introduced the guest to the rest of the company and made him sit down in a chair and keep quiet, for, if allowed, he would talk continually about his flutters. The band then played a welcome to another set of guests, and into the Throne-Room swept the handsome and stately Queen of Ev. Beside her was young King Evardo, and following them came the entire royal family of five Princesses and four Princes of Ev. The Kingdom of Ev lay just across the Deadly Desert to the North of Oz, and once Ozma and her people had rescued the Queen of Ev and her ten children from the Nome King, who had enslaved them. Dorothy had been present on this adventure, so she greeted the royal family cordially; and all the visitors were delighted to meet the little Kansas girl again. They knew Tik-tok and Billina, too, and the Scarecrow and Tin Woodman, as well as the Lion and Tiger; so there was a joyful reunion, as you may imagine, and it was fully an hour before the Queen and her train retired to their rooms. Perhaps they would not have gone then had not the band begun to play to announce new arrivals; but before they left the great Throne-Room King Evardo added to Ozma's birthday presents a diadem of diamonds set in radium. The next comer proved to be King Renard of Foxville; or King Dox, as he preferred to be called. He was magnificently dressed in a new feather costume and wore white kid mittens over his paws and a flower in his button-hole and had his hair parted in the middle. King Dox thanked Dorothy fervently for getting him the invitation to come to Oz, which he all his life longed to visit. He strutted around rather absurdly as he was introduced to all the famous people assembled in the Throne-Room, and when he learned that Dorothy was a Princess of Oz the Fox King insisted on kneeling at her feet and afterward retired backward--a dangerous thing to do, as he might have stubbed his paw and tumbled over. No sooner was he gone than the blasts of bugles and clatter of drums and cymbals announced important visitors, and the High Chamberlain assumed his most dignified tone as he threw open the door and said proudly: "Her Sublime and Resplendent Majesty, Queen Zixi of Ix! His Serene and Tremendous Majesty, King Bud of Noland. Her Royal Highness, the Princess Fluff." That three such high and mighty royal personages should arrive at once was enough to make Dorothy and her companions grow solemn and assume their best company manners; but when the exquisite beauty of Queen Zixi met their eyes they thought they had never beheld anything so charming. Dorothy decided that Zixi must be about sixteen years old, but the Wizard whispered to her that this wonderful queen had lived thousands of years, but knew the secret of remaining always fresh and beautiful. King Bud of Noland and his dainty fair-haired sister, the Princess Fluff, were friends of Zixi, as their kingdoms were adjoining, so they had traveled together from their far-off domains to do honor to Ozma of Oz on the occasion of her birthday. They brought many splendid gifts; so the table was now fairly loaded down with presents. Dorothy and Polly loved the Princess Fluff the moment they saw her, and little King Bud was so frank and boyish that Button-Bright accepted him as a chum at once and did not want him to go away. But it was after noon now, and the royal guests must prepare their toilets for the grand banquet at which they were to assemble that evening to meet the reigning Princess of this Fairyland; so Queen Zixi was shown to her room by a troop of maidens led by Jellia Jamb, and Bud and Fluff presently withdrew to their own apartments. "My! what a big party Ozma is going to have," exclaimed Dorothy. "I guess the palace will be chock full, Button-Bright; don't you think so?" "Don't know," said the boy. "But we must go to our rooms, pretty soon, to dress for the banquet," continued the girl. "I don't have to dress," said the Candy Man from Merryland. "All I need do is to dust myself with fresh sugar." "Tik-tok always wears the same suits of clothes," said the Tin Woodman; "and so does our friend the Scarecrow." "My feathers are good enough for any occasion," cried Billina, from her corner. "Then I shall leave you four to welcome any new guests that come," said Dorothy; "for Button-Bright and I must look our very best at Ozma's banquet." "Who is still to come?" asked the Scarecrow. "Well, there's King Kik-a-bray of Dunkiton, and Johnny Dooit, and the Good Witch of the North. But Johnny Dooit may not get here until late, he's so very busy." "We will receive them and give them a proper welcome," promised the Scarecrow. "So run along, little Dorothy, and get yourself dressed." 23. The Grand Banquet I wish I could tell you how fine the company was that assembled that evening at Ozma's royal banquet. A long table was spread in the center of the great dining-hall of the palace and the splendor of the decorations and the blaze of lights and jewels was acknowledged to be the most magnificent sight that any of the guests had ever seen. The jolliest person present, as well as the most important, was of course old Santa Claus; so he was given the seat of honor at one end of the table while at the other end sat Princess Ozma, the hostess. John Dough, Queen Zixi, King Bud, the Queen of Ev and her son Evardo, and the Queen of Merryland had golden thrones to sit in, while the others were supplied with beautiful chairs. At the upper end of the banquet room was a separate table provided for the animals. Toto sat at one end of this table with a bib tied around his neck and a silver platter to eat from. At the other end was placed a small stand, with a low rail around the edge of it, for Billina and her chicks. The rail kept the ten little Dorothys from falling off the stand, while the Yellow Hen could easily reach over and take her food from her tray upon the table. At other places sat the Hungry Tiger, the Cowardly Lion, the Saw-Horse, the Rubber Bear, the Fox King and the Donkey King; they made quite a company of animals. At the lower end of the great room was another table, at which sat the Ryls and Knooks who had come with Santa Claus, the wooden soldiers who had come with the Queen of Merryland, and the Hilanders and Lolanders who had come with John Dough. Here were also seated the officers of the royal palace and of Ozma's army. The splendid costumes of those at the three tables made a gorgeous and glittering display that no one present was ever likely to forget; perhaps there has never been in any part of the world at any time another assemblage of such wonderful people as that which gathered this evening to honor the birthday of the Ruler of Oz. When all members of ethe company were in their places an orchestra of five hundred pieces, in a balcony overlooking the banquet room, began to play sweet and delightful music. Then a door draped with royal green opened, and in came the fair and girlish Princess Ozma, who now greeted her guests in person for the first time. As she stood by her throne at the head of the banquet table every eye was turned eagerly upon the lovely Princess, who was as dignified as she was bewitching, and who smiled upon all her old and new friends in a way that touched their hearts and brought an answering smile to every face. Each guest had been served with a crystal goblet filled with lacasa, which is a sort of nectar famous in Oz and nicer to drink than soda-water or lemonade. Santa now made a pretty speech in verse, congratulating Ozma on having a birthday, and asking every one present to drink to the health and happiness of their dearly beloved hostess. This was done with great enthusiasm by those who were made so they could drink at all, and those who could not drink politely touched the rims of their goblets to their lips. All seated themselves at the tables and the servants of the Princess began serving the feast. I am quite sure that only in Fairyland could such a delicious repast be prepared. The dishes were of precious metals set with brilliant jewels and the good things to eat which were placed upon them were countless in number and of exquisite flavor. Several present, such as the Candy Man, the Rubber Bear, Tik-tok, and the Scarecrow, were not made so they could eat, and the Queen of Merryland contented herself with a small dish of sawdust; but these enjoyed the pomp and glitter of the gorgeous scene as much as did those who feasted. The Woggle-Bug read his "Ode to Ozma," which was written in very good rhythm and was well received by the company. The Wizard added to the entertainment by making a big pie appear before Dorothy, and when the little girl cut the pie the nine tiny piglets leaped out of it and danced around the table, while the orchestra played a merry tune. This amused the company very much, but they were even more pleased when Polychrome, whose hunger had been easily satisfied, rose from the table and performed her graceful and bewildering Rainbow Dance for them. When it was ended, the people clapped their hands and the animals clapped their paws, while Billina cackled and the Donkey King brayed approval. Johnny Dooit was present, and of course he proved he could do wonders in the way of eating, as well as in everything else that he undertook to do; the Tin Woodman sang a love song, every one joining in the chorus; and the wooden soldiers from Merryland gave an exhibition of a lightning drill with their wooden muskets; the Ryls and Knooks danced the Fairy Circle; and the Rubber Bear bounced himself all around the room. There was laughter and merriment on every side, and everybody was having a royal good time. Button-Bright was so excited and interested that he paid little attention to his fine dinner and a great deal of attention to his queer companions; and perhaps he was wise to do this, because he could eat at any other time. The feasting and merrymaking continued until late in the evening, when they separated to meet again the next morning and take part in the birthday celebration, to which this royal banquet was merely the introduction. 24. The Birthday Celebration A clear, perfect day, with a gentle breeze and a sunny sky, greeted Princess Ozma as she wakened next morning, the anniversary of her birth. While it was yet early all the city was astir and crowds of people came from all parts of the Land of Oz to witness the festivities in honor of their girl Ruler's birthday. The noted visitors from foreign countries, who had all been transported to the Emerald City by means of the Magic Belt, were as much a show to the Ozites as were their own familiar celebrities, and the streets leading from the royal palace to the jeweled gates were thronged with men, women, and children to see the procession as it passed out to the green fields where the ceremonies were to take place. And what a great procession it was! First came a thousand young girls--the prettiest in the land--dressed in white muslin, with green sashes and hair ribbons, bearing green baskets of red roses. As they walked they scattered these flowers upon the marble pavements, so that the way was carpeted thick with roses for the procession to walk upon. Then came the Rulers of the four Kingdoms of Oz: the Emperor of the Winkies, the Monarch of the Munchkins, the King of the Quadlings and the Sovereign of the Gillikins, each wearing a long chain of emeralds around his neck to show that he was a vassal of the Ruler of the Emerald City. Next marched the Emerald City Cornet Band, clothed in green-and-gold uniforms and playing the "Ozma Two-Step." The Royal Army of Oz followed, consisting of twenty-seven officers, from the Captain-General down to the Lieutenants. There were no privates in Ozma's Army because soldiers were not needed to fight battles, but only to look important, and an officer always looks more imposing than a private. While the people cheered and waved their hats and handkerchiefs, there came walking the Royal Princess Ozma, looking so pretty and sweet that it is no wonder her people love her so dearly. She had decided she would not ride in her chariot that day, as she preferred to walk in the procession with her favored subjects and her guests. Just in front of her trotted the living Blue Bear Rug owned by old Dyna, which wobbled clumsily on its four feet because there was nothing but the skin to support them, with a stuffed head at one end and a stubby tail at the other. But whenever Ozma paused in her walk the Bear Rug would flop down flat upon the ground for the princess to stand upon until she resumed her progress. Following the Princess stalked her two enormous beasts, the Cowardly Lion and the Hungry Tiger, and even if the Army had not been there these two would have been powerful enough to guard their mistress from any harm. Next marched the invited guests, who were loudly cheered by the people of Oz along the road, and were therefore obliged to bow to right and left almost every step of the way. First was Santa Claus, who, because he was fat and not used to walking, rode the wonderful Saw-Horse. The merry old gentleman had a basket of small toys with him, and he tossed the toys one by one to the children as he passed by. His Ryls and Knooks marched close behind him. Queen Zixi of Ix came after; then John Dough and the Cherub, with the rubber bear named Para Bruin strutting between them on its hind legs; then the Queen of Merryland, escorted by her wooden soldiers; then King Bud of Noland and his sister, the Princess Fluff; then the Queen of Ev and her ten royal children; then the Braided Man and the Candy Man, side by side; then King Dox of Foxville and King Kik-a-bray of Dunkiton, who by this time had become good friends; and finally Johnny Dooit, in his leather apron, smoking his long pipe. These wonderful personages were not more heartily cheered by the people than were those who followed after them in the procession. Dorothy was a general favorite, and she walked arm in arm with the Scarecrow, who was beloved by all. Then came Polychrome and Button-Bright, and the people loved the Rainbow's pretty Daughter and the beautiful blue-eyed boy as soon as they saw them. The shaggy man in his shaggy new suit attracted much attention because he was such a novelty. With regular steps tramped the machine-man Tik-tok, and there was more cheering when the Wizard of Oz followed in the procession. The Woggle-Bug and Jack Pumpkinhead were next, and behind them Glinda the Sorceress and the Good Witch of the North. Finally came Billina, with her brood of chickens to whom she clucked anxiously to keep them together and to hasten them along so they would not delay the procession. Another band followed, this time the Tin Band of the Emperor of the Winkies, playing a beautiful march called, "There's No Plate Like Tin." Then came the servants of the Royal Palace, in a long line, and behind them all the people joined the procession and marched away through the emerald gates and out upon the broad green. Here had been erected a splendid pavilion, with a grandstand big enough to seat all the royal party and those who had taken part in the procession. Over the pavilion, which was of green silk and cloth of gold, countless banners waved in the breeze. Just in front of this, and connected with it by a runway had been built a broad platform, so that all the spectators could see plainly the entertainment provided for them. The Wizard now became Master of Ceremonies, as Ozma had placed the conduct of the performance in his hands. After the people had all congregated about the platform and the royal party and the visitors were seated in the grandstand, the Wizard skillfully performed some feats of juggling glass balls and lighted candles. He tossed a dozen or so of them high in the air and caught them one by one as they came down, without missing any. Then he introduced the Scarecrow, who did a sword-swallowing act that aroused much interest. After this the Tin Woodman gave an exhibition of Swinging the Axe, which he made to whirl around him so rapidly that the eye could scarcely follow the motion of the gleaming blade. Glinda the Sorceress then stepped upon the platform, and by her magic made a big tree grow in the middle of the space, made blossoms appear upon the tree, and made the blossoms become delicious fruit called tamornas, and so great was the quantity of fruit produced that when the servants climbed the tree and tossed it down to the crowd, there was enough to satisfy every person present. Para Bruin, the rubber bear, climbed to a limb of the big tree, rolled himself into a ball, and dropped to the platform, whence he bounded up again to the limb. He repeated this bouncing act several times, to the great delight of all the children present. After he had finished, and bowed, and returned to his seat, Glinda waved her wand and the tree disappeared; but its fruit still remained to be eaten. The Good Witch of the North amused the people by transforming ten stones into ten birds, the ten birds into ten lambs, and the ten lambs into ten little girls, who gave a pretty dance and were then transformed into ten stones again, just as they were in the beginning. Johnny Dooit next came on the platform with his tool-chest, and in a few minutes built a great flying machine; then put his chest in the machine and the whole thing flew away together--Johnny and all--after he had bid good-bye to those present and thanked the Princess for her hospitality. The Wizard then announced the last act of all, which was considered really wonderful. He had invented a machine to blow huge soap-bubbles, as big as balloons, and this machine was hidden under the platform so that only the rim of the big clay pipe to produce the bubbles showed above the flooring. The tank of soapsuds, and the air-pumps to inflate the bubbles, were out of sight beneath, so that when the bubbles began to grow upon the floor of the platform it really seemed like magic to the people of Oz, who knew nothing about even the common soap-bubbles that our children blow with a penny clay pipe and a basin of soap-and-water. The Wizard had invented another thing. Usually, soap-bubbles are frail and burst easily, lasting only a few moments as they float in the air; but the Wizard added a sort of glue to his soapsuds, which made his bubbles tough; and, as the glue dried rapidly when exposed to the air, the Wizard's bubbles were strong enough to float for hours without breaking. He began by blowing--by means of his machinery and air-pumps--several large bubbles which he allowed to float upward into the sky, where the sunshine fell upon them and gave them iridescent hues that were most beautiful. This aroused much wonder and delight because it was a new amusement to every one present--except perhaps Dorothy and Button-Bright, and even they had never seen such big, strong bubbles before. The Wizard then blew a bunch of small bubbles and afterward blew a big bubble around them so they were left in the center of it; then he allowed the whole mass of pretty globes to float into the air and disappear in the far distant sky. "That is really fine!" declared Santa Claus, who loved toys and pretty things. "I think, Mr. Wizard, I shall have you blow a bubble around me; then I can float away home and see the country spread out beneath me as I travel. There isn't a spot on earth that I haven't visited, but I usually go in the night-time, riding behind my swift reindeer. Here is a good chance to observe the country by daylight, while I am riding slowly and at my ease." "Do you think you will be able to guide the bubble?" asked the Wizard. "Oh yes; I know enough magic to do that," replied Santa Claus. "You blow the bubble, with me inside of it, and I'll be sure to get home in safety." "Please send me home in a bubble, too!" begged the Queen of Merryland. "Very well, madam; you shall try the journey first," politely answered old Santa. The pretty wax doll bade good-bye to the Princess Ozma and the others and stood on the platform while the Wizard blew a big soap-bubble around her. When completed, he allowed the bubble to float slowly upward, and there could be seen the little Queen of Merryland standing in the middle of it and blowing kisses from her fingers to those below. The bubble took a southerly direction, quickly floating out of sight. "That's a very nice way to travel," said Princess Fluff. "I'd like to go home in a bubble, too." So the Wizard blew a big bubble around Princess Fluff, and another around King Bud, her brother, and a third one around Queen Zixi; and soon these three bubbles had mounted into the sky and were floating off in a group in the direction of the kingdom of Noland. The success of these ventures induced the other guests from foreign lands to undertake bubble journeys, also; so the Wizard put them one by one inside his bubbles, and Santa Claus directed the way they should go, because he knew exactly where everybody lived. Finally, Button-Bright said: "I want to go home, too." "Why, so you shall!" cried Santa; "for I'm sure your father and mother will be glad to see you again. Mr. Wizard, please blow a big, fine bubble for Button-Bright to ride in, and I'll agree to send him home to his family as safe as safe can be." "I'm sorry," said Dorothy with a sigh, for she was fond of her little comrade; "but p'raps it's best for Button-Bright to get home; 'cause his folks must be worrying just dreadful." She kissed the boy, and Ozma kissed him, too, and all the others waved their hands and said good-bye and wished him a pleasant journey. "Are you glad to leave us, dear?" asked Dorothy, a little wistfully. "Don't know," said Button-Bright. He sat down cross-legged on the platform, with his sailor hat tipped back on his head, and the Wizard blew a beautiful bubble all around him. A minute later it had mounted into the sky, sailing toward the west, and the last they saw of Button-Bright he was still sitting in the middle of the shining globe and waving his sailor hat at those below. "Will you ride in a bubble, or shall I send you and Toto home by means of the Magic Belt?" the Princess asked Dorothy. "Guess I'll use the Belt," replied the little girl. "I'm sort of 'fraid of those bubbles." "Bow-wow!" said Toto, approvingly. He loved to bark at the bubbles as they sailed away, but he didn't care to ride in one. Santa Claus decided to go next. He thanked Ozma for her hospitality and wished her many happy returns of the day. Then the Wizard blew a bubble around his chubby little body and smaller bubbles around each of his Ryls and Knooks. As the kind and generous friend of children mounted into the air the people all cheered at the top of their voices, for they loved Santa Claus dearly; and the little man heard them through the walls of his bubble and waved his hands in return as he smiled down upon them. The band played bravely while every one watched the bubble until it was completely out of sight. "How 'bout you, Polly?" Dorothy asked her friend. "Are you 'fraid of bubbles, too?" "No," answered Polychrome, smiling; "but Santa Claus promised to speak to my father as he passed through the sky. So perhaps I shall get home an easier way." Indeed, the little maid had scarcely made this speech when a sudden radiance filled the air, and while the people looked on in wonder the end of a gorgeous rainbow slowly settled down upon the platform. With a glad cry, the Rainbow's Daughter sprang from her seat and danced along the curve of the bow, mounting gradually upward, while the folds of her gauzy gown whirled and floated around her like a cloud and blended with the colors of the rainbow itself. "Good-bye Ozma! Good-bye Dorothy!" cried a voice they knew belonged to Polychrome; but now the little maiden's form had melted wholly into the rainbow, and their eyes could no longer see her. Suddenly, the end of the rainbow lifted and its colors slowly faded like mist before a breeze. Dorothy sighed deeply and turned to Ozma. "I'm sorry to lose Polly," she said; "but I guess she's better off with her father; 'cause even the Land of Oz couldn't be like home to a cloud fairy." "No indeed," replied the Princess; "but it has been delightful for us to know Polychrome for a little while, and--who knows?--perhaps we may meet the Rainbow's Daughter again, some day." The entertainment being now ended, all left the pavilion and formed their gay procession back to the Emerald City again. Of Dorothy's recent traveling companions only Toto and the shaggy man remained, and Ozma had decided to allow the latter to live in Oz for a time, at least. If he proved honest and true she promised to let him live there always, and the shaggy man was anxious to earn this reward. They had a nice quiet dinner together and passed a pleasant evening with the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodman, Tik-tok, and the Yellow Hen for company. When Dorothy bade them good-night, she kissed them all good-bye at the same time. For Ozma had agreed that while Dorothy slept she and Toto should be transported by means of the Magic Belt to her own little bed in the Kansas farm-house and the little girl laughed as she thought how astonished Uncle Henry and Aunt Em would be when she came down to breakfast with them next morning. Quite content to have had so pleasant an adventure, and a little tired by all the day's busy scenes, Dorothy clasped Toto in her arms and lay down upon the pretty white bed in her room in Ozma's royal palace. Presently she was sound asleep. 
33221	----	FATHER BRIGHTHOPES OR AN OLD CLERGYMAN'S VACATION BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE AUTHOR OF "NEIGHBOR JACKWOOD," "CUDJO'S CAVE," "LUCY ARLYN," ETC., ETC. NEW YORK HURST & COMPANY PUBLISHERS [Illustration] PREFACE. "Go through the gate, children," said my aunt, "if you wish to see the garden." I looked out upon half a dozen merry urchins scaling the garden fence. One had already jumped down into a blackberry-bush, which filled him with disgust and prickles. Another, having thrust his curly head between two rails, stuck fast, and began to cry out against the owner of the grounds--my benevolent uncle--as the author of his calamity. Then it occurred to me that the prefatory leaf of a volume is like yonder wicket. The garden is not complete without it, although many reckless young people rush to the enclosure, creeping under and climbing over at any place, in order to plunge at once amid the fruits and flowers. But the wise always go through the gate; and the little fellow who leaps among the briers or hangs himself in the fence has only himself to blame for the misfortune. So I resolved to put together this little wicket of a preface; and now, as I throw it open to my friends, let me say a few words about the garden-walks I have prepared. That they contain some things beautiful, as well as useful, is my sincere trust. Yet I warn thee, ardent youth, and thee, romantic maid, that you will find no hothouse plants, no frail exotics, here. I may promise you some stout sunflowers, however,--pinks, pea-blossoms and peonies,--also a few fresh roses, born in the free country air. Scorn not these homely scenes, my friends; for you may perchance find the morning-glory of Truth blooming at your side; the vine of Hope overarching your path like a rainbow; yea, and the tree of Life growing in the midst of the garden. I hope no one will complain of the gay birds singing and fluttering among the boughs; for they can do but slight damage to the sober fruit, and the visitor may owe it to their cheerful strains if he is preserved from drowsiness amid the odors of the poppy-beds. CONTENTS. PREFACE I. A "United Happy Family." II. Chester III. Evening at the Farm-house IV. The Old Clergyman V. Chester's Confession VI. Morning at the Farm VII. Clouds and Sunshine VIII. Country Scenes IX. Mark, the Jockey X. Company XI. The Lovely and the Unloved XII. Domestic Economy XIII. Talk by the Way XIV. Deacon Dustan's Policy XV. The Philosophy of a Wooden Leg XVI. Going to Meeting XVII. Father Brighthopes in the Pulpit XVIII. Mr. Kerchey XIX. Monday Morning XX. The Hay-field XXI. The Swamp-lot XXII. The Fight and the Victory XXIII. Saturday Afternoon XXIV. The Thunder-storm XXV. A Stream of Peace XXVI. The Rainy Day XXVII. "Old Folks and Young Folks" XXVIII. Mr. Kerchey's Daring Exploit XXIX. Mrs. Royden's Dinner-party XXX. The Old Clergyman's Farewell XXXI. The Departure XXXII. Reunion XXXIII. Conclusion FATHER BRIGHTHOPES; OR, AN OLD CLERGYMAN'S VACATION. I. A "UNITED HAPPY FAMILY." There was an unpleasant scowl on Mr. Royden's face, as he got out of his wagon in the yard, and walked, with a quick pace, towards the rear entrance of his house. "Samuel!" said he, looking into the wood-shed, "what are you about?" The sharp tone of voice gave Samuel quite a start. He was filling a small flour-sack with walnuts from a bushel-basket placed upon the work-bench, his left hand holding the mouth of the bag, while his right made industrious use of a tin dipper. "O, nothing,--nothing much!" he stammered, losing his hold of the sack, and making a hasty attempt to recover it. "There! blast it all!" The sack had fallen down, and spilled its contents all over his feet. "What _are_ you doing with those nuts?" demanded Mr. Royden, impatiently. "Why, you see," replied the lad, grinning sheepishly, as he began to gather up the spilled treasure, "I'm making--a piller." "A what?" "A piller,--to sleep on. There an't but two feathers in the one on my bed, and they are so lean I can't feel 'em." "What foolishness!" muttered Mr. Royden, smiling notwithstanding his ill-humor. "But let your _pillow_ alone for the present, and take care of the horse." "The bag won't stand up, if I leave it." "Then let it fall down; or set it against the wood-pile. Go and do as I bid you." Samuel reluctantly left his occupation, and went lazily to unharness the horse, while Mr. Royden entered the old-fashioned kitchen. The appearance of her uncle was anything but agreeable to poor Hepsy Royden, who stood on a stool at the sink,--her deformed little body being very short,--engaged in preparing some vegetables for cooking. Tears were coursing down her sickly cheeks, and her hands being in the water, it was not convenient to wipe her eyes. But, knowing how Mr. Royden hated tears, she made a hasty snatch at a towel to conceal them. He was just in time to observe the movement. "Now, what is the matter?" he exclaimed, fretfully. "I never see you, lately, but you are crying." Hepsy choked back her swelling grief, and pursued her work in silence. "What ails you, child?" "I can't tell. I--I wish I was different," she murmured, consulting the towel again; "but I am not very happy." "Come, come! cheer up!" rejoined Mr. Royden, more kindly, feeling a slight moisture in his own eyes. "Don't be so down-hearted!" His words sounded to him like mockery. It was easy to say to a poor, sickly, deformed girl "Be cheerful!" but how could cheerfulness be expected of one in her condition? He passed hastily into the adjoining room; and Hepsy sobbed audibly over the sink. She was even more miserable than he could conceive of. It was not her unattractive face and curved spine, in themselves, that caused her deep grief,--although she had longed, till her heart ached with longing, to be like her beautiful cousins,--but she felt that she was an unloved one, repulsive even to those who regarded her with friendly pity. Mr. Royden had left the door unlatched behind him, and Hepsy heard him speak to his wife. Her heart swelled with thankfulness when he alluded to herself; and the feeling with which he spoke surprised her, and made her almost happy. "You should not put too much on the poor child," he said. "O, la!" replied Mrs. Royden; "she don't hurt herself, I hope." "She is very feeble and low-spirited," continued the other. "You shouldn't send her out there in the kitchen to work alone. Keep her more with you, and try to make her cheerful. Her lot would be a hard one enough, if she had all the luxuries of life at her command. Do be kind to her!" Had Mr. Royden known what a comfort those few words, so easily spoken, proved to Hepsy's sensitive heart, he would have blessed the good angel that whispered them in his ear. She wept still; but now her tears were a relief, and she dried them soon. She felt happier than she had done in many days before; and when she heard his voice calling her in the other room, she ran cheerfully to learn what he wished of her. "Sarah has got a letter from Chester, and he sends his love to you," said he. "Read what he writes, Sarah." Sarah stood by a window, eagerly running her clear blue eye over her brother's letter. Hepsy, trembling with agitation, looked up at her rosy face, and shrank into the corner by the chimney to avoid observation. At first she had turned very pale, but now her cheeks burned with blushes. "Why, he says he is coming home in a week!" cried Sarah. Mrs. Royden uttered an exclamation of surprise, looking up from her sewing; Hepsy shrank still further in the corner, and Mr. Royden asked, impatiently, "What boyish freak is that?" "He does not explain. There is some mystery about it," replied Sarah. "I warrant he has been getting into trouble." "If he has, he shall stay at home and work on the farm!" exclaimed her father, in a tone of displeasure. "Read the letter aloud, now, so that we can all hear it." Sarah commenced at the beginning, and went through with the four hastily-written pages. The listeners were very attentive; Hepsy especially. She fixed her expressive eyes on her cousin with a look of intense interest. When allusion was made to her, the poor girl's countenance lighted up with pleasure, and her tears gathered again, but did not fall. "O, a letter!--who from?" cried a ringing voice. The interruption was a relief to Hepsy. The children had returned from the fields; they entered the sitting-room like a little band of barbarians, with Lizzie--a girl some twelve years old--at their head, laughing, talking, screaming, in an almost frightful manner. "Hush! hush!" exclaimed Mr. Royden, putting down his foot, impatiently. "Children!" said Mrs. Royden, with contracted brows, "you don't know how your noise shoots through my poor old head! You drive me distracted!" "Lizzie runned away from me!" bawled a little bareheaded fellow, with a face red as an Indian's, and not very clean. "The old thing! I'll strike her." And the young hero, wiping his face with his sleeve, made a savage dash at his sister, with intent to scratch and bite. But Lizzie repelled the attack, holding him at a safe distance by the hair. Upon this, he shifted his mode of attack, and resorted to kicking, with even worse success; for, losing his balance, he fell, and came down upon the back of his head, with a jar which showed him many stars in the firmament of his cranium. "I never saw such actions!" muttered Mrs. Royden, putting aside her sewing with an ominous gesture, and hastening to the scene of the disaster. Lizzie dodged, but not in time to avoid several smart cuffs which her mother bestowed on her ears. "I couldn't help it,--he threw himself down!" exclaimed the girl, angrily, and with flashing eyes. "What did you run away from him for?" "I didn't! He stopped to throw stones at the birds, and wanted us to wait. Didn't he, Georgie?" "Yes, he did," said Georgie. "And he said he'd tell that we ran away from him, if we didn't wait." "I didn't!" exclaimed the boy on the floor kicking at a furious rate. "Stop that!" said Mr. Royden. "Willie, do you hear?" Willie kicked harder than ever, and began to tear his collar with his dirty hands. Mrs. Royden could not stand and see that. "Why don't you govern him, when you set out to?" she asked, rather sharply, of her husband. "There! there! Willie will get up and be a good boy," he rejoined, coaxingly. But Willie did not; and his mother, picking him up very suddenly, shook him till his teeth chattered and it seemed his head must fly off; then set him down in a little chair, so roughly that the dishes rattled in the pantry as if shaken by an earthquake. "Mother! mother!" said Mr. Royden, hastily, "you'll injure that child's brain!" "I believe in making children mind, when I set about it," replied his wife, winding up her treatment with a pair of well-balanced cuffs on Willie's ears. "There!--how does that set? Will you be so naughty again?" The urchin was quite breathless and confused; but as soon as he had gathered strength, and collected his senses, he set up a yell of rage, which might have been heard half a mile; upon which Mrs. Royden snatched him up, and landed him in a clothes-press, before he knew what new disaster was going to happen. His cries grew fainter and fainter to the ears of the family in the sitting-room, until, the dungeon door being closed, they were muffled and smothered altogether. His mother, having disposed of him, reappeared in one of her worst humors. "Go about your work, Hepsy!" she cried. "Lizzie, go and wash George's face. Stop your sniveling! What are you running off for, Sarah?" "To get out of the noise," said Sarah. "I've as good a mind to box your ears as ever I had to eat!" exclaimed her mother. "Sit down and finish that seam, you saucy thing!" Sarah sat down, with a very wry face, while Mr. Royden, looking melancholy and displeased, left the house. By dinner-time the children had worn off their ill temper, and Mrs. Royden had recovered her equanimity. "Come, now, let us see if we can't have peace in the family," said Mr. Royden, as he sat down at the table, addressing the children, but intending the words for his wife's ear as well. "Sammy keeps making faces at me!" complained Willie, whose eyes were still red with crying. "O, I didn't!" exclaimed Samuel, with great candor. "I seen him!" said Georgie. "I was only doing _so_,"--and Sam, throwing his head to one side, winked with his left eye and looked up at the ceiling with the other. "What did you do that for?" asked Mr. Royden, beginning to feel irritated again. "I was thinking how the old goose does when she thinks it's going to rain," replied Sam, performing the operation again, to the amusement of the children. Mr. Royden smiled. "Haven't you anything else to do but to watch the old goose?" he asked, pleasantly. "How about that pillow?" "O, that's fixed! I'm going to sleep on it to-night, to try it." "Hepsy,"--Mr. Royden seemed just to have discovered that she was not at the table,--"there's room for you. Why don't you sit down?" "O, she'd just as lief wait and tend the baby," said Mrs. Royden. "But the baby is still." "She wants to read our Chester's letter," spoke up James, a lad of fifteen, so loud that Hepsy could hear him in the next room. "Come, Hepsy! come and eat your dinner," cried Mr. Royden. She said she was not hungry; but he insisted; and she sat down at the table, looking very pale, and with really no appetite. Mr. Royden then proceeded to disclose the news which had probably occasioned the unpleasant scowl on his features, at his return from the post-office, two hours before. He said he had received a letter from his cousin Rensford, the clergyman, who proposed to visit them in the course of one or two weeks. "His health is feeble, and he wants a vacation in the country. He expects me to write, if it will be perfectly convenient for us to have him here a month or so." "I don't know how we can, any way in the world," said Mrs. Royden. "O, I hope he won't come!" cried James. "If he does, we can't have any fun,--with his long face." "Ministers are so hateful!" added Lizzie. "He shan't come!" cried Georgie, flourishing his knife. "Hush, children!" said Mrs. Royden, petulantly. "Put down that knife, Georgie!" "We want a good, respectable private chaplain, to keep the young ones still," quietly remarked Sarah. "You used to be just like them," said her mother. "If you'd do half as much for them as I have done for you, there wouldn't be much trouble with them." "How does that fit?" slyly asked James, pinching his sister's elbow. "Samuel Cone!" exclaimed Mrs. Royden, sternly; "take your plate and go away from the table!" "Why, what has he done now?" inquired her husband. "He put a piece of potato in Willie's neck. Samuel, do you hear?" "Yes 'm," said Sam, giggling and preparing to obey. Willie had laughed at first at the tickling sensation, but now he began to cry. "It's gone clear down!" he whined, pressing his clothes tight to his breast. "You old ugly--" He struck at Sam, just as the latter was removing from the table. The consequence was, Sam's plate was knocked out of his hand and broken in pieces on the floor. The lad saw Mrs. Royden starting from her chair, and ran as if for his life. "Now, don't, mother! Let me manage," said Mr. Royden. She sat down again, as if with a great effort. "You are welcome to manage, if you choose to. Willie, stop kicking the table! Take that potato out of his clothes, Sarah. Hepsy, why don't you clean up the floor, without being told?" "See how much mischief you do, with your fooling," said Mr. Royden, with a severe look at Sam. The boy cast down his eyes, kicking the door-post with his big toe. "Come back, now, and eat your dinner. See if you can behave yourself." "He don't deserve to have a mouthful," exclaimed Mrs. Royden. "What you ever took him to bring up for, I can't conceive; I should think we had children enough of our own, to make us trouble!" "He's old enough to know better. Come and finish your dinner." "I don't want no dinner!" muttered Sam. But he did not require much urging. Half ashamed, and grinning from ear to ear, he took his place again at the table, Hepsy having brought a fresh plate. Meanwhile Sarah had pacified Willie, and recovered the fragments of potato that had wandered down into his trousers. Peace being restored, the subject of the clergyman's visit was resumed by Mr. Royden. "I don't know how we can refuse him; it will be disagreeable, on all sides, for him to be here." "He will not suit us; and I am sure we shall not suit him," replied Mrs. Royden. "He will want to study and be quiet; and, unless he stays in his room all the time, and shuts out the children, I don't know what he will do. More than all that, I couldn't think of having him around the house, any way in the world." "I wish I knew what to do about it," muttered Mr. Royden, scowling. "I want you to do just as you think best, now that you have my opinion on the subject." This was a way Mrs. Royden had of shirking responsibilities. Her husband smiled bitterly. "If I decide for him to come," said he, "and his visit proves disagreeable, I shall be the only one to blame. But I suppose there is but one course to pursue. We cannot refuse the hospitality of our house; but I sincerely wish he had chosen any other place to spend his vacation." "It is so strange he should think of coming among plain farmers, in the country!" observed Mrs. Royden. "O, don't have him here!" cried the younger children, in chorus. Although there was a large majority of voices against him, Mr. Royden concluded that Sarah might reply to the clergyman's letter, after dinner, telling him pretty plainly how he would be situated if he came; and say that, notwithstanding their circumstances, they would be glad to see him. "After this," said he, "I should hardly think he would come. But, if he does, we must try and make the best of it." II. CHESTER. It was on a warm and beautiful afternoon, several days subsequent to the scenes just described, when little Willie, who was catching flies on the sitting-room window, suddenly cried out, at the top of his voice, "There comes Ches', full garlick! I guess the witches are after him!" There was a general rush to the window. Willie had spoken truly. There, indeed, was Chester, riding down the road, _full gallop_, yet hardly with the air of one pursued by hags. He sat the horse bravely, and waved his graceful hand to the faces at the window. Scrambling and screaming with joy, the children ran to the door to meet their brother. Only Hepsy remained in the sitting-room. Her poor heart beat fearfully, her breath came very short, and she was pale, faint and trembling. She had neither strength nor courage to go forward and welcome her cousin. Samuel came from the garden, James from the barn, and the three younger children from the house, to meet Chester at the gate. The latter swung himself from the saddle, and catching up Willie, who had climbed the fence, tossed him playfully upon the horse's back. "How are you, chuck?" he cried, kissing Lizzie. "Folks all well? Why, Jim, how you have grown!" "O! O! O!" screamed Willie, afraid of falling, as Sam led the horse into the yard; "take me down!" "Don't you want to ride?" asked Chester. "No! I'll fall! O!" Chester laughed, and took him off, kissing his tanned cheek, before he set him upon the turf. "I want to ride!" cried Lizzie. "Do you?" laughed her brother. He threw her up so suddenly that she found herself in a position rather more becoming to boys than girls. The children shouted while she hastily shifted sidewise on the saddle, and Chester put her foot in the stirrup-strap. "I want to ride, too!" cried Georgie, clinging to his brother's legs. "Well, we'll see if the pony will carry double. Hold him tight by the bridle, Sam." Sam liked no better fun. He held the horse while Chester put up George behind Lizzie. The animal curled back his ears, but did not seem to mind it much. George was so delighted with his position, that Willie, who had abdicated his seat voluntarily, now began to cry with envy. "Do you want to ride now?" said Chester. "Hold fast to Georgie, then." He put him up, and the child laughed gleefully before his tears were dry. James looked as if he would like to ride, too, but was too manly to speak of it. "Hold tight, Willie!" said he. "I will!" cried the urchin, hugging Georgie with all his might. "O! you hurt!" roared Georgie. "There's a pop-gun in my jacket pocket, and you squeeze it right into my side." Chester reached up, and removed the pop-gun, much to Georgie's relief. "Now lead on to the barn, Sam," said he,--"slowly. Don't let the young ones get hurt, when you take them off." "Let me drive," cried Lizzie. Sam looked up for Chester's approval, and abandoned the reins to the young lady. The horse moved on towards the barn, good-naturedly, as if he was used to such nonsense. Chester could not help laughing to see Willie hug Georgie with all his might; his brown cheeks pressed close against his brother's jacket, and his little bare feet sticking out almost straight on each side, his legs being very short, and the animal's back very broad. While the young man stood there laughing, some one clasped him from behind, and kissed his cheek. "Sarah! my dearest sister!" cried Chester, folding her in his arms; "I am glad to see you! How beautiful you grow!" "You can well afford to say that," replied Sarah, gazing with undisguised admiration at his handsome face, and curling black whiskers. "O! I should hardly have known you!" Chester laughed, well pleased with the praise implied, and, clasping her waist, was dancing with her towards the house, when the screams of little Willie attracted their attention. Looking round, they saw the boy Sam, who had a rare genius for mischief, tickling the bottom of Willie's foot with a twig. The latter could not help himself; kicking was impracticable, considering his position, and to disengage a hand from George's waist would have endangered his neck by a fall. The little fellow was completely at the mercy of Sam, who walked by the horse, plying the twig, and laughing with infinite good-nature. "Sam! you rascal!" cried Chester; "let that boy alone." "I'm only keeping the flies off his foot," replied Sam, candidly. "Well, if you don't take care, I'll keep the flies off your back with a larger stick than that! Why do you want to spoil the little shaver's ride in that way?" By this time, Willie, feeling deeply injured, began to bellow, and Lizzie was obliged to drive twice around the big wood-pile, in the center of the yard, to pacify him. Mrs. Royden met Chester in the doorway, and kissed him affectionately. She proposed half a dozen leading questions with regard to his conduct, his health and his designs, almost in a breath; all of which he answered equivocally, or postponed altogether. "Where is Hepsy?" he asked, throwing himself on a chair, and wiping the sweat from his fine forehead with a perfumed handkerchief. "She'll come soon enough," replied his mother, in a disagreeable tone. "Have _you_ got to using _perfumes_, Chester?" The young man flirted his handkerchief, smiling disdainfully, and said he "supposed he had." "For my part, I think they are very nice," added the admiring Sarah. "Do you, Sis? Well, you shall have as much of them as you want, when my trunks come." "Where are your trunks?" asked Mrs. Royden. "At the tavern. I was in a hurry to come home; so I hired a saddle and galloped over the road. Let one of the boys harness up, and go for the luggage." "Why, your father has gone to the village himself. Didn't you meet him?" "No; he must have gone by the west road. I wonder if he will stop at the tavern? If he does, the landlord will tell him my traps are there." "I presume he will go to the tavern, child. We are expecting his cousin Rensford, the clergyman, to-day, and your father went as much to bring him over as anything." "Pshaw! the old minister?" cried Chester. "How long is he going to stay?" "I hope not a great while," said Sarah. "Anything but a minister--out of the pulpit." "He'll just spoil my visit," rejoined her brother. "He has been here, hasn't he? I think I remember seeing him, when I was about so high," measuring off the door-post. "He spent the night here, several years ago; but we don't know much about him, only by hearsay. He's a very good man, we are told," said Mrs. Royden, with a sigh; "but how we are going to have him in the family, I don't know." Chester changed the topic of conversation by once inquiring for Hepsy. The girl did not make her appearance; and he expressed a desire to "see a basin of water and a hair-brush." "You shall have the parlor bedroom," said Sarah. "But if Mr. Rensford comes--" suggested her mother. "O, he can go up-stairs." "I won't hear to that!" cried Chester. "Give the old man the luxuries. I want to see the inside of my old room again." "But Hepsy and the children have that room now." "Never mind; I want to look into it. So bring up a basin of water, Sis." The young man went up-stairs. He heard a flutter as he was about entering his old room. He went in; and Hepsy, pale, palpitating, speechless, caught in the act of arranging her brown hair,--which, like her eyes, was really beautiful,--shrank from his sight behind the door. "Hillo! so I've found you!" he exclaimed, heartily. "I've been hunting the house through for you. Are you afraid of your cousin?" The blood rushed into the poor girl's face, as she gave him her quivering hand. He did not kiss her, as he had kissed his sisters; but he pressed her hand kindly, and spoke to her in a very brotherly tone, inquiring how she was, and expressing delight at seeing her again. As soon as she had recovered her self-possession, her eyes began to beam with pleasure, and her tongue found words. When Sarah came up, the two were sitting side by side upon a trunk; and Chester was rattling away at a great rate, telling his poor cousin of his adventures. He went into another room to perform his ablutions, and Hepsy was left alone, her veins thrilling, her head dizzy, and all her nerves unstrung. The meeting, the surprise, the agitation and the joy, had been too much for her sensitive nature; and she sought relief in a flood of tears. Chester was very restless. Scarcely was he seated again in the sitting-room, with his cravat freshly-tied, and his hair and whiskers newly-curled, when he thought of a call he wished to make before night. His mother scolded him dreadfully for running off so soon; but he did not mind it, and ordered Sam to bring his horse to the door. The children were all around him, begging him not to go; but Willie encouraged the idea, provided he could go too, and ride behind. "O, you can't ride this time," said Chester. "Yes, I can. Sam tickled my foot; I couldn't ride good before," whined the child. But his brother did not acknowledge his claims to indemnification, and mounted the horse. Willie began to cry, and, seizing a hoe, charged upon Samuel furiously, as the author of all his woes. Chester laughed; but his mother cried out from the doorway, "Do let him ride! Why can't you?" and he called Sam to put the little hero up. He took him over the pommel of the saddle, and galloped away in fine style, leaving George crying with envy. Willie was delighted, feeling no fear in Chester's arms; and when the latter asked him, in a coaxing tone, if he would go back, the little fellow said he would; and his brother swung him down by the arm from the saddle-bow. He went trudging through the sand, to meet the other children, and brag of his ride while the young man galloped gayly over the hill. III. EVENING AT THE FARM-HOUSE. It was dusk when Chester returned. Riding up to the barn-door, he found Sam trying to make the cat draw a basket of eggs by a twine harness. Sam jumped up quickly, having cast off the traces, and began to whistle very innocently. The cat in harness darted around the corner, and disappeared in the shadows; while the mischief-maker swung the eggs on his arm, and, appearing suddenly to have observed Chester, stopped whistling, out of respect. "What are you doing to that cat?" cried the young man. "What cat? O!" said Sam, candidly, "she's got tangled in a string somehow, and I was trying to get her out." "What a talent you have for lying!" laughed Chester. "Now, do you think you can take this horse over to the village without getting into some kind of a scrape?" "O, yes!" "Will you ride slow?" "I won't go out of a walk," exclaimed Sam, positively. "O, you may trot him, or go on a slow gallop, if you like; but don't ride fast, for he is jaded. Leave him at the tavern, and come home as fast as you like." Sam was delighted with the idea; and, having put the eggs in a safe place, mounted the horse from the block, and galloped him slowly down the road. In a little while he began to look back, and touch the animal gently with the whip, when he thought he was out of sight. Racing appeared to Sam to be capital fun. Instead of taking the nearest way to the village, he turned at the first cross-road, along which he could pursue his harmless amusement in a quiet and unostentatious manner. In a few minutes he had lashed the horse into what is familiarly termed a "keen jump." The fences, the stones, the grove, with its deepening shadows, seemed to be on a "keen jump" in the opposite direction. The boy screamed with delight, and still plied the whip. Suddenly his straw hat was taken off by the wind, and went fluttering over the animal's crupper. This was an unforeseen catastrophe; and, fearing lest he should not be able to find the lost article on his return, Sam attempted to slacken speed. But the animal manifested a perfect indifference to all his efforts. He sawed on the bit, and cried _whoa_, in vain. Frank was not a horse to be whipped for nothing, and he now meant to have his share of the fun. He seemed almost to fly. The rider became alarmed, and, to increase his fright, his left foot slipped out of the stirrup. In an instant he found himself bounding in a fearful manner over the pommel, then on the animal's neck. He cleared his right foot, abandoned the reins, and clung to saddle and mane with all his might. But he somehow lost his balance; he then experienced a disagreeable sensation of falling; and, after a confused series of disasters, of which he had but a numb and sickening consciousness, he made a discovery of himself, creeping out of a brier-bush, on the road-side. The first object that attracted his attention was a riderless horse darting up the next hill, a quarter of a mile off; and here we must leave the bold adventurer, limping slowly, and with much trouble, over the road, in the dim hope of catching, at some future time, a fleet animal, going at the rate of fifteen miles an hour. After sending Sam with the horse, Chester walked towards the house; but the family there assembled appearing to be in a sad state of confusion generally, he stopped before reaching the door. Willie was shrieking in the shed, and striking his cousin Hepsy, because she insisted on washing his feet before putting him to bed. Georgie was in the kitchen, blubbering sullenly; he had seen Sam trot Frank out of the yard, and was angry at losing the ride he had anticipated on Chester's return. Lizzie was trying to get a book away from Sarah, with much ado, and Mrs. Royden was scolding promiscuously. "What a home to cheer a fellow, after six months' absence!" murmured the young man, feeling sick at heart; "and it would seem so easy to make it cheerful and pleasant!" He turned away, and, walking into the orchard, met his brother James. "Hasn't father returned?" he asked. "Oh, yes; two hours ago." "Did he bring my trunks?" "Yes," said James; "and a load he had of it. The old minister is come, with baggage enough of his own to last, I should think, a year or two." Chester expressed some disagreeable sentiments touching the old clergyman's visit, and walked with James into the lane, behind the barn, to find his father. Mr. Royden was rejoiced to meet his long-absent son. "You milk the old red cow yet, I see," said Chester. "Yes," replied his father, continuing the humble occupation; "I suppose I shall have to as long as we keep her." "How many times that foot of hers has knocked over a frothing pail for me!" rejoined Chester. "I don't know why it is, but nobody except me can do anything with her," said Mr. Royden. "The hired men are as afraid of her foot as of a streak of lightning. Sometimes, when I am away, the boys try to milk her; but she thinks she has a perfect right to knock them around as she pleases. I believe it is because they are not gentle; they fool with her, and milk so slow that she gets out of patience; then, when she kicks, they whip her. That's no way, James. You see, I never have any trouble with her. I'd rather milk her than any cow in the yard; I never knew her to kick but once or twi--" "This is the third time!" said Chester, laughing. While his father was speaking the cow's foot had made one of its sudden and rapid evolutions. The pail was overturned; the milk was running along the ground, and the animal was running down the lane. Mr. Royden got up from the stool, and looked at mischief she had done, with a blank expression. "You didn't get spattered, I hope?" said he. "No, I think not;" and Chester passed his hand over his clothes. "Shall I head her off?" asked James. "No. I had just finished." "That's just the time she always kicks, father." "I know it; and I ought to have been on the lookout. She don't like to have any talking going on during the business of milking. Come, let us go to the house." The children had been put to bed; the candles were lighted, and the sitting-room looked quite cheerful. "What made you stay so long, Chester?" asked Mrs. Royden. "You haven't had any supper, have you?" "Yes; the Dustans invited me to tea." "And did you walk home?" "Walk! No, indeed, I rode." "But you are not going to keep that horse over night, on expense, I hope," said Mrs. Royden. Chester replied that he had sent Sam with him to the village. "Now, that boy will do some mischief with him, you may depend! Why couldn't you walk over from the tavern in the first place, instead of hiring a horse? You shouldn't be so careless of expense, Chester." The young man began to whistle. The entrance of Sarah seemed a relief to him; and he immediately proposed a game of whist. His mother opposed him strenuously, saying that she wanted him to talk, and tell all about his fortunes and prospects, that evening; but it was his object to avoid all conversation touching his own conduct, in presence of the family. "Come, Jim," said he, "where are the cards? Will Hepsy play?" "Hepsy is busy," replied Mrs. Royden, curtly. "If you must play, Lizzy will make up the set." "But the minister?" suggested Lizzie. "Yes," said her mother. "It will not do to play before him." "He has gone to bed, I am pretty sure," cried Sarah. "He was very tired, and it is all still in his room." "Let us have a little sport, then, when we can," said Chester. The table was set out; the players took their places, and the cards were shuffled and dealt. "They don't know one card from another over at Deacon Smith's," observed Sarah, sorting her hand. "I never knew such stupid people." "What is that,--a knave or a king?" inquired Lizzie, holding up one of her cards. "Don't you know better than to show your hand?" cried James, who was her partner. "It's a knave, of course. The king has no legs." "You needn't be so cross about it!" murmured Lizzie. "If you don't know how to play," retorted her brother, "you'd better let Hepsy take your place." "Children!" cried Mrs. Royden, "if you can't get along without quarreling, I will burn every card I find in the house. Now, do you mark my word!" To keep peace, Chester proposed to take Lizzie for his partner; a new hand was dealt, and the play went on. "I wish," said Mrs. Royden, as her husband entered the room, "I wish you would make the children give up their whist for this evening." But Mr. Royden liked to have his family enjoy themselves; and, as long as cards kept them good-natured, he was glad to see them play. He sat down by the side-table, opened a fresh newspaper he had brought from the village, adjusted his glasses on his nose, and began to read. IV. THE OLD CLERGYMAN. In a little while, Hepsy came in from the kitchen, having finished her work, and, timidly drawing a chair near the whist-table, sat down to watch the game. "I don't want Hepsy looking over my shoulder!" exclaimed Lizzie, with an expression of disgust. "If you would let her tell you a little about the game, you would get along full as well," observed James, sarcastically. "I don't want _her_ to tell me!" "Hepsy," spoke up Mrs. Royden, "why don't you take your sewing? You won't do any good there." "Do let her look on, if it interests her," said Mr. Royden, impatiently putting down his paper, and lifting his glasses. "Don't keep her at work all the time." But Hepsy, the moment Lizzie spoke, had shrank away from the table, with an expression of intense pain on her unattractive face. "Come here, Hepsy," said Chester, drawing a chair for her to his side; "you may look over my shoulder. Come!" The girl hesitated, while the big tears gathered in her eyes; but he extended his hand, and, taking hers, made her sit down. After he had played his card, he laid his arm familiarly across the back of her chair. Her face burned, and seemed to dry up the tears which had glistened, but did not fall. Mr. Royden took up his paper again with an air of satisfaction; his wife looked sternly reconciled, and plied her sewing vigorously. The play went on pleasantly; Lizzie feeling so thoroughly ashamed of her unkindness to Hepsy--which she would not have thought of but for Chester's rebuke--that she did not speak another disagreeable word during the evening. "Put the cards under the table,--quick!" suddenly exclaimed James. "What's the matter?" asked Sarah. "The minister is coming!" he added, in a fearful whisper. Footsteps were indeed heard approaching from the parlor. The young people were in a great flurry, and Sarah and Lizzie hastened to follow James' advice and example. But Chester would not give up his cards. "Let him come," said he. "If he never saw a pack of cards, it is time he should see one. It is your play, Sarah." Thus admonished, the children brought out their cards again, and recommenced playing, in a very confused manner. Chester's example was hardly sufficient to give them courage in the eyes of the minister. They heard the door open, and there was not a face at the table, except Chester's, but burned with consciousness of guilt. "Ah, how do you feel, after your journey?" asked Mr. Royden. "Hepsy, place a chair for Mr. Rensford." "No, no; do not trouble yourself, my child," said the old gentleman, smiling kindly upon the girl. "Let me help myself." He sat down in the seat she had vacated, behind Lizzie's chair. "I feel much rested," he added, cheerily. "That nice cup of tea, Sister Royden, has made a new man of me." Mrs. Royden acknowledged the compliment with a smile, and Mr. Royden proceeded to give his venerable relative a formal introduction to his son Chester. The young man arose proudly, and, holding the cards in his left hand, advanced to offer the other to the clergyman. "Ah! my young friend again!" cried the old gentleman, with a gleam of genuine sunshine on his face. "I hardly expected to meet you so soon." Chester's manner changed oddly. He recoiled a step, and, although he maintained his proud bearing, his eye fell, and his cheeks tingled with sudden heat. But, recovering himself almost immediately, he accepted the proffered hand, and murmured, "This is a surprise! My compliments to you, sir. I am glad to see you looking so well, after your tedious journey." "You have met before, I take it?" suggested Mr. Royden. "Only this morning, and that without knowing each other," replied the clergyman. He looked over Lizzie's shoulder. "What is this, my dear? Whist?" "Yes, sir," murmured the girl, feebly, and with a blush of shame. In her confusion she threw down the worst card she could have played. But James did not do much better; and the trick was Chester's. He smiled as he took it up, and gently admonished his sister to be more careful of the game. The old gentleman entered into conversation with the parents, and the children gradually recovered their nerves. But all were now anxious that the play should be brought to a close. It so happened that the victory, to Chester and Lizzie, depended upon one trick. She played wrong, and they lost it; when, to the astonishment of all, Mr. Rensford exclaimed, "Ah! that was a bad play, my dear! You should have led your ace, and drawn Sarah's queen, then your ten of trumps would have been good for the next trick. Don't you see?" "Yes, sir," murmured Lizzie, submissively. "One would say you were an old hand at the game," cried Chester. "O, as to that," replied the clergyman, smiling, "I used to be considered a good whist-player in my younger days." "Won't you take a hand now, sir?" "No, I thank you," laughing good-humoredly; "I gave up the amusement twenty years ago. But let me take the cards, if you are done with them, and I will show this little girl a pleasant trick, if I have not forgotten it." "Certainly, sir," said Chester. The family began to like the old gentleman already. Lizzie gave him her seat at the table, and looked over his shoulder. He sorted the cards with his thin, white fingers, and gave a number of them historical names, telling her to remember them. He called the game "The Battle of Waterloo." It proved eminently interesting to the older children, as well as to Lizzie; and, in such a simple, beautiful manner did the old man go through with the evolutions, that all, even the proud Chester, afterwards knew more about the last days of Napoleon's power than they had learned in all their lives. "There!" exclaimed the clergyman, "isn't that as good as whist?" "I like it better," answered Lizzie, who found herself already leaning fondly on his shoulder. "But what did they do with Napoleon?" "Would you like to know?" "O, yes! very much." "Well, then, I will tell you. Or, since it is getting late, suppose I lend you a little book in the morning, that relates all about it?" "I would like to read it," said Lizzie. "Then I will teach you the game, and you can teach it to your little brothers, when they get older," continued the clergyman. "Lizzie!" spoke up Mrs. Royden, "don't you know better than to lean upon your uncle's shoulder?" "I didn't think," replied the girl, the smiles suddenly fading from her warm, bright face. "O, I love to have her!" cried Mr. Rensford, putting his arm around her kindly. "But I thought you must be very weary," said Mrs. Royden. "It rests me to talk with happy children, at any time." "You are not much like me, then; for when I am tired I never want them round." "Ah! you lose a great deal of comfort, then!" softly observed the old gentleman, kissing Lizzie's cheek. "I had a little girl once, and her name was Lizzie, too," he added, his mild blue eyes beginning to glisten. "Where is she now?" asked Lizzie. "In heaven." The clergyman's voice was scarcely raised above a whisper; but so deep was the silence in the room, that he was heard distinctly. Hepsy's eyes swam with tears; and the rest of the family were more or less affected by the pathetic reply. "It is a comfort to think she is there, isn't it?" he continued, with a smile of happiness radiating his calm and hopeful countenance. "How good God is to us!" he exclaimed, fervently. Afterwards, he engaged in cheerful conversation with the parents; but soon expressed a wish to retire, and, kissing Lizzie again and shaking hands with all the rest, with a pleasant word for each, he took his candle, and withdrew. But he seemed to have left the warmth of his presence behind him. The family had never separated with happier faces and kinder words than on that night; and Sarah, James and Lizzie, went lovingly up-stairs together. Chester remained with his parents, to have a little private conversation before going to bed. Mrs. Royden broke the silence. "It is strange what has become of that boy, Samuel. It was time he was back, half an hour ago." "I've been thinking about him," replied Chester, with an anxious look. "If he is riding that horse all over creation, I wouldn't give much for him, in the morning." "I never knew the little rascal to do an errand without doing some mischief with it," added his father. "But he does not mean anything very bad. There's no danger of his doing much damage; so let us forget him for the present, Chester, and talk over your affairs." V. CHESTER'S CONFESSION. Chester could no longer evade the leading question, "Why had he left the academy?" Much as he dreaded giving an account of his conduct, he could not put it off. As he anticipated, his father was inexpressibly irritated, and his mother decidedly cross, when he confessed that he had been expelled. "What did you do to bring such disgrace upon your name?" groaned Mr. Royden, more grieved than angry. "Well," replied Chester, with a burning face, yet without descending from his proud demeanor, "I suppose I transgressed some of their old fogy laws." "Broke their regulations! But it must have been something outrageous, to result in an expulsion. Tell the whole truth, Chester." The young man hesitated no more, but made a "clean breast" of the affair. His expulsion had not been a public one, the daughter of the principal having been intimately concerned in his transgressions. Chester had met her clandestinely, won her affections, and brought about an engagement of marriage between them, contrary to her father's will and commands. When Mrs. Royden learned that the young lady was heiress to a comfortable fortune left her by a near relative, she was quite ready to forgive her son's rashness. But his father reprimanded him severely. "I hope you have given up the foolish idea of marrying the romantic girl," he said. "No, sir,--never!" exclaimed Chester, fervently. "If I lose her, I shall never marry. I have her promise, and I can wait. It will not be long before she can marry without her father's consent as well as with it." "But what do you intend to do, in the mean time?" asked Mr. Royden, in a rather bitter tone. "I would like," replied Chester, more humbly, as if anxious to propitiate his father,--"I would like to commence with the next term at the L---- Institute." "A beautiful way you have gone to work to encourage me in what I am doing for you!" interrupted Mr. Royden. "No, Chester! I shall not hear a word to your going to L----. You must stay at home now until you are of age." The young man leaned his head upon his hand, and looked gloomily at the floor. His father broke the silence. "A boy of your years to talk of marrying! Preposterous!" "I have no idea of it, within a year or two," said Chester. "But let things take their course. Do you expect me now to stay at home?" "Why not?" "And work on the farm?" "Are you getting too proud for that,--with your heiress in view?" asked Mr. Royden, with sarcasm. "It seems as though I might be doing something more profitable, to prepare me for entering life." "Yes! You might be at another academy, occupying your time in making love to another silly, romantic girl!" "Nobody will say," rejoined Chester, biting his lips, and speaking with forced calmness,--"my worst enemy cannot say,--that I have not improved my opportunities of study. I hope you will believe me, when I say I have always stood at the head of my classes." Mr. Royden was considerably softened. "Well, well!" said he, "I can make some allowance for your young blood. I will see what ought to be done. We will talk the matter over at another time." "But while you do stay at home," added Mrs. Royden, who had remained silent for a length of time quite unusual with her, "you must take hold and help your father all you can. He has to hire a great deal, and sending you to school makes us feel the expense more than we should. James is not worth much, and Samuel, you know, is worse than nothing." "Speaking of Sam, I wish he would show his face. It's getting very late," observed Mr. Royden, looking at the clock. "The _old gentleman_ is always at the door when his name is spoken," said Mrs. Royden. "There he comes." Sam was creeping into the kitchen as silently as possible. "Young man!" cried Mr. Royden, opening the sitting-room door, "come in here." "Yes, sir," said Sam, in a very feeble and weak tone of voice. But he lingered a long time in the kitchen, and during the conversation, which was resumed, he was nearly forgotten. At length Mr. Royden thought he heard a strange noise, which sounded very much like a person crying. "Do you hear, Samuel?" he cried. "Come in here, I say! What is the matter?" "I'm--coming!" replied the boy, in a broken voice. He made his appearance at the door in a piteous plight. He was covered with dirt, and with all his efforts he could not keep from crying. "You have been flung from the horse!" suddenly exclaimed Chester. "Is that the trouble?" "I haven't been flung from the horse, neither!" said Sam, doggedly. "Did you leave him at the tavern?" "Yes,--I _left him at the tavern_." "What did the landlord say?" "He didn't say nothing." "Sam, you're lying!" cried Chester. "True as I live--" began Sam. "I know what the trouble is," said Mrs. Royden, who was very much provoked at seeing the boy's soiled clothes. "He has been fighting. And, if he has, it is your duty, father, to take him out in the shed, and give him as good a dressing as he ever had in his life." Sam was on the point of confessing to the charge, as the best explanation of the distressed condition he was in, when the added threat exerted its natural influence on his decision. "No, I han't fit with nobody," he said. "The boys in the village throw'd stones at me; but I didn't throw none back, nor sass 'em, nor do nothing but come as straight home as I could come." "What is the matter, then?" demanded Mr. Royden, impatiently, taking him by the shoulder and shaking him. "Speak out! What is it?" "Fell down," mumbled Sam. "Fell down?" "Yes, sir, and hurt my ankle, so't I can't walk," he added, beginning to blubber. "How did you do that?" Sam began, and detailed the most outrageous falsehood of which his daring genius was capable. He had met with the most dreadful mischances, by falling over a "big stun," which some villainous boys had rolled into the road, expressly to place his limbs in peril, as he passed in the dark. "But how did the boys know how to lay the stone so exactly as to accomplish their purpose?" asked Chester, suspecting the untruth. For a moment Sam was posed. But his genius did not desert him. "Oh," said he, "I always walk jest in one track along there by Mr. Cobbett's, on the right-hand side, about a yard from the fence. I s'pose they knowed it, and so rolled the stone up there." "You tell the most absurd stories in the world," replied Chester, indignantly. "Who do you expect is going to believe them? Now, let me tell you, if I find you have been lying about that horse, and if you have done him any mischief, I will tan you within an inch of your life!" Sam hastened to declare that he had spoken gospel truth; at the same time feeling a dreadful twinge of conscience at the thought that, for aught he knew to the contrary, Frank might still be running, riderless, twenty miles away. Mrs. Royden now usurped the conversation, to give him a severe scolding, in the midst of which he limped off to bed, to pass a sleepless, painful and unhappy night, with his bruised limbs, and in the fear of retribution, which was certain to follow, when his sin and lies should all be found out. "I wish," he said to himself, fifty times, "I wish I had told about the horse; for, like as not, they wouldn't have licked me, and, if I _am_ to have a licking, I'd rather have it now, and done with, than think about it a week." VI. MORNING AT THE FARM. On the following day Samuel's ankle was so badly swollen as to make a frightful appearance. Mrs. Royden had to call him three times before he could summon courage to get up; and when, threatened with being whipped out of bed, he finally obeyed her summons, he discovered, to his dismay, that the lame foot would not bear his weight. With great difficulty Sam succeeded in dressing himself, after a fashion, and went hopping down stairs. "You good-for-nothing, lazy fellow!" began Mrs. Royden, the moment he made his appearance, "you deserve to go without eating for a week. The boys were all up, an hour ago. What is the matter? What do you hobble along so, for?" "Can't walk," muttered Sam, sulkily. "_Can't walk!_"--in a mocking tone,--"what is the reason you cannot?" "'Cause my ankle's hurt, where I fell down." "There! now I suppose you'll be laid up a week!" exclaimed Mrs. Royden, with severe displeasure. "You are always getting into some difficulty. Let me look at your ankle." Crying with pain, Sam dropped upon a chair, and pulled up the leg of his pantaloons. When Mrs. Royden saw how bad the hurt was, her feelings began to soften; but such was her habit that it was impossible for her to refrain from up-braiding the little rogue, in her usual fault-finding tone. "You never hurt that foot by falling over a stone, in this world!" said she. "Now, tell me the truth." Sam was ready to take oath to the falsehood of the previous night; and Mrs. Royden, declaring that she never knew when to believe him, promised him a beautiful flogging, if it was afterwards discovered that he was telling an untruth. Meanwhile she had Hepsy bring the rocking-chair into the kitchen, where Sam was charged to "keep quiet, and not get into more mischief," during the preparation of some herbs, steeped in vinegar, for his ankle. The vein of kindness visible under Mrs. Royden's habitual ill-temper affected him strangely. The consciousness of how little it was deserved added to his remorse. He was crying so with pain and unhappiness, that when Georgie and Willie came in from their morning play out-doors, they united in mocking him, and calling him a "big baby." At this crisis the old clergyman entered. He was up and out at sunrise, and for the last half-hour he had been making the acquaintance of the two little boys, who were too cross to be seen the previous night. "Excuse me," said he to Mrs. Royden, who looked dark at seeing him in the kitchen; "my little friends led me in this way." "Oh, you are perfectly excusable," replied she; "but we look hardly fit to be seen, in here." "Dear me," cried the old man, with one of his delightful smiles, "I am fond of all such familiar places. And you must not mind me, at any rate. I came to be one of the family, if you will let me." Mrs. Royden replied that he was perfectly welcome; he did them an honor; but she was sure it would be much pleasanter for him to keep the privacy of his own room, where the children would not disturb him. "There is a time for all things under the sun," answered the old man. "There is even a time to be a child with children. But what have we here? A sprained ankle?" "Yes, sir," murmured Sam. "Ah! it is a bad sprain," rejoined the clergyman, in a tone of sympathy. "How did it happen?" sitting down by Samuel, and taking Georgie and Willie on his knees. Sam mumbled over the old story about falling over a stone. "And you were mocking him?" said the old man, patting Willie's cheek. "He cries," replied Willie, grinning. "And don't you think you would cry, if you had hurt your foot as he has?" The boy shook his head, and declared stoutly that he was sure he would not cry. But he, as well as Georgie, began actually to shed tears of sympathy, when their new friend made them look at the sprained ankle, and told them how painful it must be. They were not heartless children; their better feelings only required to be drawn out; and from that time, instead of laughing at Sam, they appeared ready to do almost anything they thought would please him. "I haven't had such an appetite in months," said the clergyman, as he sat down at the breakfast-table with the family. And his happy face shed a pleasant sunshine on all around. Mr. Royden invited him to ask a blessing on the food; and, in a fervent tone, and an earnest, simple manner, he lifted up his heart in thankfulness to the great Giver. As Mrs. Royden poured the coffee, she appeared to think it necessary to make some apologies. They did not often use that beverage in her family, she said, and she was not skilled in its preparation. "I am afraid it is not very clear," she added. "No," said the clergyman, "it is not clear enough for me. The only drink that is clear enough for me"--holding up a glass of pure cold water--"is this." "But you will try a cup of coffee? Or a cup of tea, at least?" "I never use either, except when I need some such restorative. Last night a fine cup of tea was a blessing. This morning I require nothing of the kind." "But you cannot make out a breakfast on our plain fare, without something to drink besides water." The old man smiled serenely. "Your fare cannot be too plain for me. I often breakfast luxuriously on a slice of brown bread and a couple of apples." "Brown bread and apples!" exclaimed Mrs. Royden, in surprise. "Who ever heard of apples for breakfast?" "I never feel so well as when I make them a large proportion of my food," replied the clergyman. "People commit a great error when they use fruits only as luxuries. They are our most simple, natural and healthful food." "You have never worked on a farm, I see," observed Mr. Royden. "I understand you,"--and the old man, perhaps to illustrate his liberal views, ate a piece of fried bacon with evident relish. "Different natures and different conditions of men certainly demand different systems of diets. If a man has animal strength to support, let him use animal food. But meat is not the best stimulus to the brain. With regard to vegetables, my experience teaches that they are beautifully adapted to our habits of life. Let the man who digs beneath the soil consume the food he finds there. But I will pluck the grape or the peach as I walk, and, eating, find myself refreshed." "That is a rather poetical thought," remarked Chester. "But I doubt if it be sound philosophy." "Oh, I ask no one to accept any theory of my own," answered the old man, benignly. "If I talk reason, consider my words; if not,"--smiling significantly, with an expressive gesture,--"let the wind have them." "But I think your ideas very interesting," said Sarah. "What do you think of bread?" "It is the _staff of life_. The lower vegetable productions are suited to the grosser natures of men. Those brought forth in the sunlight are more suitable to finer organizations. I place grains as much higher than roots, on a philosophical scale, as the ear of corn is higher than the potato, in a literal sense. Therefore, as grain grows midway between vegetables and fruits, it appears to be wisely designed as the great staple of food. But the nearer heaven the more spiritual. If I am to compose a sermon, let me make a dinner of nuts that have ripened in the broad sunlight, of apples that grow on the highest boughs of the orchard, and of grapes that are found sweetest on the tops of the vines." "Very beautiful in theory," said Chester. "When you have studied the subject, perhaps you will find some grains of truth in the chaff," replied the clergyman, with a genial smile. "In the first place," rejoined Chester, with the confidence of a man who has a powerful argument to advance, "speaking of nuts,--let us look at the chestnut. You will everywhere find that the tallest trees produce the poorest nuts." "I grant it." "Then how does your theory hold?" Mr. Rensford answered the young man's triumphant look with a mild expression of countenance, which showed a spirit equally happy in teaching or in being taught. "I think," said he, "your tall chestnut-tree is found in forests?" "Yes, sir; and the spreading chestnut, or the second growth, that springs up and comes to maturity in cleared fields, is found standing alone." "It strikes me, then, that the last is _cultivated_. You may expect better nuts from it than from the savage tree. And there is good reason why it should not be of such majestic stature. Its body has room to expand. It is not crowded in the selfish society of the woods; and, to put forth its fruits in the sunlight, it is not obliged to struggle above the heads of emulous companions." "But chestnuts are very unhealthy," said Mrs. Royden, to the relief of Chester, who was at a loss how to reply. "They should not be unhealthy. If we had not abused our digestive organs, and destroyed our teeth by injurious habits, we would suffer no inconvenience from a few handfuls of chestnuts. As it is, masticate them well, and use them as food,--and not as luxuries, after the gastric juices are exhausted by a hearty dinner,--and I doubt if they would do much harm." VII. CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. "Dear me!" cried Mrs. Royden, as the clergyman declined tasting the pie Hepsy brought on as a dessert, "you haven't eaten anything at all! You'd better try a small piece?" The old man thanked her kindly, adding that he had eaten very heartily. "I am afraid you will not be able to get through the forenoon," she replied. "Nay, don't tempt me," he said playfully, as she insisted on the pie. "My constitution was never strong; and, with my sedentary habits, I should never have reached the age of seventy-two, if I had not early learned to control my appetites. It is better to go hungry from a loaded table, than run the risk of an indigestion." "Are you _seventy-two_?" asked Mr. Royden, in a sad tone. "The twelfth day of October next is my seventy-second birthday," replied the old man, cheerfully. "Don't you think I have lasted pretty well?" "Is it possible that you are twenty-eight years older than I?" exclaimed the other. "Do I not look as old?" "When your countenance is in repose, perhaps you do; but when you talk,--why, you don't look over fifty-five, if you do that." "I have observed it," said Sarah. "When you speak your soul shines through your face." "And the soul is always young. God be praised for that!" replied Mr. Rensford, with a happy smile on his lips, and a tear of thankfulness in his eye. "God be praised for that!" "But the souls of most men begin to wither the day they enter the world," remarked Chester, bitterly. "Perhaps, in your sphere of action, you have avoided the cares of life,--the turmoil and jar of the noisy, selfish world." "Heaven has been merciful to me," said the old man, softly. "Yet my years have been years of labor; and of sorrow I have seen no little. Persecution has not always kept aloof from my door." "Oh, few men have had so much to go through!" spoke up Mr. Royden, in a tone of sympathy. "The wonder is, how you have kept your brow so free from wrinkles, and your spirit so clear from clouds." "When the frosts have stolen upon me, when the cold winds have blown," replied Mr. Rensford, in a tone so touching that it was felt by every one present, "I have prayed Heaven to keep the leaves of my heart green, and the flowers of my soul fresh and fragrant. The sunlight of love was showered upon me in return. I managed to forget my petty trials, in working for my poor, unhappy brethren. My wife went to heaven before me; my child followed her, and I was left at one time all alone, it seemed. But something within me said, 'They whom thou hast loved are in bliss; repine not therefore, but do thy work here with a cheerful spirit, and be thankful for all God's mercies.'" "I understand now how you got the familiar name I have heard you called by," said Mr. Royden, with emotion. "Yes,"--and the old man's fine countenance glowed with gratitude,--"it has pleased my friends to give me an appellation which is the only thing in the world I am proud of,--_Father Brighthopes_. Is it possible," he added, with tears in his eyes, "that I have deserved such a title? Has my work been done so cheerfully, has my faith been so manifest in my life, that men have crowned me with this comforting assurance that my prayers for grace have been answered?" "Then you would be pleased if we called you by this name?" "You will make me happy by giving me the honorable title. No other, in the power of kings to bestow, could tempt me to part with it. As long as you find me sincere in my faith and conduct, call me _Father Brighthopes_. When I turn to the dark side of life, and waste my breath in complaining of the clouds, instead of rejoicing in the sunshine, then disgrace me by taking away my title." "I wish more of us had your disposition," said Mr. Royden, with a sad shake of the head. "There is no disposition so easy, and which goes so smoothly through the world," replied the old man, smiling. Mr. Royden felt the force of the remark, but, being a man of exceedingly fine nerves, he did not think it would be possible for him to break up his habit of fretfulness, in the midst of all the annoyances which strewed his daily path with thorns. He said as much to his aged friend. "Do you never stop to consider the utter insignificance of all those little trials, compared with the immortal destiny of man?" replied Father Brighthopes. "I remember when a blot of ink on a page I had written over would completely upset my temper. That was the labor of copying the spoiled manuscript? What are all the trivial accidents of life? What even is the loss of property? Think of eternity, and answer. Afflictions discipline us. Sorrows purify the soul. Once an insulting word would throw me into a violent passion; but to-day I will do what I think right; and smile calmly at persecution." The old man's philosophy had evidently made an impression. Mr. Royden went about his work in a more calm and self-supported manner than was his wont; and the children had never known their mother in a better humor, at that time of day, than when directing the household affairs, after breakfast. Lizzie did not fail to remind Father Brighthopes of the book he promised her; and, in opening his trunks, he found not only what she wanted, but volumes to suit all tastes, from Sarah's down to Georgie's, and even a little picture-book for Willie. He also put his hand on something which he thought would interest Sam, laid up with his lame ankle; and selected one of the most attractive books in his possession to cheer the heart of Hepsy. By this time the children were growing dangerously attached to him. Willie wanted to sit on his knee all the time, and Georgie was unwilling to go and rock the baby, which was crying in the sitting-room, unless the clergyman went out there too. But Father Brighthopes had a peculiar faculty of governing young people. With a few kind words, and a promise of following soon, he despatched Georgie to work at the cradle, with a good heart; and, telling Lizzie and Willie that he wished to be alone a little while, he sent them away, well contented with the books and kisses he gave them. Mrs. Royden's household affairs progressed unusually well that morning, and she was remarkably pleasant, until Sam, who could not keep out of mischief, even with his sprained ankle to take care of, occasioned a slight disaster. He had made a lasso of a whip-lash to throw over the children's heads when they should pass through the kitchen, and commenced the exercise of his skill upon the unfortunate Hepsy. Every time she passed he would cast the loop at her neck, but entirely without success in his experiments; and at length the bright idea occurred to him to make an attempt upon her foot. Spreading out the lasso in her way, he pulled up suddenly as she walked over it, and, after several efforts, perseverance resulted in a capture. The loop caught Hepsy's toe. Sam had not reckoned on the disastrous consequence of such a seizure. The unsuspecting victim was stepping very quick, and the impediment of the whip-lash threw her head-foremost to the floor. She was not much hurt, but an earthen dish she was carrying was shattered to pieces. Frightened at the catastrophe, Sam hastened to undo the loop; but Mrs. Royden was on the spot before he had put the fatal evidence against him out of his hand. "You careless creature!" she exclaimed, in a sharp key, regarding Hepsy with contracted features, "can't you walk across the floor without falling down? If you can't----" "Samuel tripped me," murmured Hepsy, gathering up the fragments of the dish. "O, I didn't!" cried Sam, putting up his elbows as Mrs. Royden flew to box his ears. "What are you doing with that lash?" she demanded, after two or three vain attempts to get in a blow. "Nothing; only, it was lying on the floor, and I went to pick it up just as Hepsy was going along; and, you see," stammered Sam, "she ketched her foot and fell down." "Give me the lash!" said Mrs. Royden, angrily. "I won't have it out any more!" and Sam put it in his pocket. "Give it to me, I say!" "I don't wan't ter; you'll hit me with it." Mrs. Royden could not bear to be argued with on such occasions. She made a seizure of one of Sam's ears, and pulled it until he screamed with pain. "There!" said she, "will you mind next time, when I speak?" "Yes. I don't want the old thing!" and Sam threw the contested property across the room, under the sink. He knew, by the flash of Mrs. Royden's eye, as she hastened to grasp it, that danger was impending; and, starting from his chair with surprising agility, he hopped out doors. But his lame ankle incapacitated him to endure a long chase. Mrs. Royden pursued into the yard, and, coming up with him, laid the lash soundly upon his head and shoulders, until he keeled over on his back, and, holding his lame foot in the air, pleaded for mercy. There, as she continued to beat him, he caught hold of the lash and pulled it away from her; upon which she returned in her worst humor, to the kitchen. It was sad to see James escape to the barn when he saw the storm, and Sarah make an errand up stairs. Poor Hepsy went silently and industriously to work to avoid reproofs, while her blue eyes filled with sorrowful tears. Georgie got his ears boxed for some slight offence, and his crying awoke the baby, which he had but just rocked to sleep. At this crisis, Mrs. Royden called Lizzie; but Lizzie dreaded her presence, and hid in the garden, with the book Father Brighthopes had given her; and she made Willie lie down behind the currant-bushes and look at the pictures in his primer, while she read. Mrs. Royden was casting around for some one besides the weak Hepsy to vent her ill-humor upon, when Chester made his appearance. "I wish you would take that baby, Chester, and get it still! You must not be afraid to take hold and help while you stay at home. What have you got on those pantaloons for, this busy morning? Go and put on an old pair. You needn't think you are to walk about dressed up every day." "I am going to take Father Brighthopes to ride," answered Chester, briefly. "It is just as I expected!" exclaimed his mother. "Half your father's time and yours will be taken up in carrying him around, and half of mine in trying to make him comfortable here at home." "I hope _the children_ will learn a little sweetness of temper of him, in return," said Chester, significantly. "You impudent fellow! This is the return you make me, is it, for fitting you out for school, and working my fingers to the bone to keep you there? We'll see----" "Hush, mother! do!" With a black frown, Chester strode across the room, having warned his mother of the clergyman's approach. With great difficulty she held her peace, as Father Brighthopes entered. The advent of the old man's serene countenance was like a burst of sunshine through a storm. Without appearing to remark the darkness of Mrs. Royden's features, he took up the baby, and began to toss it in his arms and talk to it, to still its cries. The little creature was quieted at once. "It is singular," said the clergyman, "I never yet found a child that was afraid of me. How I love their pure, innocent looks!" Already ashamed of her ill-temper, Mrs. Royden hastened to take the babe from his arms; but he insisted on holding it. Georgie meanwhile had stopped crying, and Sarah came down from the chamber. To the latter Father Brighthopes finally relinquished the charge, and, taking his hat and cane left the house with Chester. James brought out the horse, and helped his father put him into the wagon-thills. "Where are you folks going?" asked Sam, hobbling along on the grass, with his foot in the air. "Over to the village," replied James. Sam's heart sank within him; and it was with sickening apprehensions of calamity that he saw Mr. Royden ride off with Chester and the old clergyman. They could not go far, he was sure, without discovering the entire mystery of his lame leg; and the consequences seemed too dreadful to contemplate. VIII. COUNTRY SCENES. It was a beautiful balmy morning in June; the whole earth rejoiced in the soft sunshine and sweet breezes; and around the sumachs and crab-apple trees, by the road-side fences, where the dew was still cool on the green leaves, there were glad birds singing joyously, as the wheels went humming through the sand. No careless child could have enjoyed the ride more than the good Father Brighthopes did. It was delightful to hear him talk of the religion to be drawn from fresh meadows, running brooks, the deep solitude of woods, and majestic mountains crags. "And to think that the good God made all for us to enjoy!" he said, with his clear blue orbs tremulous with tears. "You give me new ideas of religion," replied Mr. Royden. "It always seemed to me a hard and gloomy thing." "Hard and gloomy?"--The old man clasped his hands, with deep emotion, and his face radiated with inexpressible joy. "O! how softening, how bright it is! The true spirit of religion makes men happier than all earthly comforts and triumphs can do; it is a cold and mechanical adherence to the mere forms of religion,--from fear, or a dark sense of duty,--which appears gloomy. Look at the glorious sky, with its soft blue depths, and floating silvery clouds; pass into the shadowy retreats of the cool woods; breathe the sweet air that comes from kissing green fields and dallying on beds of flowers; hear the birds sing,--and you must feel your heart opened, your soul warmed, your inmost thoughts kindled with love: love for God, love for man, love for everything: and this is religion." So the old clergyman talked on; his simple and natural words bubbling from his lips like crystal waters, and filling his companions' hearts with new and refreshing truths. Chester drove up before a handsome white cottage, which was one of a thin cluster of houses grouped around an old-fashioned country meeting-house. "Here our minister lives," said Mr. Royden. "You must see him, first of any." He helped the old man out of the wagon, while Chester tied the horse. "What a delightful residence!" said Father Brighthopes. "Ah! let me stop and take a look at these busy bees!" There were two small hives perched upon a bench, under a plum-tree, and the happy insects were incessantly creeping in and out, through the small apertures,--flying abroad, humming in the flowers of the sweet thyme that loaded the air with fragrance, and coming home with their legs yellowed from tiny cups and bells. The old man was so charmed with the scene, that he could hardly be prevailed upon to leave it, and walk along the path towards the cottage door. "We see so little of such delightful exhibitions of nature, in city life," said he, "that in the country I am like a child intoxicated with novelty." They made but a brief call on the minister, who was a young and boyish-looking man of about twenty-five. He received them in his study, a luxurious little room, with a window open upon the little garden in front of the house, and shaded by thick jasmines, trained on the wall. He showed no very warm inclination to sociability, but deigned to treat the old man with an air of deference and patronage, for which he no doubt gave himself much credit. It seemed quite a relief to him when his visitors arose to go, and he politely bowed them to the door. "If any man leads an easy life, Mr. Corlis does," muttered Chester, as they went through the little gate. "Hush, boy!" said his father, good-humoredly. "You can't expect a minister to go into the fields, to work with his hands." "I don't say what I expect him to do; but I can tell pretty well what he does. During the week, he compiles commonplaces, which he calls sermons, drinks tea with his parishioners, and patronizes the sewing-circle. On the Sabbath he certainly labors hard, preaching dulness from the high pulpit, and mesmerizing his congregation." "What do you talk such nonsense for?" returned Mr. Royden, laughing inwardly. "Young men learn the ministers' trade, in order to live lazy lives, half the time," continued the young man. "Too often--too often!"--Father Brighthopes shook his head sadly,--"but judge not all by the few. Idleness is a sore temptation to young clergymen, I know. Their position is fraught with peril. Alas for those who prefer their own ease to doing their Master's work! This consists not only in preaching Christianity from the pulpit, but in preaching it in their daily walks; in acting it, living it, carrying it like an atmosphere about them, and warming with its warmth the hearts of the poor and sorrowful. O, Lord, what a lovely and boundless field thou has given thy servants! Let them not lie idle in the shade of the creeds our fathers planted, nor cease to turn the soil and sow the seed!" The earnest prayer thrilled the hearts of Chester and his father. It may be another heart was touched with its fire. Mr. Corlis overheard the words, as he listened at his study-window, and his cheek and forehead glowed with a blush of shame. Mr. Royden and Chester took their old friend to make one or two more calls, and returned home for dinner. Samuel Cone felt very faint, as he lay on the grass in the yard, and saw them coming. IX. MARK, THE JOCKEY. "What have you run away from that churn for?" cried Mrs. Royden, appearing at the door. "Go right back, and fetch the butter before you leave it again!" "I'm tired," muttered Sam. "Don't tell me about being tired! You can churn just as well as not." "Hurts my foot!" "You can lay your foot on a chair, and----Do you hear?" exclaimed Mrs. Royden, growing impatient of his delay. "Don't let me have to speak to you again!" Sam hopped into the wood-shed, and began to move the dasher up and down with exceeding moderation. When the wagon drove up to the door, he listened with a sick heart to hear if anything was said about the stray horse. Not a word was spoken on the subject. Even the silence frightened him. He had never worked so industriously as when Chester entered the shed; and, as the latter passed by without looking at him, he felt certain that retribution was at hand. He listened at the kitchen door, and trembled at every word that was spoken, thinking the next would be something about his unpardonable offence. But his agony was destined still to be prolonged. "They an't going to say nothing about it till my foot gets well," thought he; "then they'll jest about kill me." Mrs. Royden had been considerably fretted in getting dinner and her fault-finding had worried poor Hepsy almost to distraction, when the arrival of the clergyman lent quite a different aspect to affairs. He drew the attention of the young children, who had been very much in their mother's way, and dropped a few soft words of wisdom from his lips, which could be taken in a general sense, or understood by Mrs. Royden as applying to her own annoyances in particular. Soon the table was ready, and the entire household, excepting Sam and Hepsy, gathered around it. The former, supposed to be churning, having been warned by Mrs. Royden that he could have no dinner until he had "fetched the butter," was listening to hear if there was any conversation about the horse; and the poor deformed girl, who had preferred to wait and take care of the baby, was shedding solitary tears from the depths of her unhappy heart. After dinner, Father Brighthopes was sitting on the shaded grass in the yard, relating pleasant stories to the children, when an athletic young man made his appearance at the gate, leading a handsome sorrel horse. "Hillo, Mark!" cried James, "have you been trading again?" "Is your father at home?" asked the man with the horse. James answered in the affirmative, and the other led his animal into the yard, making him dance around him as he approached the little group under the cherry-tree. Even with hunger in prospective, Sam could not apply himself to the churn when he thought there was any fun going on out-doors. He hobbled out, and took his seat on the grass. All the children were praising Mark's new horse, which he took especial delight in training before their eyes. At length he led him up to the tree, and talked to him coaxingly, smoothing his face and patting his shining neck. "Where did you get that plaything?" asked Chester, coming out of the house. "Ha, how do you do, Ches?" replied Mark, turning around. "When did you get home?" He tied the halter to the tree, and began to feel of the animal's slender ankles, still maintaining a mysterious silence on the subject of his trade. "Did you put away the brown horse for this?" asked Chester. "Where is your father?" was Mark's unsatisfactory rejoinder. Mr. Royden made his appearance. He was a famous judge of horse-flesh, and his shrewd eye examined the colt's admirable points with evident satisfaction. "Where did you get him?" he inquired. "How old is he?" asked Mark. Mr. Royden looked in the horse's mouth a second time, and pronounced him to be four years old. "Have you been trading?" "On the whole," said Mark, "what do you think of him?" "It's a fine colt; but I think here is a faint appearance of a ring-bone." Mr. Royden pressed the animal's leg. "I'll bet you a hundred dollars on it!" cried Mark, quickly, his eye kindling. He was very sensitive about his horse-property, besides being a choleric man generally; and Mr. Royden only smiled, and shook his head. "Have you got rid of Jake?" "Never mind that; tell me what the colt is worth." Mr. Royden expressed a favorable opinion of the beast, but declined to commit himself. "Well, it don't make no difference," said Mark, with a smile of satisfaction. "He suits me very well," he added, with an oath. The clergyman's countenance changed. The smile faded from his lips, and he glanced anxiously from Mark to the little boys who sat on the grass at his feet. "Better look out about swearing 'fore the minister," said Sam, in a low tone, to Mark. For the first time the latter regarded the old man attentively. At sight of his thin white locks, the color mounted to the jockey's brow; and when Father Brighthopes raised his calm, sad eyes, Mark's fell before them. But Mark had some manly traits of character, with all his faults. "I beg your pardon, sir," he said, frankly. "I wouldn't have used profane language, if I had known there was a minister within hearing." "My friend," replied Father Brighthopes, in a kind but impressive tone, "you have my forgiveness, if that is of any account; but it seems you should rather forbear from using such language before children, whose minds are like wax, to receive all sorts of impressions--good or bad." "The truth is," said Mark, "I thought nothing of it. It was wrong, I know." To conceal his mortification, he began to brush the dust from the colt's feet with a wisp of grass. But his cheek was not the only one that tingled at the old man's words. Chester was very warm in the face; but only the clergyman observed the fact, and he alone could probably have understood its cause. "To tell the truth," said Mark, laughing, "the colt isn't mine; he belongs to Mr. Skenitt, over on the north road; he has hired me to break him." "I don't believe that," replied Mr. Royden, half in jest, and half in earnest. "Nobody that knows you would trust you to break a young horse." "Why not?" "You're so rash and passionate. You can't keep your temper." "I believe in whipping, when a horse is ugly," muttered Mark, as if half a mind to take offence,--"that's all." "You mustn't mind my jokes," said Mr. Royden. "Come, how did you trade?" "I put away the brown horse, and gave some boot," replied Mark. "By the way, you haven't heard of any one's losing a horse recently, have you?" "No; what do you mean?" "Why, Skennit's boys saw a stray one in the road last night." "Nobody this way has lost one," said Mr. Royden. Sam's heart beat with painful violence. He was very pale. "He was running, with a saddle, and with the reins under his feet," continued Mark. "Somebody had probably been flung from him, or he had got away by breaking the halter." "Was he stopped?" asked Chester. "Not in that neighborhood, at any rate. It is hard stopping a horse after dark. What's the matter, Sam?" "Nothing," murmured Sam, faintly. "What makes you look so white?" "I--I've got a lame foot." "And I know where you got it?" thundered Chester, seizing him by the shirt-collar. "It is just as I thought, last night." "Stop, Chester,--don't be rash!" cried Mr. Royden. "Sam, tell the truth, now, about that horse." "I fell off," blubbered Sam. "You incorrigible, lying rascal!" ejaculated Chester. "Why didn't you say so last night?" "I couldn't help it," and Sam wiped his face with his sleeve. "I didn't run him--and--and he got frightened." "That has nothing to do with the question. Why didn't you tell the truth, the first thing?" "Cause--I wasn't looking out-and he was going on a slow trot--when a stump by the side of the road scar'd him--and I fell off." "But what did you lie about it for?" demanded Chester, fiercely. "I was afraid I'd git a licking," muttered Sam. "And now you'll get two of 'em, as you richly deserve. If father don't give 'em to you, I will." "Hush, Chester, I'll attend to him," said Mr. Royden, more calm than usual on such occasions. "James, put the saddle on Old Boy. One of us must ride after the stray horse, and see where he is to be found. Sam, go and finish that churning, and prepare for a settlement." With a sinking heart, the rogue obeyed. Mark went off, leading his colt; Chester rode to hunt up Frank; Mr. Royden proceeded to the field, and Father Brighthopes sought the privacy of his room to write. The boys clamored a little while at his door, then went cheerfully away to play with Lizzie in the garden. X. COMPANY. It was near sundown when Chester returned, having succeeded in finding Frank, and returned him to his owner. Meanwhile Father Brighthopes had had a long talk with the distressed and remorseful Sam. The old man's kindness and sympathy touched the lad's heart more than anything had ever done before. He could not endure the appeals to his better nature, to his sense of right, and to his plain reason, with which the clergyman represented the folly and wickedness of lying. "I am sure," said Father Brighthopes, in conclusion, "that, with as much real good in you as you have, the falsehood has cost you more pain than half a dozen floggings." Sam acknowledged the fact. "Then, aside from the wickedness of the thing, is not falsehood unwise? Don't you always feel better to be frank and honest, let the consequences be what they will?" "I knowed it, all the time," sobbed Sam, "but I _darsn't_ tell the truth! I wished I _had_ told it, but I _darsn't_!" "Then we may conclude that lying is usually the mark of a coward. Men would tell the truth, if they were not afraid to." "I s'pose so. But I never thought of what you say before. When I lie, I git licked, and folks tell me I shall go to hell. I don't mind that much; but when you talk to me as you do, I think I never will tell another lie, as long as I live,--never!" Sam now confessed to all the circumstances of the last night's disaster, and, at the old man's suggestion, repeated the same to Mr. and Mrs. Royden. He asked for pardon; and promised to tell no more lies, and to keep out of mischief as much as he could. He was so softened, so penitent and earnest, that even the severe Mrs. Royden was inclined to forgive him. Her husband did more. He talked kindly to the young offender, declaring his willingness to overlook everything, and to do as well by Sam as by his own children, if he would be a good and honest boy. The latter was so overcome that he cried for half an hour about the affair in the shed; that is to say, until the cat made her appearance, wearing a portion of the old twine harness, and he thought he would divert his mind by making her draw a brick. "In mischief again!" exclaimed Mr. Royden, coming suddenly upon him. "No, sir!" cried Sam, promptly, letting pussy go. "What were you doing?" "You see, this butter won't come, and I've been churning stiddy on it all day----" "What has that to do with the cat?" demanded Mr. Royden. "Nothing; only I expect to have to go to help milk the cows in a little while; and I was afraid she would jump up on the churn, and lick the cream, while I was gone; so I thought I'd tie a brick to her neck." Mr. Royden laughed secretly, and went away. "That was only a white lie," muttered Sam. "Darn it all! I've got so used to fibbing, I can't help it. I didn't think then, or I wouldn't have said what I did." The boy really felt badly to think he had not the courage to speak the truth, and made a new resolution, to be braver in future. The relief of mind which followed the bursting of the clouds over his head brought a keen appetite; and he remembered that he had eaten nothing but an apple or two since breakfast. Hunger impelled him to apply himself to the churn; five minutes of industrious labor finished the task, and he was prepared to go to supper with the family. In the evening a number of young people, living in the neighborhood, called, in honor of Chester's return from school. The parlor was opened for the "company," and the "old folks" occupied the sitting-room. Chester was very lively, for he was fond of sociability, and loved to be admired for his grace and wit; but he seemed at length to find the conversation of his old acquaintances insipid. "Father Brighthopes," he said, gayly, entering the sitting-room, "I wish you would go in and teach our friends some better amusement than kissing games. I am heartily sick of them." "If Jane Dustan was here, I guess you would like them," said Lizzie, who had preferred to listen to the clergyman's stories, rather than go into the parlor. Her eyes twinkled with fun; but Chester looked displeased. "It's nothing but '_Who'll be my judge?' 'Measure off three yards of tape with so and so, and cut it;' 'Make a sugar-bowl, and put three lumps of sugar in it, with Julia;' 'Go to Rome and back again;' 'Bow to the prettiest, kneel to the wittiest, and kiss the one you love best_' and such nonsense." "Ches has got above these good old plays, since he has been at the academy!" and Lizzie laughed again, mischievously. "You used to like kissing well enough." "So I do now," said he, giving her a smack, by way of illustration; "but stolen waters are the sweetest. Some public kissing I have done to-night has been like taking medicine." His remarks were cut short by the entrance of a tall young lady, with thin curls and homely teeth. She affected unusual grace of manner; her smile showed an attempt to be fascinating, and her language was peculiarly select, and lispingly pronounced. "What! are you here?" she cried, pretending to be surprised at seeing Chester. "I thought I left you in the parlor." Chester smiled at the innocent little deception her modesty led her to practise, and, as a means of getting rid of her, introduced her to the old clergyman. "I believe I had a glimpthe of you, this forenoon," said Miss Smith, with an exquisite smile. "You called at our houthe, I believe. Father was very thorry he wasn't at home. You mutht call again. You mutht come too, next time, Mrs. Royden. You owe mother two visits. What gloriouth weather we have now! I never thaw tho magnifithent a thunthet as there was this evening. Did you obtherve it, Mithter Royden?" addressing Chester. "It was very fine." "It was thurpathingly lovely! What thuperb cloudth! Will you be tho good,"--Miss Smith somewhat changed her tone,--"will you be tho good as to help me to a glath of water?" Chester was returning to the parlor, and she was just in time to catch him. He could not refuse, and she followed him into the kitchen. "She has stuck to him like a burr, all the evening," whispered Lizzie. "He can't stir a step, but she follows him; and he hates her _dreadfully_." Mrs. Royden reprimanded the girl for speaking so freely, to which she replied, "she didn't care; it was true." Chester was not half so long getting the water as Miss Smith was drinking it. She sipped and talked, and sipped and talked again, in her most dangerously fascinating manner, until he was on the point of leaving her to digest the beverage alone. "Theems to me you're in a terrific hurry," she cried. "I hope you an't _afraid_ of me. Good-neth! I am as harmleth as a kitten." Miss Smith showed her disagreeable teeth, and shook her consumptive curls, with great self-satisfaction. When Chester confessed that he was afraid of her, she declared herself "infinitely amathed." "But I don't believe it. Thomebody in the parlor has a magnetic influence over you," she said, archly. "Now, confeth!" On returning to the sitting-room, they found that two or three other young ladies had followed them from the parlor. "What a magnet thomebody is!" remarked Miss Smith. "I wonder who it can be." "I should think you might tell, since you were the first to be attracted from the parlor," remarked Miss Julia Keller. "Oh, I came for a glath of water." Miss Smith shook her curls again, and turned to Father Brighthopes. "I am _ecthethively_ delighted to make your acquaintanth, thir, for I am _immenthly_ fond of minithters." The old man smiled indulgently, and replied that he thought younger clergymen than himself might please her best. "Young or old, it makes no differenth," said she. "Our minithter is a delightfully fathinating man, and he is only twenty-five." "Fascinating?" "Oh, yeth! He is _extremely_ elegant in his dreth, and his manners are perfectly _charming_. His language is ectheedingly pretty, and thometimes gorgeouthly thublime." "I wish you would let Father Brighthopes finish the story he was telling me," said Lizzie, bluntly. "A story?" cried Miss Smith. "Thertainly. Let me thit down and hear it too. I'm _pathionately_ fond of stories." In taking a seat she was careful to place herself in close proximity to Chester, who was engaged in conversation with Julia. The clergyman resumed his narrative, in which not only Lizzie, but her father and mother also, had become interested. It was a reminiscence of his own early life. He told of afflictions, trials, all sorts of perplexities and struggles with the world, in experiencing which his heart had been purified, and his character had been formed. As he proceeded, his audience increased. The company came from the parlor and gathered around him, until the scene of the kissing games was quite deserted. Only one person remained behind. Hepsy, with her face behind the window-curtains, was sobbing. Chester thought of her, and, stealing out of the sitting-room, to find her, stood for some seconds by her side, before she was aware of his presence. XI. THE LOVELY AND THE UNLOVED. With all his vain and superficial qualities, the young man had a kind heart. He thought of Hepsy most when she was most neglected by others. He knelt down by her where she sat, and took her thin hand in his. "Come, you mustn't feel bad to-night," said he gently. She was startled; her heart beat wildly, and she hastened to wipe her tears. "Has anything unpleasant happened?" he asked. Hepsy tried to smother her sobs, but they burst forth afresh. "I've come for you to go and hear Father Brighthopes tell his stories," pursued Chester. "Will you come?" She was unable to answer. "It's the best joke of the season!" he continued, cheerfully. "Our company made the sourest faces in the world, when they learned that the old clergyman was to be within hearing. 'Oh, we couldn't have any fun,' they said. They wished him a thousand miles away. And now they have left their silly sports to listen to him." "I was much happier out there than after you brought me in here," murmured Hepsy, in a broken voice. "I wish, then, I had left you there," rejoined Chester. "But I thought you would enjoy the company, and made you come in." "I couldn't play with the rest," said the unhappy girl. "Why not? You could, if you had only thought so." Hepsy smiled, with touching sadness. "Who would have kissed me? I must have such a hideous face! Who _could_?" She cried again; and Chester, feeling deeply pained by her sufferings, kissed her cheek. "I could; and I have kissed you hundreds of times, as you know; and I hope to as many more. There are worse faces than yours to kiss here to-night." "Oh, you are always so good--so good!" murmured Hepsy, with gushing tears. "Now, tell me what has occurred to make you feel bad," insisted her cousin, very kindly. The poor girl required much urging, but at length she confessed. "Josephine Smith called me stupid and sour, because I sat in the corner watching the rest." "Josephine Smith did?" cried Chester, indignantly. "But never mind. Don't cry about it. Do you know, you are as much better--brighter than she is, as light is brighter and better than darkness? You are ten times more agreeable. She has nothing to compare with your pure soul." "You are so kind to say so! But others do not think it, if you do," murmured Hepsy. "Oh!" she exclaimed, with a burst of passionate grief, "it was cruel in her, to be Henry Wilbur's judge, and sentence him to kiss me!" "Did she?" "Yes; then they all laughed, and she ran out in the sitting-room after you; and the rest thought it such a joke, that anybody should have to kiss _me_!" Hepsy spoke very bitterly, and Chester's blood boiled with indignation. "I can't believe they were making fun at your expense," said he, in a suppressed tone. "If I thought they were so heartless----" "Oh, they did not know how I would feel about it, I am sure," interrupted the girl. "Did Henry laugh?" "No,"--with a melancholy smile,--"it was no laughing matter with him!--No!--Henry was very gentlemanly about it. He did not hesitate, although I saw him turn all sorts of colors; but came right up to do penance, like a hero. I thanked him in my heart for the good will he showed; but I would not let him kiss me, for I knew it would be disagreeable to him." "That is all your imagination," cried Chester, cheerily. "So think no more about it. Remember that there is one who loves you, at any rate, let what will happen." "I know there is one very good to me," replied Hepsy, with emotion. "Oh, you don't know what a comfort your kindness is! I would not--I could not--live without it! I sometimes think everybody hates me but you." "You are too sensitive, Coz. But since you imagine such things, I'll tell you what: when I am married, you shall come and live with me. How would you like that?" A quick pain shot through Hepsy's heart. A faintness came over her. Her cold hand dropped from Chester's, and fell by her side. "I will tell my wife all about how good you are," he continued, in a tone of encouragement; "and she must love you too. She cannot help it. And we will always be like brother and sister to you." He kissed her white cheek, and went on hopefully: "I have a secret for you, which I have not even revealed to Sarah or James. I will tell it to you, because I know how it will please you." He took her hand again. "The truth is, I am--engaged." Hepsy did not breathe; her hand was like stone. "To a glorious girl, Coz. Oh, you cannot help loving her. You can form no idea how sweet and beautiful she is. She's tall as Sarah, but more slender and graceful. You should see her curls! When she speaks, her soft eyes----But what is the matter?" "The air--is--close!" gasped Hepsy. "You are fainting!" "No; I am--better now." Hepsy made a desperate effort, and conquered her emotion. Chester, always delicately thoughtful of the feelings of others, except when his enthusiasm carried him away, proceeded with his description, every word of which burned like fire in the poor girl's heart. And he--fond soul!--deemed that he was pouring the balm of comfort and the precious ointment of joy upon her spirit! For how could he pause to consider and know that every charm he ascribed to the professor's daughter demonstrated to the unhappy creature more and more vividly, and with terrible force, that she was utterly unlovely and unblest? Contrasted with the enchanting valley of his love, how arid and desolate a desert seemed her life! Meanwhile Miss Josephine Smith had early discovered the absence of Chester from the circle, and looked about to find him. She could not rest where he was not. Becoming thirsty again, she made another errand to the water-pail in the kitchen; but she drank only of the cup of disappointment. As soon, therefore, as she could do so, without making her conduct marked, she sought her loadstar in the parlor. "How dreadfully tholitary you are to-night!" she exclaimed, with a smile which showed all her teeth. "Do extricate yourself from that frightfully lonethome corner." She suddenly discovered that, still beyond the chair in which Chester was seated, there was another, not unoccupied. "Ho, ho! what charmer have you there? You are getting to be an awfully dethperate flirt, Chethter Royden. Oh! nobody but Hepthy!" "Nobody but my good cousin Hepsy," replied Chester, coldly. "Dear me! I wouldn't have _thuthpicioned_ you could be tho fathinated with her!" she cried, in a tone she deemed cuttingly sarcastic. "Miss Smith," said Chester, quietly, "you need not think, because _you_ happen to have _peculiar_ charms of person, that no others have graces of a different sort." "Oh, what an egregiouth flatterer!" returned Josephine Smith, shaking her meager curls. "Come"--and she boldly seated herself,--"let me know what your interesting conversation is about." "We were just speaking of going into the sitting-room," answered the young man, rising. He stooped, and whispered to Hepsy. "Leave me alone a few minutes, then I will come," she murmured. He pressed her hand, and walked away. "Don't you thuppose, now," said Miss Smith, following, and taking his arm familiarly, "I think you have grown wonderfully handthome, thince you have been at school?" Chester made some nonsensical reply, and, having conducted her to the sitting-room, coolly turned about, and reëntered the parlor. Hepsy's face was hidden in her hands. She was weeping convulsively. "I thought what I said would make you happy," he whispered. Hepsy started; she choked back her sobs; she wiped her streaming eyes. "It should make me happy," she articulated, in broken tones. "But,--leave me alone a little while--I shall feel better soon." "You are too much alone," said Chester. "You must come with me now." "My eyes are so red!" "The company is so much interested in Father Brighthopes' story, that nobody will see you. Come!--you must." Chester was obliged to add gentle force to persuasion, to accomplish his kind design. Finally, she told him to go before, and she would come directly. He took his place in the circle around the old clergyman, and presently she glided to an obscure position, behind Mr. Royden's chair. There, unobserved, she indulged in her melancholy thoughts, until they were diverted by Father Brighthopes' remarks. "Thus, my friends," said he, "you see that I have reason to bless the wisdom that rained upon my head the grievous sufferings of which I complained so bitterly at the time. Truly, whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth. Steel gets its temper from the furnace. What is gold good for, unless it has been fused and hammered? All our trials are teachers; then temptations form themselves into a sort of examining committee, to see how much we have learned by the discipline,--to see how strong we are. If all our worldly circumstances were pleasant and smooth, who would not be contented with them? But storms come; winds blow, and rains pour; then we turn our eyes inwardly. When earth is dark, we look up. When men prove false, we remember the Friend who never fails us. In the gloomy valley of the present, we joyfully turn our sight to the soft blue hills of an infinite future. Clouds now and then overcast the sky; but the sun shines forever. So there is an eternal sun of Love pouring floods of blessed light upon our souls continually, notwithstanding the misty sorrows that sometimes float between, and cast their momentary shades. "Yes," continued the old man, warming and glowing with the theme, "I bless God for all I have suffered, as all of you will, some day,"--his clear, bright eye fell upon the miserable Hepsy,--"when you look back and see the uses of affliction. It seems to me that the happiest souls in heaven must be those who have suffered most here; patiently, I mean, and not with continual murmurings, which harden and embitter the heart. Even in this life, the poor and afflicted _exteriorly_ may always, and do oftenest, I believe, enjoy _interior_ happiness and peace, with which the superficial pleasures of life cannot be compared. The great secret it, Love!--love to God,--love to man,--and a serene and thankful temper. "But I find that my story has relapsed into a sermon," said Father Brighthopes, smiling. "You were all so attentive, that I quite forgot myself. I hope I have not been dull." "Oh, no! No, indeed!" cried half a dozen voices. All agreed that they could hear him talk all night. They had never been so well instructed in the use to be made of afflictions. They had never seen so clearly the beauty of a serene Christian life. "It's all _excethively_ pretty!" said Miss Smith. "Well, I am glad if you have been entertained," said the old man, with moist but happy eyes. "Good-night! good-night! God bless you all!" His fervent benediction was very touching. More than one eye was wet, as it watched him going to his room. There was not much more wild gayety among the little company that evening, but every heart seemed to have been softened and made deeply happy by the old man's lesson. Hepsy stole away to her room. His words still echoed in her soul. They stirred its depths; they warmed her, they cheered her strangely. All night long her tears rained upon her pillow,--when she slept, as when she lay awake,--but she was no longer utterly wretched. A ray had stolen in upon the darkness of her misery. "Love!" she repeated to herself. "Love to God, and love to our neighbor. But love must be unselfish. It must be self-sacrificing. Oh, Lord!" she prayed, with anguish, "purify my bad heart! purify it! purify it! purify it!" She felt herself a broken-hearted child, humbled in the dust. But a feeling of calmness came over her. Her hot and throbbing heart grew cool and still. Angels had touched her with their golden wings; and her spirit seemed to brighten and expand with newly-developed powers of patience, endurance and love. Meanwhile, Chester was penning a passionate letter to his affianced, wholly absorbed, and forgetful even of the existence of poor Hepsy. XII. DOMESTIC ECONOMY. As Father Brighthopes entered the sitting-room on the following morning, he found Mr. and Mrs. Royden engaged in a warm and not very good-natured discussion. "Come, wife, let us leave it to our wise old friend," said the former, the frown passing from his brow. "I agree to do as he says." "He cannot possibly appreciate my feelings on the subject," replied Mrs. Royden, firmly. "But you can tell him what we were talking about, if you like." The old man's genial smile was sufficient encouragement for Mr. Royden to proceed; but his wife added, quickly, "I don't know, though, why you should weary him with details of our troubles. It is our business to make him comfortable, and not to call on him to help us out of our difficulties." "My dear sister," said Father Brighthopes, warmly, "the joyful business of my life is _to help_. I did not come to see you merely to be made comfortable. I shall think I have lived long enough when I cease to be of service to my great family. These hands are not worth much now," he continued, cheerfully, "but my head is old enough to be worth something; and when I am grown quite childish, if I live to see the time, I trust God will give me still a use, if it is nothing more than to show the world how hopeful, how sunny, how peaceful, old age can be." "I cannot think of a nobler use," said Mr. Royden, "since to see you so must lead the young to consider those virtues to which you owe your happiness. Selfish lives never ripen into such beautiful old age. But to our affair. To-day is Saturday; next week commences a busy time. We go into the hay-field Monday morning. I shall have two stout mowers, who will board with us, and, as they will probably want some more solid food than apples and nuts," said Mr. Royden, with quiet humor, "the consequence will be an increase of labor in the kitchen." "I should think so!" cried the old man. "What delightfully keen appetites your strong laborers have!" "And Mr. Royden insists on it," added the wife, "that I should have a girl to help me!" "Certainly, I do; isn't the idea rational, Father Brighthopes?" "There are a good many objections to it," said Mrs. Royden. "In the first place, the children recommence going to school Monday morning, and I shall not have them in the way. If ever I was glad of anything, it is that Miss Selden is well enough to take charge of the children again; she has been off a fortnight; and I have been nearly crazed with noise; but, the truth is, Father Brighthopes, girls are generally worse than no help at all. Not once in a dozen times do we ever get a good one. I have had experience; besides, Hepsy is _very_ willing and industrious." "She works too hard even now, wife--you _must_ see it. She is weakly; before you think of it, she goes beyond her strength." "I don't mean she shall hurt herself," observed Mrs. Royden, incredulously. "Sarah will apply herself more than she has done; and, for at least a week, Samuel will be too lame to go into the field, and he can help around the house." Her husband laughed heartily. "With your experience, I should not think you would expect to get much out of him," said he. "To tell the plain truth, then," added his wife, "we cannot very well afford the expense of a girl." "What's a dollar and a quarter a week?" "We cannot get a good girl for less than a dollar and a half, at this season of the year; and that is a good deal. It runs up to fifty dollars in a few months. I don't mean to be close, but it stands us in hand to be economical." "There are two ways of being economical," said Mr. Royden. "It is not the right way to be running up a bill of expense with a girl who does not, in reality, earn more than her board, which is to be taken into consideration, you know. We have kept either Sarah or Chester at a high-school now for two years; in a little while, James will be going--then Lizzie--then--nobody knows how many more." "The more the better!" Mrs. Royden answered her husband's good-natured sally with a sigh. "You would bring us to the poor-house, some day, if you did not have me to manage, I do believe," she said. "Somehow," replied Mr. Royden, "we have always been able to meet all our expenses, and more too, although you have never ceased to prophesy the poor-house; and I see nothing rotten in the future. Come, now, I am sure our old and experienced friend, here, will counsel us to rely a little more than we have done upon an overruling Providence." "We must help ourselves, or Providence will not help us," retorted Mrs. Royden. "There is a middle course," remarked Father Brighthopes, mildly. "Define it," said Mr. Royden. "Have a reasonable care for the things of this world; but there is such a thing as a morbid fear of adversity. I am convinced that we please God best when we take life easily; when we are thankful for blessings, and do not offend the Giver by distrusting his power or will to continue his good gifts." "There, wife! what do you think of that?" "It sounds very well, indeed," said Mrs. Royden; "but even if we forget ourselves, we must think of the future of our children." "My experience is wide," answered the old man, smiling, "and it teaches me that those young people get along the best, and live the happiest, who commence life with little or nothing. Discipline, of the right kind, makes a good disposition; and a good disposition is better than silver and gold." Something in the tone in which the words were uttered, or in the old man's simple and impressive manner, struck Mrs. Royden, as well as her husband, very forcibly. And when Mr. Royden added that "they had always got along better than they expected, so far, and he did not see the wisdom of hoarding up money for an uncertain future," she gave a partial consent to the arrangement he proposed. "That is enough!" he cried, triumphantly; "I am sick of seeing house affairs rush forward in haste and confusion, whenever we have workmen. I mean to take life easier than I have done; and I see no reason why you should not. What cannot be done easily, let it go undone. Things will come around somehow, at the end of the year. I have to thank you, Father Brighthopes," said he, "for a clearer insight into this philosophy than I ever had before." The old man's face shone with gratification. "If I'm to have any girl," spoke up Mrs. Royden, "I prefer the Bowen girl, if I can get her." "I'll ride right over for her, after breakfast," replied her husband; "and Father Brighthopes shall go with me, if he will." The old man desired nothing better, and the arrangement was resolved upon. As soon as breakfast was over, Mr. Royden went to harness Old Bill. He brought him to the door, and inquired for the clergyman. "He went to his room," said Sarah; "shall I call him?" "No; I will go myself." On entering the parlor, Mr. Royden heard a voice proceeding from the bedroom beyond, and paused. A strange feeling of awe came over him. He was not a religious man; but he could not hear the fervent soul of the clergyman pouring itself out in prayer, without being deeply impressed. He had never heard such simple, childlike, eloquent expressions of thankfulness, gush from human lips. The old man prayed for him; for his family; for the blessings of peace and love to fall thick upon their heads, and for the light of spiritual life to enter into their hearts. His whole soul seemed to go up in that strong and radiant flood of prayer. When he ceased, Mr. Royden might have been seen to pause and wipe his eyes, before he knocked at the door. Father Brighthopes opened with alacrity. His face was glowing with unearthly joy, and there was a brightness in his eyes Mr. Royden had never observed before. XIII. TALK BY THE WAY. It was another lovely day,--sunny, breezy, and not too warm for comfort. As Mr. Royden and the old clergyman rode along together, the former said, "You seem to have brought the most delightful weather with you, Father. Everything bright in nature seems to be attracted by you." "There is more philosophy at the bottom of your remark than you dream of," replied the old man. "Your words cannot be interpreted literally; but the attraction you allude to is real, if not actual." "I do not understand you." "I mean a bright spirit sees everything in nature bright; it has an affinity for sunny colors. On the other hand, 'He who hides a dark soul and foul thoughts Benighted walks beneath the noonday sun.' A gloomy heart sees gloom in everything. Truly Milton has said, 'The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make of heaven a hell, of hell a heaven.' The principle holds universally, notwithstanding apparent contradictions and exceptions in various instances. I have seen more pure and perfect happiness, nestled in poverty, in a laborer's cottage, than I ever met with in the houses of the rich." "Then the fault lies with me," said Mr. Royden, thoughtfully, "whenever my home appears less agreeable and attractive than it might, I suppose." "In a great measure, the fault is yours, undoubtedly. Do you not think that an established habit of preserving a serene temper, in the midst of the most trying scenes, would produce blessed results?" "But the power is not in me." "It is in every man," said Father Brighthopes. "Only exercise it." "You can have no conception of what I have had to go through," replied Mr. Royden, gloomily. "Everything has conspired to ruin my disposition. My nature has been soured; I could not help it. I have become irritable, and the least thing moves me." The old man expressed so much sympathy, and spoke so encouragingly, that Mr. Royden continued, "You remember me, I suppose, an ambitious, warm, impulsive youth?" "Well do I! And the interest I felt in you has never cooled." "Hope was bright before me. I believed I should make some stir in the world. All my plans for the future were tinged with the colors of romance. But the flowers I saw in the distance proved to be only briers." "You found life a stern and unromantic fact," said Father Brighthopes, smiling. "The same disenchantment awaits every imaginative youth. It is sad--it is often very bitter; but it is a useful lesson." "The blue hills I climbed grew unusually rugged and rocky to my undisciplined feet," resumed Mr. Royden, shaking his head. "I came upon the ledges very suddenly. The haze and sunshine faded and dissolved, even as I reached the most enchanting point of the ascent." "It is plain you allude to your marriage." Mr. Royden was silent. His features writhed with bitter emotions, and his voice was deep and tremulous, when at length he spoke. "My wife is the best of women at heart," he said. "I feel that I could not live without her. But she never understood me, and never could. With the aspirations dearest to my soul she has had no sympathy." "It is her misfortune, and not her fault, I am sure," replied Father Brighthopes. "I know it is--I know it is! We did not understand each other before marriage. Our attachment was a romantic one. She had no thought of what was in me; she saw me only as a lover attractive enough to please her girlish imagination. She was very beautiful, and I loved her devotedly. But--" Mr. Royden's voice was shaken--"when I looked to find my other ideal self glowing beneath her brilliant exterior, I saw a stranger there. I found that it was not her character I had loved." "And she, probably, made a similar discovery in you," said the old man, cheerfully, but feelingly. "No doubt--no doubt! But I do wrong to speak of this," murmured Mr. Royden, brushing a tear from his eye. "It is a subject I could never talk upon to a living soul, and how I have come to let you into my confidence I am at a loss to know." "Some good angel prompted you, perhaps," replied Father Brighthopes, "in order that something may come, through me, to counsel or comfort you." "I would gladly think so!" exclaimed his companion. "I want consolation and instruction: and you are so wise an old head!" He coughed, spoke to the horse, to urge him into a faster pace, and, having silenced his emotions, resumed the subject of conversation. "I had little idea of being a farmer, until I was married. It was necessary to engage in some pursuit, and I had not prepared myself for any learned profession. I fondly dreamed that some way would be opened for me by the magic of my genius; for I was passionately devoted to music, in which I believed I might excel. Delicious dreams of a bright career were followed by naked, everyday life--farmers' cares and farmers' toil. I could not be reconciled to the reality. I murmured because Sarah was so cold, practical, and calculating; I know I made her unhappy. I was constitutionally irritable, and a habit of fretfulness grew upon me. This was not designed to soften her rather harsh nature, or benefit her temper. With children came an increase of cares and discords, which sometimes almost maddened me. Oh, why was I formed so weak, so infirm a mortal?" groaned Mr. Royden. "I have tried in vain to govern my spleen. It rules me with a finger of fire." "Do you know," said Father Brighthopes, feelingly, "I have a disposition naturally very much like yours?" "You!" "Your mother was my father's sister; we inherited from the same stock the same infirm temper. The Rensfords are constitutionally nervous. Our sense of harmony and discord is too fine; we have bad spleens; and we lack fortitude. Ill-health, of which we have both seen somewhat, aggravates the fault." "But what can cure it?" exclaimed Mr. Royden. "I never saw my remedy until my eyes were opened to the sublime beauty of Christ's character. The wisdom he taught filled me with the deepest shame for my folly of fretting at the trivial perplexities of life. I cried out, in agony, 'Oh, God give me strength!' Strength came. It will come to those who ask for it with earnest, unselfish hearts." Observing that Mr. Royden was thoughtful, and plunged in doubt, the old man changed the conversation. He spoke of Mrs. Royden. He expressed his sympathy for her, and indirectly showed his companion how tender he should be of her, how charitable towards her temper, how careful not to make her feel the hedge of thorns which their ill-matched dispositions had placed between them. He went so far as to teach how, by mutual forbearance, forgetfulness of the past and hope for the future, pleasant discourse and serene contentment with the ways of Providence, these briers might be made to blossom thick with roses. "Talk with her--talk with her!" said Mr. Royden, with gushing emotions. "Oh, if you could create such harmony between us, I would bless you, not for our sakes alone, but for our children's. We are spoiling them; I see it every day. I am not severe with them; but one hour I am fretful, and the next too indulgent. My wife thinks it necessary to counteract my too easy discipline by one too strict. She punishes them sometimes when she is angry, and that is sure to make them worse." If Mr. Royden had said she never punished the children except when she was angry, he would not have gone far from the truth. XIV. DEACON DUSTAN'S POLICY. Our friends met a ruddy farmer on horseback. He reined up on the road-side, and stopped. Mr. Royden also stopped, and said, "Good-morning, Deacon Dustan." "Good-morning, good-morning, neighbor," cried Deacon Dustan, heartily, his sharp gray eyes twinkling as he fixed them on the old clergyman's face. "Good-morning to you, Father. Mr. Rensford, I believe? I heard of your arrival, sir, and intended to call and make your acquaintance." The old man acknowledged the compliment in his usual simple and beautiful manner. "We thought of getting around to your place yesterday, deacon," said Mr. Royden. "But we found we had not time." "Try again, and better luck!" replied Deacon Dustan. "By the way," he added, in an off-hand, careless manner, "I suppose you will put your name on our paper for the new meeting-house?" "Is the thing decided upon?" "Oh, yes. The old shell has held together long enough. The other society has got the start of us, at the village; and we must try to be a little in the fashion, or many of our people will go there to meeting." "I don't know; but I suppose I must do something, if a new house is built," said Mr. Royden. "The old one seems to me, though, to be a very respectable place of worship, if we are only a mind to think so." "It would do very well five years ago," said Deacon Dustan. "But our society has come up wonderfully. We have got just the right kind of minister now. Mr. Corlis is doing a great thing for us. I don't think we could have got a more popular preacher. He is very desirous to see the movement go on." Mr. Royden said he would consider the matter; a few more remarks were passed, touching the business of farmers, the favorable state of the weather to commence haying, and so forth; and the deacon, switching his little black pony, pursued his way. "I am not much in favor of building a new meeting-house," said Mr. Royden, with a dissatisfied air, driving on. "Although I am not a church-member, I shall feel obliged to give in proportion with my neighbors towards the enterprise." "Is not the old house a good one?" asked Father Brighthopes. "As good as any, only it is old-fashioned. Our people are getting ashamed of the high pulpit and high-backed pews, since Mr. Corlis has been with us. Deacon Dustan, who has some fashionable daughters, and a farm near the proposed site of the new house, appears to be the prime mover in the affair." "He probably views it in a purely business light, then?" "Yes," said Mr. Royden. "The vanity of his daughters will be gratified, and the price of his land enhanced. I ought not to speak so,"--laughing,--"but the truth is, the deacon is the shrewdest man to deal with in the neighborhood." "A jolly, good-natured man, I should judge?" "One of the best! A capital story-teller, and eater of good dinners. But he has an eye to speculation. He is keen. Mark Wheeler, who is a close jockey, declares he was never cheated till the deacon got hold of him." Father Brighthopes shook his head sadly. He was not pleased to pursue the subject. Presently he began to talk, in his peculiarly interesting and delightful way, about the great philosophy of life, and Mr. Royden was glad to listen. In this manner they passed by the minister's cottage, the old-fashioned meeting-house and the pleasant dwellings scattered around it; and finally came to a large, showy white house, shaded by trees, and surrounded by handsome grounds, which Mr. Royden pointed out as Deacon Dustan's residence. A little further on, they came to a little brown, weather-beaten, dilapidated house, built upon a barren hill. Here Mr. Royden stopped. "This is one of Deacon Dustan's houses," said he. "Job Bowen, an old soldier, who lost a leg in the war of 1812, lives here. He is now a shoemaker. I hope I shall be able to engage his daughter Margaret to come and live with us. Will you go in, or sit in the wagon?" "I shall feel better to get out and stir a little," replied the clergyman. Mr. Royden tied Old Bill to a post, and, letting down a pair of bars for his aged friend, accompanied him along a path of saw-dust and rotten chips to the door. They were admitted by a bent and haggard woman, who said "good-morning" to Mr. Royden and his companion, in a tone so hoarse and melancholy as to be exceedingly painful to their ears. "Will you walk in?" she asked, holding the door open. "Thank you. Is your daughter Margaret at home now?" "Yes, she is." Mrs. Bowen talked like a person who had lost all her back teeth, and her accents seemed more and more unhappy and forbidding. "I called to see if you could let her come and help us next week," said Mr. Royden. "I don't know. Sit down. I'll see what she says." Having placed a couple of worn, patched and mended wooden chairs, for the callers, in the business room of the house, Mrs. Bowen disappeared. Father Brighthopes looked about him with a softened, sympathizing glance; but, before sitting down, went and shook hands with a sallow individual, who was making shoes in one corner. He was a short, stumpy, queer-looking man, past the middle age, with a head as bald as an egg, and ears that stood out in bold relief behind his temples. Sitting upon a low bench, his wooden leg--for this was Job, the soldier--stuck out straight from his body, diverging slightly from the left knee, on which he hammered the soles of his customers. "Ah! how do you do?" said he, in a soft, deliberate half-whisper, as Father Brighthopes addressed him. With his right hand,--having carefully wiped it upon his pantaloons, or rather pantaloon, for his luck in war enabled him to do with half a pair,--he greeted the old clergyman modestly and respectfully, while with his left he raised his steel-bowed glasses from his nose. "My friend," said Father Brighthopes, "you seem industriously at work, this morning." "Pegging away,--pegging away!" replied Job, with a childlike smile. "Always pegging, you know." There was an evident attempt at so much more cheerfulness in his voice than he really felt, that the effect was quite touching. "That's my mother," he added, as the clergyman turned to shake hands with a wrinkled, unconscious-looking object, who sat wrapped in an old blanket, in a rocking-chair. "A kind old woman, but very deaf. You'll have to speak loud." "Good-morning, mother," cried Father Brighthopes, raising his voice, and taking her withered hand. The old woman seemed to start up from a sort of dream, and a feeble gleam of intelligence crossed her seamed and bloodless features, as she fixed her watery eye upon the clergyman. "Oh, yes!" she cried, mumbling the shrill words between her toothless gums, "I remember all about it. Sally's darter was born on the tenth of June, in eighteen-four. Her husband's mother was a Higgins." The clergyman smiled upon her sadly, nodded assent, and, laying her hand gently upon her lap, turned away. "Her mind's a runnin' on old times, and she don't hear a word you say, sir," observed Job, in his peculiar half-whisper, slow, subdued, but very distinct. "She don't take much notice o' what's goin' on now-days, and we have to screech to her to make her understand anything. A kind old lady, sir, but past her time, and very deaf." Mr. Royden squeezed a drop of moisture out of his eye, and coughed. Meanwhile the aged woman relapsed into the dreamy state from which she had been momentarily aroused, drawing the dingy blanket around her cold limbs, and whispering over some dim memory of the century gone by. XV. THE PHILOSOPHY OF A WOODEN LEG. "You have a good trade, friend Bowen," said Father Brighthopes, drawing his chair near the shoemaker's bench. "It does capital for me!" replied Job, cheerfully. "Since I got a bayonet through my knee at Lundy's Lane, I find I get on best in the world sittin' still." He smiled pleasantly over this feeble attempt at humor, and arranged some waxed ends, which, for convenience, he had hung upon his wooden leg. "Did you learn shoe-making before you went soldiering?" asked the clergyman. "I'd been a 'prentice. But I tired of the monotony. So I quarreled with my trade, and fought my _last_ at Lundy's Lane, as I tell people," said Job, with twinkling eyes. "You got the worst of it?" "All things considered I did. This fighting is bad business; and, you see, I decidedly put my foot in it." Job touched his wooden leg significantly, to illustrate the joke. "You seem merry over your misfortune," observed Father Brighthopes. "Better be merry than sad, you know. There's no use o' complainin' of Providence, when my own folly tripped me up. My understanding is not so lame as that." It was amusing to see with what a relish the poor fellow cracked these little jokes of his over his infirmity. To get hold of someone who had never heard them before, and could laugh at them as well as if they were quite fresh and new, seemed a great happiness to him; and the clergyman did not fail to appreciate and encourage his humor. "On the whole," said the latter, "you made a bad bargain when you traded your hammer and awl for a musket and cartridge-box?" Job's eyes glistened. He rubbed his hands together with delight. The old man had given him a capital opportunity to get in another of his jokes, just like an impromptu. "I might have made a worse bargain," he said. "As long as I had one leg left,"--he touched his solitary knee,-"I ought to call it a good bargain. You see, I did not come off altogether without something to boot." "I hope you were contented to return to shoe-making?" remarked the clergyman, laughing. "Well--yes," replied Job, in his cheerful half whisper. "I did not find the change so difficult as many would. I can say, truthfully, that, with me, there was but one step between the battle-field and the shop." Father Brighthopes took time to consider the enormity of this far-reaching jest, and replied, "Well, brother; I trust you get along pretty well now." "Passable, passable. Better than I should, if I was a lamp-lighter or a penny-postman. I wouldn't make a very good ballet-dancer, either. Do you think I would?" Father Brighthopes replied that, in his experience, he had learned to regard a contented shoemaker as more blessed--even if he had lost a leg--than a miserly millionaire, or an ambitious monarch. "I've had considerable to try me, though," said Job. "Two fine boys, 'at would now be able to take care of me and the family, got the small-pox both 't a time; one was nineteen, t'other fifteen; I'd rather lost a dozen legs, if I'd had 'em," he murmured, thoughtfully. "Then I've one darter that's foolish and sickly. She an't able to do nothin', and it's took more 'n my pension was wo'th to doctor her." "You have seen affliction: thank God, my friend, that you have come through it so nobly!" exclaimed Father Brighthopes, smiling, with tears of sympathy running down his cheeks. He patted Job's shoulder kindly; and the poor fellow could not speak, for a moment, his heart was touched so deeply. "It's all for the best, I s'pose," said he, coughing, and drawing his shirt-sleeve across his eyes. "Yes; and you will get your reward," answered the old man. "So I believe! I find so much comfort in these good old leaves." Job pointed to a worn Bible, that lay on the mantel-piece. "Right! right!" cried the clergyman, joyously. "Job Bowen, there is a crown for thee! Job Bowen, in my life I have not met with twenty men so blessed as thou. But thousands and thousands of the rich and prosperous well might envy thee, thou poor Christian shoemaker, with one leg!" "Thank you! thank you, for saying so much!" bubbled from Job's lips, like a gushing stream of glad water. He laughed; he shed tears; he seemed warmed through and through with the sunshine of peace. The clergyman clasped his hand, weeping silently, with joy in his glorious old face. "Yes," said Job, rallying, "I knowed it 'u'd be all right in the end. I tell folks, though I an't good at dancing and capering, and turning short corners in life, and dodging this way and that, with my wooden stump, I shall do well enough in the long run." "And, considering how well afflictions prepare us for heaven, we may say," added Father Brighthopes, "you have already put your best foot forward." "That I have! that I have!" cried Job, delighted. "How does your wife bear up, under all her trials?" asked the old man. At this juncture the old woman in the corner started once more from her dreams, and cried out. "On the left-hand side, as you go down. There was thirteen children of 'em--all boys but two. The youngest was a gal, born the same day we sold our old brindle cow." Mr. Royden and the clergyman both started, and looked at the speaker. "Don't mind her,--don't mind the poor creatur'!" said Job, softly. "Her talk is all out of date; it's all about bygones. A kind old lady, but childish again, and very deaf." Father Brighthopes returned to the subject they were conversing upon. "My wife has seen a mighty deal of bad weather," said Job, very softly. "Oh, she has got through it amazin' well, for a feeble woman. She astonishes me every day o' my life. But, then, you see, she's a good deal broken, late years." "I am sorry for her,--sorry for her!" exclaimed the clergyman, warmly. "But there's a good time coming for all of us old people,"--looking up, with a peaceful smile. "So I tell her," replied Job. "But she han't got the animal sperrits she once had. And that an't to be wondered at. Oh, she's a good soul! and if she'd pluck up heart a little,--gracious!" exclaimed the shoemaker, doubling his fists, and compressing his lips with hopeful firmness, "I think I wouldn't like any better fun than to fight the world ten or a dozen years longer!" "My bold Christian hero!" "Thank you, sir! To be that is glory enough for me; though I didn't think exactly so when I stood strong and proud on two legs. I believed then I was destined to do wonders with bayonets and gun-powder." The clergyman patted his shoulder kindly, and said, "Do you not feel it is better as it is?" "Well, yes. I think of that a good deal. 'Supposing I had got to be a real, genuine bloody hero?' I say to myself. 'What would it all have come to, in the end?' I expect it was the best thing the devil could have done for me, when he knocked me off my pins. Ah! here comes mother, with Maggie." Mrs. Bowen entered, accompanied by a plain, good-natured, wholesome-looking girl, modest, but not awkward, coarsely but quite neatly attired. She advanced to shake hands with Mr. Royden, and inquired about Mrs. Royden and the children. "They will all be glad to see you," he replied. "What do you say to coming and helping us, next week?" "I don't know how I can come, any way in the world," said Maggie. "Ma's health is so poor now, I ought to be at home." "I s'pose I shall have to spare you, if you think you would like to go," added Mrs. Bowen, in her sepulchral tone of voice. Maggie colored very red. She seemed to know hardly what to say. Fortunately, the grandmother in the corner attracted observation from her, by crying out, with a shrill, childish laugh, "So she did! he, he, he! Eggs ten cents a dozen, and all the hens a settin'! That beat all the jokes I ever heard on! Eggs ten cents a dozen, and five hens a--'s--'s--'s--" The words died away in the old woman's toothless jaws; but her lips continued to move, and her mind seemed to float lightly upon the waves of an inaudible laugh. Mrs. Bowen broke the silence which followed. "The truth is,"--what a ghostly tone!--"Maggie didn't like to work for Mrs. Royden any too well, when she was there before." "Oh, ma!" spoke up the girl, entreatingly. "It's the truth. She liked your folks well enough, but there's pleasanter families to work for." "Fie, mother!" said Job, softly. "Let bygones be bygones." "I am glad you spoke of it," added Mr. Royden, frankly. "My wife means to be kind, but she has a good deal to try her, and she gets fretful, now and then. I am troubled the same way, too." "Oh, Maggie never said a word ag'in' you," rejoined Mrs. Bowen; "nor any real harm of Mrs. Royden, for that matter. But, as I said, there's pleasanter families to work for." "Well, well!" cried Mr. Royden, desirous of getting away from the disagreeable topic, "I think, if Maggie will try it again, she will find things a little different. At any rate, she mustn't mind too much what my wife says, when she is irritated." "I suppose you will give a dollar and a half a week, in the busy season?" If Mr. Royden hesitated at this reasonable suggestion of the girl's mother, it was only because he knew his wife would hardly be satisfied to pay so much. But a glance around the room, in which a struggle with poverty was so easily to be seen, decided him. What was a quarter, a half, or even a dollar a week, to come out of his pocket? How much the miserable trifle might be, falling into the feeble palm of the ghastly woman, whom trouble had crushed, and who found it such a hard and wretched task to toil and keep her family together! "I can't come until the last of the week, any way," said Maggie. "I am sorry for that," replied Mr. Royden. "I might get along as early as Wednesday; Monday I am engaged to Deacon Dustan's----" "I shouldn't care if you broke that engagement," said Mrs. Bowen. "Rich people as the Dustans are, they an't willing to pay a poor girl thirty-seven and a half cents for a hard day's work a washing!" "I must go, since I have promised," quietly observed Margaret. "Tuesday I shall have a good many things to do for myself. So I guess you may expect me Wednesday morning." "Well, Wednesday be it; I will send over for you before breakfast," said Mr. Royden. "Now, I want you to make up your mind to get along with us as well as you can, and you shall have a dollar and a half, and a handsome present besides." Having concluded the bargain, Mr. Royden took leave of the family, with his companion. "Lord bless you, sir!" said Job, when he shook hands with the clergyman. "You have done me a vast sight of good! I feel almost another man. Do come again, sir; we need a little comfort, now and then." "I hope your minister calls occasionally?" suggested Father Brighthopes. "Not often, sir, I am sorry to say. He's over to Deacon Dustan's every day; but he never got as far as here but once. And I'd just as lives he wouldn't come. He didn't seem comfortable here, and I thought he was glad to get out of sight of poverty. He's a nice man,--Mr. Corlis is, sir,--but he hasn't a great liking to poor people, which I s'pose is nat'ral." "Well, you shall see me again, Providence permitting," cried Father Brighthopes, cheerfully. "Keep up a good heart," he added, shaking hands with Mrs. Bowen. "Christ is a friend to you; and there's a glorious future for all of us. Good-by! good-by! God bless you all!" He took the grandmother's hand again, and pressed it in silence. His face was full of kindly emotion, and his eyes beamed with sympathy. "Yes, I guess so!" cried the old woman. "About fifteen or twenty. The string of that old looking-glass broke just five years from the day it was hung up. It was the most wonderfulest thing I ever knowed on! I telled our folks something dre'ful was going to happen." She still continued to mumble over some inaudible words between her gums, but the light of her eyes grew dim, and she settled once more in her dreams. Mr. Royden went out; the clergyman followed, leaving the door open, and a stream of sunshine pouring its flood of liquid gold upon the olden floor. XVI. GOING TO MEETING. On the following morning the Roydens made early preparations for attending church. The cows were milked and turned away into the pasture; the horses were caught, curried and harnessed; and the great open family carriage was backed out of the barn. Meanwhile, Hepsy and Sarah washed the boys, combed their hair, and put on their clean clothes. Willie's bright locks curled naturally, and in his white collar and cunning little brown linen jacket he looked quite charming. It was delightful to see him strut and swagger and purse up his red lips with a consciousness of manly trousers, and tell Hepsy to do this and do that, with an air of authority, scowling, now and then, just like his father. Georgie was more careless of his dignity; he declared that his collar choked him, and "darned it all" spitefully, calling upon Sarah to take it off, that he might go without it until meeting-time, at any rate. Mrs. Royden busied herself about the house, cleaning up, here and there, with her usual energy of action. "Come, wife!" exclaimed her husband, who was shaving at the looking-glass in the kitchen, "you had better leave off now, and get ready. We shall be late." "I can't bear to leave things all at loose ends," replied Mrs. Royden. "I shall have time enough to change my dress. Hepsy! If you let the boys get into the dirt with their clean clothes, you will deserve a good scolding." "Isn't Hepsy going to church?" asked Mr. Royden. "No; she says she had just as lief stay at home; and somebody must take care of the baby, you know." "If Sam wasn't such a mischief-maker, we might leave the baby with him." "Dear me! I'd as soon think of leaving it with the cows! And, Hepsy, do you keep an eye on Samuel. Don't let him be cracking but'nuts all day. Where's Lizzie? Is she getting ready?" "I think she is," replied Hepsy. "She was tending the baby; but that is still now." "I can't conceive how we are all going to ride," added Mrs. Royden. "I don't know but I had better stay at home. The carriage will be crowded, and it seems as though I had everything to do." "There will be plenty of room in the carriage," said her husband, taking the razor from his chin, and wiping it on a strip of newspaper. "Father Brighthopes and I can take Lizzie on the front seat with us, and you and Sarah can hold the boys between you. Chester and James are going to walk." Mrs. Royden continued to work, until she had but a few minutes left in which to get ready. The second bell was ringing, and carriages were beginning to go by. "Come, wife!" again her husband exclaimed; "we shall be late. There go Mr. Eldridge's folks." "They are always early," said she, impatiently. "Do let me take my time!" But Mr. Royden called her attention to the clock. "Dear me! who would have thought it could be so late?" she cried. "Where the morning has gone to I can't conceive. Hepsy, come and help me slip on my silk dress." "Willie wants to ride his stick," said Hepsy; "and it is all dirt." "Willie cannot ride his stick to-day!" exclaimed Mrs. Royden, sharply. "Do you hear?" Willie began to pout and mutter, "I will, too! so there!" and kick the mop-board. His mother's morning experience had not prepared her for the exercise of much patience. She rushed upon the little shaver, and boxed his ears violently. "Do you tell me you will?" she cried. "Take that!" Willie blubbered with indignation, being too proud to cry outright, with his new clothes on. "Stop that noise!" Willie could not stop; and his mother shook him. This was too much for his dignity, and he bawled with open mouth. "You shall stay at home from meeting!" muttered Mrs. Royden. "Take off his collar, Hepsy!" "She shan't!" screamed Willie, throwing himself on the defensive. "I'll bite her!" "Come, come!" said Mr. Royden; "Willie is going to be a good boy, and go to meeting like a man." "He shall go into the closet, and stay there one hour!" exclaimed his mother, snatching him up roughly. Willie met with a providential escape. While he was kicking and screaming in his mother's arms, the noise of a dire disaster filled the kitchen, and contributed to drown his cries. Georgie, reaching up to the water-pail which stood on the sink-shelf, to get a dipper-full of drink, had somehow pulled it over. Its entire contents spouted upon his face, his bosom, his fresh collar and nice clothes, and the pail came with him to the floor. After the shock, and the jar, and a little gasping, he began to shriek. Mrs. Royden dropped Willie, and ran to the rescue. It was well for the drenched boy that his father arrived first at the spot, and lifted him up. Hepsy was terrified; but Sam, who had hobbled to the door, to tell Mr. Royden that the team was ready, laughed till he was too weak to stand. Mrs. Royden, incensed by the lad's insolence, made a rapid dash at him; but Sam dodged, and rolled down the steps. Willie, diverted from his own woes by the mischance which had befallen his brother, crept into a corner in the sitting-room, where he hid away from his mother's wrath. How the storm would have ended it is impossible to say, had not Father Brighthopes made his appearance, serene and glowing from his morning devotions. "Ah! what has happened to my little friend?" he cried, as Mr. Royden held Georgie up to let him drip. Mr. Royden had kept his temper with astonishing success; but he was on the point of giving way to his irritable feelings. The old man's appearance was timely. The perplexed father remembered a resolution he had made, and was calm in a moment. "Oh," said he, "Georgie has been taking a big drink at the water-pail. It was rather too much for him." "Accidents will happen," cried the clergyman, cheerfully. "Bear it bravely, my fine fellow! You will get dry again soon. It helps nothing to cry about it, my little man." Georgie was hushed almost instantly. He seemed ashamed to make a great ado about his disaster, and smothered his cries into sobs. Meanwhile, Mrs. Royden, with a mighty effort, had controlled her boiling and bursting temper, and hastened to her room. It was now impossible that Georgie should go to meeting. Hepsy undressed him, while Mrs. Royden got herself ready with nervous haste. All the neighbors bound for church had gone by before the family began to pile into the carriage. Mr. Royden's patience was fast ebbing away. "Come, come, wife!" he said. "I told you you would be too late." She flew around confusedly, doing everything amiss, in her hurry. Three times, when on the point of getting into the carriage, she went back for something she had forgotten. Then Georgie, unwilling to stay at home, began to whimper aloud, and struggle fiercely with Hepsy, who restrained him from running after the family. To make matters worse, the yearling colt got out of the barn-yard, Sam having afforded him an opportunity by leaving the doors open on both sides of the barn. Mr. Royden had to get him back; for it would not do to let him follow the team to church, and Sam, with his lame foot, could not have kept him out of the road. Mrs. Royden took advantage of this delay to arrange some portion of her dress, which she had neglected in her haste. Her husband had shut the colt up, and returned to the horse-block, before she was ready. His temper was now on the point of bursting forth, as the clergyman saw by his fiery face, knitted brows and quivering lips. "Calmly, calmly, brother!" said Father Brighthopes, cheerily. "Take it easy. Keep cool. Heat and passion always make bad things worse." "I know it!" exclaimed Mr. Royden. "I will keep cool." He laid down the reins, and took his seat quietly on the horse-block, wiping the perspiration from his brow. "Let affairs take their course," said he. "If we don't get to meeting at all, it will not be my fault. I have done my best." "Mother, why don't you come?" cried Sarah, impatiently. Mrs. Royden bustled out of the house, pulling on her gloves. Her husband helped her up very deliberately, then took his seat calmly and coolly with Father Brighthopes. At length they started, Sam holding the large gate open as they drove through. "Hepsy!" cried Mrs. Royden, looking back. Mr. Royden stopped the horses. "You needn't stop. I can tell her what I want to." "If you have any directions for her, we may as well wait," said he, quietly. "Drive on, if you are in such a hurry," retorted Mrs. Royden. "I only wanted to tell her something about the spare-rib. I thought I could make her understand." They now flew over the ground at a rapid rate, until Willie began to scream. "Oh, my hat! my hat!" "Father, why don't you stop?" exclaimed Mrs. Royden, grasping her husband's arm. "Whoa! whoa! What is the matter?" "Willie's hat has blown off." This seemed the climax of disasters. Willie's hat lay in the road, already forty yards behind. Mrs. Royden began to scold Sarah for not attending to the strings, and tying them so that it could not be lost. Meanwhile Mr. Royden, struggling with his temper, got down and went back for the hat. On his return, his wife seized it, and, in no very pleasant mood, put it on Willie's head,--reprimanding Mr. Royden for moving so slowly. "I have made up my mind that it is best never to be in a hurry," he replied, in a gentle tone. However, he drove very fast, and arrived at the meeting-house steps shortly after the last peals of the bell died upon the air. Nothing he disliked more than to go in late; but he was a little cheered at seeing the Dustans, who lived so near, roll up to the graveled walks, in their grand carriage, while he was helping his family out. XVII. FATHER BRIGHTHOPES IN THE PULPIT. During all the unpleasant hurry and confusion of the morning, Father Brighthopes had remained beautifully serene. He seemed to enjoy the ride on that still Sabbath--so different, in its calm and quiet loveliness, from all other days in the week--as much as if nothing inharmonious had occurred. But he was more thoughtful than usual, talking little, as if his meditations took a higher and holier range than on common occasions. His venerable aspect attracted general attention, as he entered the aisle with the family, at the close of the prayer. His aged form was slightly bent, his calm eyes downcast, and his step very soft and light; while his countenance beamed with a meek and childlike expression of reverence and love. The old man seated himself with his relatives, in a humble attitude; but Mr. Corlis, after reading the hymn, invited him, through Deacon Dustan, to come up into the pulpit. He could not well refuse, although he would have preferred to remain in his obscure position. He ascended the hidden stairway, which always looked so mysterious to young children, and soon his fine, noble head, with its expansive forehead, and thin, white locks of hair, appeared above the crimson cushions of the desk. From the pulpit, he glanced his eye over the congregation, as they arose with the singers and stood during the hymn. He was very happy, looking kindly down upon so many strangers, who seemed all dear brothers and sisters to his great heart,--near relations and friends, no less than they who sat in Mr. Royden's pew, and Sarah and Chester in the choir. The sermon was one of the best Mr. Corlis had ever preached. It was not so flowery as many of his discourses, nor so deep in doctrinal research as others, but it contained more practical Christianity than any of his previous productions. When Father Brighthopes, who was agreeably disappointed in its character, expressed his gratification to his younger brother, at its close, the latter should, perhaps, have confessed how much of its merits were owing to his influence; for, after his interview with the old clergyman, Mr. Corlis, touched to the quick by new convictions of duty, had re-written a large portion of the sermon prepared during the week, and poured into it something of the vital spirit of love and truth which had been awakened within him. Father Brighthopes read the closing hymn in clear, musical, feeling tones of voice, while the congregation listened with unaccustomed attention and pleasure. When the services were over, a great many sought to be introduced to him, and Deacon Dustan insisted that he should go home with him and dine. But there was a Sunday-school between morning and afternoon services, and he expressed a desire to remain and witness the teachers' labors. "Perhaps," said he, smiling, "with my experience, I can throw out some useful hints. However, as I think a breath of air will do me good," he added, turning to Mr. Corlis who had asked him to walk over to the parsonage, "I accept your kind invitation. I can return in the course of half an hour, and still have time to utter a great deal more wisdom than I shall be capable of, I fear." Mr. Corlis had hardly expected this, and, it may be, he was not very pleasantly surprised. It had been impossible for him to foster any resentment from over-hearing the old man's remarks, two days before, touching the duties of clergymen; yet he could not feel altogether comfortable in his presence. Even this sensation of uncongeniality could not last long. Father Brighthopes was so frank, so humble, so full of love and kindly enthusiasm, that in ten minutes his conversation had swept away the barriers between them. Mr. Corlis really began to like him, and feel that his counsel and support might be of great assistance to him in his labors. After partaking sparingly of a tempting collation, to which he was welcomed by the bright eyes and rosy lips of Mrs. Corlis, the old man proposed to return to the Sabbath-school; and the young preacher volunteered to be his companion. The appearance of Father Brighthopes in the school-room was a memorable event. The teachers soon closed up the business of their classes, to listen to what he had to say. All was attention, as he arose, venerable, yet simple and smiling, to address the school. Hitherto, this had been of a rather gloomy character. Many of the teachers had fallen into a melancholy, droning manner of talking to their pupils about the horrors of sin and the awfulness of God's wrath. The old clergyman's cheerful discourse had so much the better effect, from the contrast. How happy and bright was religion, according to his faith! How glorious was truth! How unutterably sweet was the conviction of God's infinite goodness and love! It was like the pouring down of sunshine through murky clouds,--that earnest, beautiful discourse. The children never forgot it; and, happily for them, the teachers treasured it in their hearts. Mrs. Royden thought it did not do her much good to go to meeting. She was so nervous, during the morning service, that it had been quite impossible for her to fix her mind on the sermon, or enjoy the singing. "I may as well give up going to meeting altogether," she said to her husband, on their way home at noon. "There is so much to be done, every morning, before we start, that it is all hurry--hurry--hurry; and if I take my time, then we are late." He could not make her believe that she did a thousand things, on such occasions, which she might just as well leave undone; and, to "have peace," he gave over the argument. The baby had been very cross, and Mrs. Royden concluded to stay at home in the afternoon. This was melancholy intelligence for Sam, who had enjoyed a fine season of fun in the morning, playing with the cat, cracking "but'nuts," and plaguing Hepsy. With the old lady around the house, fun was out of the question on the Sabbath. Hepsy got ready, and returned with Mr. Royden in the afternoon. Father Brighthopes preached, and his sermon was just such a one as the poor girl needed, to cheer her hopeless, doubting heart. In listening to it, she quite forgot how many eyes regarded her deformed figure and plain face with scorn and dislike; she remembered not the pangs which had shot through and through her sensitive heart, when Chester told her of his intended marriage; the world faded, with its selfishness, pride and envy, and heaven opened, with its angels of peace and love. The old man's eloquent sermon delighted old and young; but there were few fainting, thirsty souls, who drank in its glorious thoughts with such intensity of feeling as did the afflicted Hepsy. XVIII. MR. KERCHEY. Chester, in the meantime, had made the acquaintance of a new resident in the neighborhood. This was a somewhat singular individual, about thirty years of age, unmarried, and very rich. He was the son of a merchant in New York; but, in consequence of feeble health, together with certain eccentric notions with regard to society, he had resolved to become a gentleman farmer. He had purchased a valuable estate, lying not far from Mr. Royden's farm; and there he now lived with a trustworthy tenant, of whom he was learning the agricultural art. Mr. Lemuel Kerchey was not easy to get acquainted with. The admirers of wealthy young men, in the neighborhood he had chosen, courted his society in vain. He was not timid, but exceedingly taciturn; he was a good listener, but as a talker he failed. His sociability was of the negative or passive sort. He could do justice to any good dinner to which he was invited, but somehow he could not be got acquainted with. Mr. Kerchey sat alone in one of the most expensive pews in church; and every Sunday he looked directly at the minister during sermon and prayer, without once removing his eyes; and appeared just as intent gazing up at Sarah Royden's rosy face, in the choir, during the singing. At noon Mr. Kerchey accepted an invitation to call at Deacon Dustan's, and partake of a lunch; on which occasion he met Chester. Being introduced to him, and learning that he was Sarah's brother, the bachelor made a mighty effort to talk; but he found it so difficult to express his ideas, that it was really painful to listen to him. However, Chester inclined to encourage the acquaintance, and spared him the trouble, by talking so fast himself, that even Jane Dustan, who was a famous chatterbox, could hardly get in a word. Mr. Kerchey had driven to church alone in an elegant "buggy," and at the close of the afternoon services he invited Chester to ride with him. In return, the latter asked the bachelor to call at his father's house. "I shall be--much--ah--pleased," said Mr. Kerchey, in his usual hard way of expressing himself, "to--to--ah--get better acquainted with--with--your people." Mrs. Royden was preparing a sumptuous meal. Dinner and supper were condensed into one grand repast on Sundays. She liked to have the children come home with keen appetites, which gave their food so delightful a relish. But Georgie, that afternoon, had burnt his fingers with a wire Sam was heating to perforate an elder-stalk for a fife; the baby was unwell and cross, and, by some unaccountable oversight, Mrs. Royden had let the spare-rib cook a little too hard and brown on one side. Everything had gone wrong with her that day, and when the family came home they found her flushed and fretful. "Hepsy," said she, "do you change your dress as soon as you can, and help me set the table. Put on your apron, Sarah, the first thing. Why do you scream out so loud, Lizzie? You almost craze me!" "Why, there comes Chester, in Mr. Kerchey's buggy! He is beckoning for Sam to go and open the gate, I guess." Mrs. Royden was interested. She had a liking for wealthy young men, and was not displeased to see Mr. Kerchey drive into the yard. Hastily taking off an old tire, assumed to protect her dress, she bustled about to prepare herself to do credit to the family. "Take him right into the parlor, Sarah," said she. "Willie, you may keep on your new clothes, if you will stay in the house. If you get into the dirt, I shall box your ears." "I wonder what Chester invited that disagreeable old bach to stop for?" murmured Sarah, not so well pleased. She received him politely, however. Mr. Kerchey, in her presence, was painfully stiff and incapable of words. His position would have been most embarrassing, had not Chester come to his relief. Afterwards Father Brighthopes made his appearance, and Sarah, begging to be excused, was seen no more until supper was announced. Hepsy, Sam and the two younger children, stayed away from the table; the first from choice, the others from compulsion. The little boys especially were hungry, and made a great clamor because they could not sit down. "Do let them come, wife!" said Mr. Royden. "There is plenty of room." "May we?" asked Willie, with big grief in his voice, and big tears in his pleading eyes. "No; you can wait just as well," replied Mrs. Royden. "If you tease or cry, remember what we do with little boys that will not be good. Hush, now!" Notwithstanding this dark hint of the closet, Willie burst into tears, and lifted up his voice in lamentation. "Hepsy!" cried Mrs. Royden, "take him into the kitchen." Extreme severity transformed Willie's grief into rage. The cake which had been given him as a slight compensation and comfort for the martyrdom of waiting he threw upon the floor, and crushed beneath his feet. Mrs. Royden started up, with fire in her eyes; but her husband stayed her. "Who blames the boy?" he said. "He is hungry and cross. Come, Willie, bring your chair, and sit here by me." The idea had, by this time, insinuated itself into Mr. Kerchey's brain that the children were made to wait out of deference to him. Mrs. Royden might consider him as one of the calumniated class of bachelors who detest the light of little blue eyes, and hate the prattle of innocent tongues. After one or two attempts to speak, he succeeded in articulating, "I--I think it would be--would be--ah--pleasant to have the children at the table." "It is so annoying to be troubled with them when we have company!" murmured Mrs. Royden, relenting. "Well, Hepsy, bring their plates." To see the happiness shining in the little fellow's eyes, which were as yet hardly dry, must have been sufficient to soften any grim old bachelor's heart. Mr. Kerchey struggled to express his gratification, in order not to be outdone by the cheerful and talkative clergyman; but he could only smile in an embarrassed manner upon the boys, and coin these tough and leaden syllables: "I--rather--ah--like young people of this description." Mrs. Royden was glad to have peace, for she saw how much the few unpleasant words which had been spoken vexed the proud and sensitive Chester, and was not desirous to have a family scene enacted in presence of the stranger. The meal was a very cheerful one; Father Brighthopes being in one of his most delightful moods, and the family in good humor generally. Sarah manifested a large talent for quiet fun, in her mischievous endeavors to draw Mr. Kerchey into conversation. The poor bachelor did his best, but he had never found the expression of ideas a more difficult and laborious task. In vain the kind-hearted Mr. Royden winked for Sarah to desist; in vain the good clergyman delicately filled up the painful pauses in Mr. Kerchey's remarks with natural observations, suggestive and helpful: Sarah persisted, and the guest was forced to talk. When young ladies are suspected of being objects of attraction, they think they have a legitimate right to make fun of all newly-developed admirers. They may marry them next year; they perhaps look upon such an event as probable and desirable; but they will laugh about them to-day, alike regardless of the pain they inflict on their victims, should they perceive the ridicule, and careless of the distress of prudent mothers and friends. Fortunately for Mr. Kerchey, his talent for observation was not remarkable. Phrenologically speaking, his perceptive faculties were small, as well as "language" and "concentration." He was rather flattered by Sarah's attentions than otherwise, and very readily accepted an invitation to prolong his call until evening. "Would you--ah--would you like to--ride--a little ways--ah--after my pony?" he asked of Sarah, as they were sitting in the parlor, after supper. "Thank you; but I hardly think I ought to go this evening," replied the ready girl. What a relief it was to hear her silver-ringing voice, after Mr. Kerchey's painful efforts to speak! "You--you are--you are not--partial to riding--perhaps?" "Oh, I like it well; but a carriage seems monotonous. Horseback exercises for me!" "You--like--you like it?" "Passionately!" cried Sarah. "Oh, how I love a spirited, prancing, bounding pony!" With his usual labor of enunciation, Mr. Kerchey said that, if she could inform him where a side-saddle was to be obtained, he would be "most--ah--happy" to give her his best horse to ride that evening. He was five minutes occupied in expressing so much. "We have a ladies' saddle," said Sarah; "but I'd rather not go and ride on Sundays merely for pleasure." "Ah! a thousand--ah--pardons!" rejoined Mr. Kerchey, conscious of having committed an indiscretion. "Some--some other time?" Sarah excused his freedom, and gayly told him "almost any time;" and when he finally took his leave, declared that she had "got well rid of him, at last." Meanwhile, Sam had decoyed Willie and Georgie into the orchard, and betrayed them into a game of ball. He made his lame foot a good excuse to sit upon the grass and enjoy all the "knocking" or "licks," while the boys threw and "chased." "What are you about there, you rogue?" cried Mr. Royden, who had enough natural religious feeling to desire that his family should behave decorously on the Sabbath. "Oh, nothing much," said Sam; "only playing ball a little." "Do you know what day it is?" "It an't Sunday after sundown, is it? You always let us play then." "But the sun isn't down yet." Mr. Royden pointed to the great luminary which still glowed amid the trees in the west. "Golly! I thought it was!" "What a story that is! The sun is nearly half an hour high. You could not help seeing it." Sam looked with amazement, squinting across his ball-club, and dodging his head this way and that, as if to assure himself that it was no delusion. "It _an't_ down, _is_ it?" he said, honestly. "I'm a little cross-eyed, I expect; and that's why I couldn't see it before." XIX. MONDAY MORNING. "I am not going to put off washing until the middle of the week, to wait for any girl!" said Mrs. Royden, positively. "We shall have enough to do after Margaret comes, without keeping a great heap of dirty clothes to be washed." "Well, do as you like," replied her husband, with a dissatisfied air. "But I know just how it will be. You and the girls will wear yourselves out before noon. If you would only take things quietly, and not try to do too much, you would get along better; but you see so much to accomplish, that you fly into a heat and a hurry, which you seldom recover from for two or three days." Mrs. Royden was resolved. The regular Monday's work was to be done, and nothing could induce her to postpone it. The great boiler was put on the kitchen stove before breakfast, and the clothes got ready for the wash. It seemed her nature to be cross on such days, and the children knew what to expect. There could be no fun on Monday morning. All must do something,--even Georgie must pull out the stitches of a seam, and Willie must rock the baby. It seemed that poor Hepsy did everything, and gave satisfaction in nothing. That was a hard day for Sam. The mowers came, one after the other, and he had to turn the grindstone for them to grind their scythes in succession. They were good-natured, energetic men; and, not wishing them to know how lazy he was, he worked industriously at the crank, before and after breakfast. But the last man "bore on enough to break the stone," Sam said; and he groaned under the infliction, asking, from time to time, if the scythe was "most finished." At length, to his great joy, it was well ground from heel to point, and its master fastened it to the snath. Shouldering it, and thrusting a "rifle" into his belt, the jolly mower went whistling to the meadow, to join his companions and Mr. Royden, who had gone before. In the midst of his rejoicing, Sam was dismayed to see Chester make his appearance, with another scythe. It was to be ground, and Sam was just the fellow to help do that work, with his lame ankle. "Let _me_ hold the scythe and _you_ turn," whined the lad. "Turn away!" exclaimed Chester, authoritatively. Sam turned very slowly, groaning with each revolution of the crank. "You lazy scamp! I'll cut a sprout, and lay it on your back, if you don't work smarter!" "Can't!" muttered Sam. "'Most dead. Han't done nothing but turn grindstone since sunrise. Didn't eat no breakfast, nuther." The grinding apparatus stood under an apple-tree, behind the house. The spot was retired, offering conveniences for the adjustment of private differences; and Chester, who did not return to farm labor, after being so long at school, in very good humor, quietly clipped a thin green sapling from the roots of the tree. "I haven't settled with you for the caper you cut up with Frank, the other night," he said, between his teeth. "Now go to work, and hold your tongue, or I'll make you wish the horse had run with you to the end of the world, and jumped off!" "Better not hit me with that!" muttered Sam, growing desperate. "Will you turn the grindstone?" There was something dangerous in the flash of Chester's eye, and Sam was afraid to disobey. A minute later, he was glad to see Mr. Royden coming through the orchard, with his hat in his hand, and his sweaty brow exposed to the summer breeze. "I am afraid you don't know how to grind a tool," said he, smiling indulgently, as he examined the edge of the scythe. "I will go and mow in your place, if you will finish it," replied Chester. "Very well; carry some drink to the men. I will get it for you." Mr. Royden went to the well, drew up a dripping bucket of clear, cold water, drank from the mossy rim on the curb, and afterwards filled a stone jug. Carrying this, Chester went to the field with gloves on, and his cravat looped loosely about his neck. Hepsy's tender eyes beheld the young man as he went through the orchard. How handsome he looked, in his tow trousers, straw hat and snowy shirt-sleeves! To her mind, nothing became him so well as his farmer's rig; and as he disappeared over the hill, she clasped her hands with intense emotion, and wept. "I'm tired just about to death!" said Sam, pretending that he could with difficulty get the crank around. "Them men bore on all they could, only to make it hard for me. But Ches was worse than either on 'em." "Pshaw! turn away!" "And then Ches was going to lick me." "No, he was not. Chester would not hurt you," said Mr. Royden. "Come, come! turn faster." "I can't!" groaned Sam. "But he _was_ going to; that's what he cut this switch for." "Well, I shall have to use it in his place, if you don't stop talking, and work better," replied Mr. Royden, with good-natured impatience. "He said 'twas 'cause I got flung from the horse," muttered Sam. "You won't let him lick me for that, will you?" "No; not if you behave yourself," answered Mr. Royden. "What makes you so lazy? I shall not get this scythe ground to-day." It seemed such hard work for the boy to turn the grindstone, that the kind-hearted farmer, taking pity on him, brought the tool to an edge as soon as possible, and let him go. "Now, you must be a good boy, and help the women," said he, driving the wedge which married the scythe to the snath. "Help the women!" repeated Sam, with an expression of disgust. "I'd rather go and spread hay." "But your foot is lame." "Well, I can't pound clothes half so well as I can spread hay. I have to walk around the barrel----" "No more of your nonsense!" said Mr. Royden. "Hepsy!" he cried, seeing his niece in the doorway of the shed, "you can have Samuel to help you now." There was no escape for the unhappy youth. He saw Mr. Royden depart towards the meadow with dismay. He was left in the hands of one who knew no mercy. Mrs. Royden was driving business with furious energy. She had commands for all, and kind words for no one. It was interesting to see her seize upon Sam. His complaints of being "tired to death" were like chaff sown upon the wind. The tempest of her temper scattered them; inexorable fate controlled the hour; and Sam hopped from the grindstone to the "pounding-barrel" with despair and discontent in his soul. He worked pretty well, however, until Mrs. Royden was called to see to the children, who were about starting for school. The moment she was out of sight, he began to swing lazily upon the "pounder," and make fun of Sarah, at work over the wash-tub close by. "You'll get your pay for this," said the young lady, rubbing away, industriously. "Mother will be back in a minute." "S'posin' Mr. Kerchey should pop in, jest now!" retorted Sam, grinning. "I'd like to have him ketch you over the wash-tub!" "I would not care if he did; I am not ashamed of it," replied Sarah. "I'd rather do anything than wash clothes; but when I am about it, I'm not lazy." She looked beautiful, with her rosy cheeks, brown hair, and fair, full brow, shaded by the plain hood thrown loosely upon her head; her white arms bare, and her hands all covered with the thick, snowy foam of the suds. Sam made some saucy rejoinder, and, laughing, she stepped up to him quickly, with a garment dripping and soapy from the tub. Before he was aware of her design, she had covered his face with it, rubbing vigorously up and down and to and fro, with pleasant malice. Sam struggled, gasped, and screamed; he tumbled down, and, clawing the disagreeable application from his face, spit like a cat; while Sarah stood over him laughing, and threatening him with another similar experiment. "There!" exclaimed Sam, waxing angry, "I won't work now, to pay for it! And, if you do that again, I'll----" Splash went the garment into his face once more, across his eyes, and over his open mouth! It was just as he was getting up from the floor. At that moment Mrs. Royden reappeared in the shed. She could not have chosen a worse time. To see "such actions going on," when there was so much work to be done, was "enough to try the temper of a saint." Her hands must have ached, from boxing Sam's ears; her heart must have ached, with such a storm of passion bursting it. It seemed with a mighty effort of self-control that she refrained from striking Sarah; but the latter, making no reply to the deep tones of her displeasure, quietly resumed her work, and, burning, palpitating with anger, she returned to finish preparing the children for school. Ten minutes later, serene from his morning meditations, Father Brighthopes came out of the parlor. His face was full of tranquil joy; but a noise of dire confusion assailed his ear, and he paused upon the threshold. Lizzie, neatly dressed for school, but smarting and burning under the pain of boxed ears, was marching sulkily out of the sitting-room, with a satchel of books; Willie, rubbing both fists into his red eyes, was crying grievously; and Georgie was walking very straight, with a book under his arm, and his looks downcast, fearful and watchful, as if momently expecting the afflictive dispensation of his mother's hand. As soon as the children were well off, the old clergyman came forward. Mrs. Royden was tossing the baby in her arms, and endeavoring to still its cries. The storm was yet raging; she seemed angry with the innocent infant even; when, looking up, she saw Father Brighthopes, with countenance saddened and pale, stand before her. "Will you let me take the babe? I think I may soothe it," he said, in a very soft and earnest tone. It was like casting oil upon raging waves. Mrs. Royden made an effort, and appeared more calm. But only the surface of the angry sea was smoothed; still the depths of her soul were broken up and troubled. "No," said she; "I will not inflict the trial upon you. What _can_ I do, to quiet it?" she added, impatiently. "Perhaps my nerves are calmer than yours," replied the old man, still extending his hands. "A great deal depends upon that. Babes are very susceptible to mesmeric influences." The idea astonished Mrs. Royden. She doubted if there was any truth in it; but, abandoning the babe to his arms, she saw the thing demonstrated at once. The child seemed to feel itself in a new atmosphere, and what the mother failed to do, in her nervous state, a stranger accomplished by the exercise of a tranquil will. "I am infinitely obliged to you," said she, as he laid the babe in the cradle, now perfectly still and quiet. "A great deal must depend upon the nerves, and I acknowledge mine were in a bad condition." "I cannot tell how much I grieve to see you so," replied Father Brighthopes, so kindly that she could not take offence. "It was wrong; it was very wrong," she murmured. "But I could not help it. Everything goes wrong to-day." "Is not such always the case, when you have too much work on hand?" "Yes, I do believe it. Why is it? I'd like to know. The children are obstinate and fretful when I have most to do. I cannot understand it." "My dear sister," said the old man, taking her hand, and speaking in a voice full of tender and earnest emotion, "do pardon me for my freedom, when I tell you I think everything depends upon yourself." "Upon _me_?" "Your example, dear sister, is all-powerful. You have no conception of the immense influence you exert over those young and impressive minds. Oh, do not be offended, if I am plain with you!" Mrs. Royden told him to go on; she needed his counsel; she would not be offended. "Every mother," said he, "makes the moral atmosphere of her household. She is the sky overhead; they are lambs in the pasture. How they shiver and shrink beneath the shelter of the fences, and look sullenly at the ground, when the sky is black with storms, and the wind blows cold and raw and damp from the dismal northeast! But look when the drizzling rain is over, when the clouds break away, when the wind shifts around into the southwest, when the bright sun pours floods of soft, warm light upon the earth; how the grasses then lift up their beaded stalks, and shake their heads, heavy with tears; how the streams laugh and babble; how the little lambs skip about, and crop the moist herbage, and rejoice that the sky is blue again, the breezes balmy and mild!" "But storms will come, sometimes," said Mrs. Royden. "You cannot control the weather out of doors, but you may make just the kind of weather you choose in your household. Only keep the sky of your own heart cloudless and blue. And you can do it. Every one can. Parents, of all persons, should do this. They owe it to their children; they owe it to the good Lord, who has given them those children, to train aright the vines of their wayward affections, in their tender youth. Sister, you do not realize your responsibility. What are the petty trials of to-day, compared with _their_ immortal destiny?" The old man went on in the same kind but plain and impressive manner. At first Mrs. Royden had been impatient to return to her work; but the words of wisdom, each a golden link, formed a chain to hold her gently back. Her hands fell upon her lap, her eyes sought the floor, and it was not long before her cheeks were wet with downward-coursing tears. And still the old man talked. Such sweet, simple, earnest and touching eloquence, her soul had never tasted. He did not forget to plead for Hepsy,--the lonely, unhappy and oft down-trodden girl, for whom her pity was seldom moved; and now she wept to think how thoughtless and cruel she had sometimes been. Mrs. Royden was altogether softened,--was quite melted. Then the old man added words of hope and comfort; he drew a picture of her sensitive, irritable, but loving and noble-hearted husband, made happy by her cheerfulness, aided and encouraged by her to conquer his impetuous and petulant temper; he described the children growing up under mild influences, with such sunny dispositions and gentle natures as reap the golden grain of content, and love, and tranquil joy, in the rich, wide fields of life. He ceased at the right moment. Pressing her hand affectionately, he took his hat and went forth. She returned to her work. The angels must have smiled, for what a change was there! No more fretting, no more scolding, no more angry looks and impatient words, no more impetuous rushing into the stern arms of labor; but gentleness of manner, a low-toned word now and then, thoughtfulness, and some few silent tears, astonished Hepsy and Sarah, and led the guilty Sam to think that this strange calmness boded ruinous storms, to burst with sudden eruptions of thunder and quick cross-lightnings upon his devoted head. XX. THE HAY-FIELD. Father Brighthopes felt much refreshed in the open air. His heart expanded, his soul went up on wings of light towards God. "I have done my duty, thanks to the Giver of strength!" he murmured, with deep inward peace. "Oh, Lord, bless unto her the seed of truth thy servant has scattered upon the thorny ground of her heart!" Birds sang around him; fearless squirrels chattered at him, from fences and limbs of trees, with fan-like, handsome tails curved proudly over their backs; and the beautiful sunshine kissed his aged cheek. In the distance he heard the cheerful sound of the mowers whetting their scythes, in the sweet air of June. His heart leaped with joy, as he followed along the grassy orchard path. In a little while he came in sight of the hay-field. A pleasing picture met his eye, and he stopped to look upon it. A sturdy laborer stood manfully erect, his scythe at his feet, with the blade buried in a fresh swath, and the water-jug elevated at right angles from his perpendicular, with its nose just beneath his own. Chester, rosy, perspiring, his straw hat set carelessly upon one side of his head, stood leaning on his scythe. His father was whetting the obstinate tool which he had been deterred from grinding properly by the ill-timed laziness of Sam. The second hired laborer was seated upon a heap of grass, under the fence, fanning his brown face with his broad hat-brim; and, still nearer the orchard, James was scattering the swaths with a pitchfork, in the midst of the wide space which the mowers had already gone over. It was a handsome meadow; the ground high and rolling, the grass waving in the distance, a cornfield on the right, a hilly pasture on the left, and a green grove still further to the south. The old clergyman stood in the midst of the orchard trees, admiring the picture, until Mr. Royden, uttering some pleasant jest, swung his scythe into the tall grass, followed by the two hired men and Chester in regular succession, at each other's heels. Father Brighthopes found a fork by the orchard fence, and went to help James spread hay. Having gone once across the field with one of Chester's light swaths, he took off his coat, and hung it upon the fence by the pasture; having gone back again, he removed his vest; and one more turn brought off his neckcloth. "You go to work like an old farmer," cried Mr. Royden, coming out with his swath, and shouldering his scythe. "Yes," said Father Brighthopes, cheerily; "I ought to, at least, for I was bred a farmer's boy, and now I _am old_, sure enough." "Well, I would advise you to take it easy." "I mean to; risk me for that!" "But there is danger of your hurting yourself before you think of it," said the careful farmer. The clergyman thanked him for the kind warning, and stopped to pick some berries in the corner of the fence. Mr. Royden waited for the other mowers to get out. "Chester," said he, "you don't point out well. Carry your scythe a little lower as you bring it around. There! You will make a famous mower, with practice," he added, encouragingly. "Don't try to cut too wide a swath." At that moment James was heard to utter a loud shout, and, looking up, Mr. Royden saw him running at full speed towards the pasture fence. "What is the matter?" "That confounded mischievous colt!" cried James. "I declare!" exclaimed Mr. Royden, suddenly, "that cunning brute has got hold of your coat, Father Brighthopes!" "Ha!" said the clergyman. "My coat? That will never do, at all. Where is the little rascal?" "Don't chase him, James!" cried Mr. Royden. "You will only make the matter worse." But James did not hear. The colt, with the clergyman's coat between his teeth, was capering over the hill. James ran after him, throwing pebble-stones and shouting, while the hired laborers leaned their great strong arms upon the fence, and laughed broadly at the fun. "What a playful animal!" exclaimed Father Brighthopes, laughing as heartily as any. "He thinks he is doing a wonderfully pretty trick." Suddenly the colt stopped, dropped the garment, and, looking round at James, whom he had distanced by some twenty rods, darted from the top of the hill. This was not all. While the youth ran panting up the acclivity, he returned to the coat, and began to tear it with his teeth and fore-feet; but James put an end to that fun, by sending a well-aimed stone to the very center of his neck, upon which the mischievous animal snatched up the garment again, and went galloping off with it to the further extremity of the field. Mr. Royden, Chester and one of the hired men, had to go to the assistance of James, and drive the colt into a corner, before the booty could be recovered. When it was finally seized by Chester from under his very feet, it was not worth much. It had been shamefully trampled and torn. But Father Brighthopes laughed pleasantly, as they brought it back to him. "The shrewd dog!" said he; "as long as I kept at work, he was too conscientious to touch my coat; but the moment I stopped to pick berries, he thought he would teach me a lesson." "I am sorry,--sorry!" exclaimed the mortified farmer. "Oh, it is not a great loss! It will not ruin me. I think I shall recover from the damage. Bad work he made with it, didn't he?" laughed the old man, holding up the wreck of cloth. "It is fortunate I did not wear my best coat out here. It isn't so bad as if I had not another to my back. You have no more colts over in the cornfield, to take as good care of my vest, I trust?" As the men looked in the direction of the vest, they saw Mark Wheeler, the jockey, coming towards them, across the lot. He was walking very fast, and passion contracted his features. "Mr. Royden," said he, with forced calmness, "are you pretty busy just now?" "You see I am holding my own with these hearty young men," replied the farmer. "I'll work for you enough to make up for lost time," said Mark, "if you will go over and look at my new horse." "What is the matter with him?" "He has hurt his eye." "Hurt his eye? How?" asked Mr. Royden. "You will see; I can't stop to explain now," answered Mark, showing more and more agitation. "If you can, I wish you would go right over now." "Oh, well, I will," said Mr. Royden. "Let me carry my scythe to the other end of the swath. Come, Father Brighthopes, would you like to take a short walk?" The old man, thinking he had exercised about enough for one forenoon, willingly left the meadow in company with Mr. Royden, Chester and Mark the jockey; having first, to the great amusement of the spectators, put on the farmer's loose coat, to avoid getting cold in his aged bones. XXI. THE SWAMP-LOT. "What is the matter with your colt's eye?" asked Chester, as they walked amid the young corn. "I am afraid it is spoilt," replied Mark, between his teeth. "Spoilt! Not your new horse,--the splendid sorrel colt you got of Mr. Skenitt?" "Yes; the splendid sorrel colt; if 'twas either of the others, I wouldn't care so much." "How _did_ it happen?" cried Mr. Royden, deeply pained. "By----" The oath came out before Mark thought of it. "I beg your pardon, sir," he added, with emotion, turning to the old clergyman. "I'm so in the habit of swearing, that I swear without knowing what I am about." "My friend," replied Father Brighthopes, laying his hand kindly upon his shoulder, "I forgive you, from the bottom of my heart. But it is not of _me_ you should ask pardon. I know the slavery of habit. It is only by resolutely breaking its chains that we can be free." "An oath must shock you," muttered Mark, penitently. "True, my friend. I look upon profanity as awful, in view of the stern commandment, 'THOU SHALT NOT TAKE THE NAME OF THE LORD THY GOD IN VAIN.' But, if you take an oath, it matters little whether I hear it. Not against me, but against God and your own soul, is the sin." "I never thought about the sin being so very great." "At least," said the old man, kindly, "swearing is not wise. You purchase no pleasure, I am sure, by an idle oath." "Well, but it is not so easy to break off the habit," replied Mark. "I have heard a story of a converted sailor," said Chester,--to whom the subject seemed an unpleasant one, without spice,--"who, from his youth upwards, had made profane expletives a large proportion of his conversation, so that, when he came to pray, the favorite oaths would, in spite of himself, besprinkle the piety of his prayer. Yet he prayed with a soul convulsed with anguish for his sins, and, with profanity on his lips, pleaded that he might be pardoned the folly of swearing." "And he was pardoned! believe it, that prayer was accepted and answered!" exclaimed the old man, with enthusiasm. "It is the heart God reads,--the heart, the heart!" "I was going to tell you about the colt," said Mark, after a pause. "I went into the yard, and found him picking some spears of grass out of the corner of the fence. He didn't see me, and, without thinking, I spoke to him quick; he flung up his head," continued Mark, with emotion, "and the point of a rail struck him right in the eye." "Did it put it out?" "I am afraid so. I wouldn't have had it happen--" another oath--"for one hundred dollars!" Beyond the cornfield was a swampy lot, overgrown with coarse, wild grass, and partially drained by a black, sluggish stream. Mark led the way, treading upon stones, sticks and slabs, in springy spots, or walking upon logs, that lay rotting upon the ground. Mr. Royden followed, and Chester, with Father Brighthopes, came after. "I hope you will not wet your feet," said the young man, helping the clergyman over a bad place. "Step on this dead limb; it is solid." "That is well passed," cried the other, cheerily. "What a fine thing it would be, if, in the difficult path of life, we could get over all bad habits as easily!" "There is one habit," rejoined Chester, in a low tone, "which I trust I have overcome,--thanks to your timely counsel." "Ah? It is gratifying to me to hear you say so." "And I feel that I owe you an apology." "Me? How so?" asked the old man. "The truth is," replied Chester, coloring very red, and speaking as if it was a great effort and a relief to be candid, "I haven't been easy in my conscience since the unlucky--or rather lucky--day I met you outside the stage-coach." "Oh, never speak of it. It is all forgotten," exclaimed Father Brighthopes. "Not with me, Father. I have been heartily ashamed of my conduct. It was kind in you to rebuke me for swearing, and I should have taken it so. What you said appealed to my reason and to my feelings. But I was too proud to acknowledge the justice of your reproof; and, as I did not know you, I thought to carry out my assumed recklessness by a dash of insolence." "I forgave it at the moment, my son. I understood it all." "I hope you will not think I have been in the habit of using profane language," said Chester. "It is my misfortune to be easily influenced by the kind of society I am in. You remember, I was conversing with a wild fellow, who was by no means sparing of oaths. I have lived in the atmosphere of too many such; and, somehow, I have learned to imitate their habits unconsciously." "Our only armor against such influences is _firm principle_," answered the old man, encouragingly. "No warm-blooded young person, entering the world, is safe without this." "It must be so, Father. But why is it that the sight of vice does not always strike us with the same disgust or horror as the mere contemplation of it?" "We can accustom our palate to any description of vile drugs, by persisting in their use, I suppose." "I see," said Chester. "'We first endure, then pity, then embrace,' the vices we come in contact with. But vices we witness for the first time--they do not always shock us." "The more pleasing the devil's coat, the more dangerous he is," replied Father Brighthopes. "And there is another thing to be considered. Persons following intellectual pursuits are apt to take purely intellectual views of great as well as petty crimes. The independent MIND can analyze the nature of a murder, coolly as the anatomist dissects his human subject. Eugene Aram has too much intellect. Perhaps his heart is not bad,--what there is of it,--but its virtue is negative. When we silence the conscience, in judging of right and wrong, reason is sure to lead us astray." "I understand now, better than ever before, why expanded minds are so prone to smile upon and shake hands with crime," said Chester. "Enlarging the intellect, to the neglect of the soul, we leave this to become shriveled, like a flower growing in the shade of a great tree." "A truth, my young friend, every student should bear in mind," observed the clergyman, earnestly. Chester walked before him, on a thick fragment of bark, and over a grassy knoll, in silence. He was wondering why it was that the gentle old man had gained such a power over him, to conquer his pride, and to call out his deepest feelings. "I don't know why it is," said he, as they crossed a rude bridge, thrown over the sluggish brook, "but I feel as though I could talk with you more freely than with anybody else. Perhaps it is well that the stage-coach incident occurred. I felt that I _must_ apologize to you for my ungentlemanly conduct; and I see that what was so unpleasant to me was only the breaking of the ice. It must be your wide and genial charity that has had such an effect upon me. Clergymen are generally such grim moralists, that they make me shudder." "When I consider the calm benignity, the ineffably sweet wisdom, the infinite love of Him who said, 'Go, and sin no more,' what am I, that I should condemn a brother?" said Father Brighthopes, with suffused features. Chester was deeply touched. "I am not a wilful sinner," he muttered, from his heart. "I do love purity, goodness, holiness. _I hate myself_ for my bad nature!" he exclaimed, bitterly. "Ah, that will never do," replied the old man, softly and kindly. "My son, I feel for you. I feel with you. But the nature God has given you in his wisdom,--hate not that. It is the soil in which your soul is planted. You must be content with it for a season. It is a suicidal thought, to wish your roots plucked up, because they reach down amid weeds and rottenness. No; cultivate the soil. Carefully, prayerfully purify it, and subdue its rankness. Then shall your spirit, grafted with the scion of holiness, flourish like a goodly tree. It shall gather wholesome sustenance from below, and at the same time it shall blossom and bloom, and put forth green leaves, struggling upward, upward,--higher, higher, still--in the golden atmosphere; its fruits shall ripen in the beautiful sunlight of heaven, and it shall be blessed forevermore." "But the flowers fade, the leaves fall, the fruit drops off and decays, and the tree is a naked, desolate object, when the storms of winter wheel and whistle around it," said Chester, darkly. "Not so with the TREE OF LIFE," cried the old man, with fine enthusiasm. "Earth is but its nursery. In his own good time, the Husbandman transplants it into the pure soil of his eternal gardens." "And the weeds are burned in everlasting fire!" "The _weeds_--yes; let us hope so! Let us pray that the good God will deliver us from the weeds of all base passion, which continually spring up in the most carefully tended soil of earth. What remembrance do we need of this swamp-lot, when we are once out of its mud and mire?" "I mean," said Chester, "those trees which the weeds do choke,--those wild crabs which bring forth no good fruit,--_they_ are cast out." "And can the good Husbandman plant them side by side with the better trees, in his garden?" asked the clergyman. "Indeed, would they flourish in a soil so different from that they loved here too well? Nor would they choose that soil. If they are not prepared for the companionship of the cultivated grafts, other and lower places will be found most appropriate for their unsubdued natures." Chester remained very thoughtful. By this time they had come in sight of Mark's house,--a wood-colored building, situated on a pleasant rise of ground, in the midst of an orchard. Mr. Royden and Mark were already climbing the fence built about the inclosure, in the midst of which stood the barn and stables. XXII. THE FIGHT AND THE VICTORY. Father Brighthopes and his companion found Mr. Royden examining the injured eye of the sorrel colt, which Mark held by the halter in the yard. "Can anything be done for it?" asked the jockey, anxiously. Mr. Royden shook his head, with a pained expression. He loved horses above all other domestic animals, and a fine colt like Mark's he regarded almost as a human being. He could not, it seemed, have felt much worse, had he witnessed the effects of a similar injury upon a fellow-mortal. "Spoilt, an't it?" "Yes," said the farmer; "I see no help for it." "I know," rejoined Mark, "the sight is ruined. But is the eye going to look very bad? Will he show it much?" "Ah, Mark!" said Chester, rather harshly, for a fresh suspicion had entered his mind; "that hurt can never be covered up. You can't trade him off for a sound horse, if you try." Mark turned upon him, with a fierce oath. "An't it enough for me to know it, without having it flung in my teeth?" he demanded. "You deserve it all," retorted Chester, kindling. "I do?" muttered Mark, with clenched fists. "Oh, I am not afraid of you," said Chester, turning slightly pale, but not from fear. His lips were firmly compressed, and he fixed his fine dark eyes upon the jockey, with a look of defiance. "Boys, boys!" exclaimed Mr. Royden, impatiently, "what is all this about? Chester, leave the yard!" "If you say so, I will go." "I say so, if you can't stay and be on good terms with your neighbor." "I only tell him calmly what I think," said Chester, with a resolute air. "And if older persons had not been present," cried Mark, with another oath, "I should have flung you over the fence, like a puppy,--as you are!" "Be calm, my son! bridle your tongue," said the clergyman, gently, to Chester. But the young man's pride was touched and his wrath enkindled. He did not pause to consider the consequences of a rash word. "I should really have liked to see you try that game!" he replied, with cutting sarcasm in his tones. The jockey uttered a stifled growl, like an enraged bull-dog, and, flinging the halter over the colt's neck, aimed a blow with his fist at Chester's head. But the latter was not unprepared. Avoiding the attack, he skillfully took advantage of Mark's impetuosity, grappled with him, and flung him almost instantly to the ground. The jockey came down with a tremendous jar, Chester falling upon him. In a moment the latter was upon his feet; when his father, alarmed and highly displeased, seized him by the collar. "Let go!" muttered Chester, in an excited manner, but not disrespectfully. "What are you going to do, you foolhardy boy?" "Nothing; unless I am compelled to. You will let me defend myself, I hope? I don't want to hurt Mark Wheeler; but then Mark Wheeler must keep off." Meanwhile Mark Wheeler had regained his feet, mad from the fall. His red-burning eyes were like a wild beast's. Father Brighthopes took his arm with a mild and soothing word; but he shook him off, fiercely. The jockey was a much stronger man than his quick and determined adversary; but either he feared the latter's agility, or blinding passion made him forgetful of every feeling of honor and humanity. His eye fell upon a dangerous weapon, a fragment of a hickory fork-handle, that lay within his reach. He made a spring for it; but the clergyman had picked it up before him. "Give it to me, old man!" Mark muttered through his teeth. "Nay, my friend, you must not have it," replied Father Brighthopes, firmly, but kindly. "I must not? You mean to govern me like a boy, on my own ground?" hissed the angry man. "Let go your hold!" "I entreat you, pause one minute to consider," said the clergyman, meekly. "Then you shall have the club, to use it as you please." His words had no effect, except to turn the tide of Mark's fury against him. The angry man raved at him with a tempest of oaths; shaking his fist in his face, he swore that, were it not for his white hairs, he would have crushed him beneath his heel. "God have mercy on you!" said Father Brighthopes, with solemn earnestness, and with tears. "None of your pious nonsense here!" thundered Mark, convulsed with passion. "Let go the club, or I shall break your arms." "You will not break an old man's arms," replied the clergyman, with sublime energy. "No, Mark Wheeler! I know you better. You cannot injure me." The strong hand of the jockey seized the old man's shoulder. The latter seemed but a frail child in his grasp; but still he did not shrink, nor loose his hold of the club. To Chester and his father, who sprang to rescue him, he said, "Do not touch him. I am not afraid. He dare not hurt me. _I am in the hands of my God._" Mark's fist was raised to strike. "I _shall_ tear you to pieces!" he articulated, hoarse with rage. "The Lord pity you! The Lord forgive you, for raising your hand against his servant!" exclaimed Father Brighthopes, with tears coursing down his pale cheeks. "Mark Wheeler, you cannot hurt me,--not if you kill me. But _your own soul_ is in your grasp. My friend, I love you, I pray for you! You cannot make me angry. I will be a Christian towards you. I _will_ pray for you! You cannot prevent that. Strike the old man to the earth, and his last words shall be a prayer for your darkened soul!" Mark's clenched hand fell to his side; but with the other he still held the clergyman's shoulder, looking full in his face. "My friend," said the old man, "you know I have but done my duty. I would not harm you, nor see you harmed. It is to defend you against yourself that I hold the club from you. You may, indeed, hurt my body, which is old, and not worth much, but you will hurt your own soul a thousand, thousand times more. Oh, my God!" prayed the old man, raising his streaming eyes to heaven, "have mercy upon this my poor erring brother!" Mark's hand dropped from the old man's shoulder. The flame in his eyes began to flicker. His lips quivered, and his face became pale. Father Brighthopes continued to pour out the overflowing waters of his heart, to quench the fire of passion. At length Mark's eyes fell, and he staggered backward. Then the old man took his hand, and put the club into it. "Our minute is up. Here is the weapon," said he. "Use it as you will." The club dropped upon the ground. "Take it, and kill me with it!" muttered Mark. "I am not fit to live." He sat down upon an overturned trough, and covered his face with his hands, gnashing his teeth. "Are you fit to die?" asked the old man, sitting down by his side. "Would you enter the tomb through a boiling gulf of passion?" Mark started up. "Ches is to blame!" he said, with an oath. "He provoked me, when I was mad from losing my colt's eye." "Be calm, my friend. Sit down," replied the clergyman. "If Chester has done wrong, he will acknowledge it." "I spoke what I thought just and true," added the young man, promptly. "Why just and true?" echoed Mark, his passion blazing up again. "You will be angry, if I tell you." "No, I won't." "Then I will speak plainly. I said you deserved to lose the beauty and value of your colt. Perhaps I was wrong. But I did not believe his eye was hurt by any such accident as you described." "How then?" muttered the jockey. "It seemed to me," answered Chester, folding his arms, "you got mad training him, and _knocked his eye out_." "Do you mean that?" "Yes. I saw marks on his head, where you had been whipping him." "I acknowledge I whipped him," said Mark. "But----" "Come, come, boys!" cried Mr. Royden, "drop the subject. You, Chester, are to blame; for, even though your suspicion was correct, you had no right to speak it. I am mortified beyond measure to think your folly has fallen upon the head of our good old friend." "Father Brighthopes, what shall I say to express my sorrow and shame for what has taken place?" asked Chester, with deep humility. "Promise me that you will never again speak unkindly to one who has erred," answered the clergyman, with a sad smile, pressing his hand. "It was not well that you should use the cutting tone in which you hinted your suspicion." "I know it," said Chester, frankly. "Mark, I hope you cherish no ill feeling. Here is my hand, if you will take it." Mark had covered his face again; he did not look up nor move. "I don't know but I was wrong in my thoughts," proceeded the young man. "I hope I was. But my blood boils when I see cruelty to animals, and I have not yet learned self-control." "Which you _must_ learn," added Father Brighthopes, with tender earnestness. "I am sorry, Mark, I can't do anything for your colt," observed Mr. Royden, who, to change the disagreeable topic, had caught the animal, and led him by the halter to the spot where the jockey was sitting. "I wish I could." "I don't deserve it," muttered the other, with his head down. "It is good enough for me. Ches was right. _I knocked that eye out with the butt of my whip._" He gnashed his teeth again, and began to tear his hair with remorse. Father Brighthopes whispered to Chester and his father, who presently went away together, leaving him alone with Mark. They returned to the hay-field. It was noon before they saw the clergyman again. He arrived home from talking with Mark just as the mowers were washing their hot faces at the well, in preparation for dinner. And still Mark Wheeler sat upon the trough, with his face in his hands; no longer gnashing his teeth and tearing his hair, but sobbing as only strong men sob. XXIII. SATURDAY AFTERNOON. The fine weather continued during the week. Literally Mr. Royden and his men "made hay while the sun shone." Saturday came, and they were astonished at what was done. "I have tried my new system pretty thoroughly," said the farmer to his aged guest, that morning. "I have taken things in an easy way, decidedly, this week. Work has gone ahead amazingly. The river was deep, but it ran smoothly. The hay-field has been like a play-ground to all of us." But the crisis was to come. Saturday was the great "drawing" day. Mr. Royden was a cautious man; doubting whether the fine weather would continue until Monday, he was anxious to see every cock of hay in the stack, or under shelter, before night. He had laid his plans with great foresight, and would have accomplished them beautifully, had not a sudden change of weather in the afternoon occurred, to throw his affairs into confusion. When Father Brighthopes mounted the hay-rick, to ride to the field with the laborers, after their brief nooning, he remarked that he "smelt a storm brewing." "Let it come," said the farmer. "We will try to be prepared for it." The air was close and sultry. A few dark western clouds showed their sullen foreheads over the horizon's rim, like grim giants meditating battle. There appeared angry commotions among them now and then, and some low growls of thunder came to the ear. But overhead the yellow sky was clear. In the east, in the north, in the south, not even a white fleece was to be seen. "It may rain by evening," said the farmer, gently touching the flanks of the horses with the point of a pitchfork. "We have got our stint, boys; it will be no harm if we have it done when the sun is an hour high." The horses threw themselves into a lazy trot. The wagon rattled down the lane, and went jolting over the rough ground at the entrance of the meadow. The men jumped out and took their rakes, followed by Chester; while Mr. Royden and James resumed their work of drawing. The farmer pitched up the cocks, James shaped the load, and the clergyman "raked after," cheerful and spry as any of them. The smell of the hay-field had a fascination for the old man. He felt new strength since he had breathed its healthful odors. His cheek had browned, and he had learned to eat meat with the men. Suddenly one of the great clouds shook himself, slowly reared his mighty form, and put his shoulder up against the sun. A cooling shadow swept across the meadow. At the same time he hurled a swift thunder-bolt, and growled in deep and wrathful tones. "It is going to rain, father," cried James, from the top of the load. "Drive on," answered the farmer, pitching on the last of a large hay-cock. Father Brighthopes scratched up the few remaining wisps with his rake, and followed along the wagon-track. While Mr. Royden and James were transferring the load from the rick to the growing stack in the midst of the meadow, the old man lay upon the grass in the shade to rest. He heard a footstep, and, looking up, saw Mark Wheeler approaching. "Do you think it is going to rain?" asked the jockey, talking up to Mr. Royden. "I should not be surprised if we had a shower this evening," replied the farmer, heaving up a heavy forkful to James. "I don't think those clouds will touch us yet a while." "I can help you just as well as not, if you think there is any danger," rejoined Mark. "Very well," said Mr. Royden. "It's always safe to be beforehand. If you're a mind to take hold, and help the boys get the hay that's down into shape, I'll do as much for you, some time." "I owe you work, I believe," replied Mark, throwing off his vest. "Are you going to pitch on to the load out of the win'row?" "Yes; unless there comes up a shower. If it looks like it, you'll have to get the hay into cocks the quickest way you can." Mark found a rake by the stack; but still he lingered. He had not seen the clergyman since Monday, and he appeared desirous, yet somewhat ashamed, to speak with him. "How do you do to-day, friend Mark?" Father Brighthopes said, reading his mind. The jockey came up to him, where he lay under the stack, and gave him his hand. "I am well, I thank you," he replied, in a low tone. "I was afraid to speak to you." "Afraid!" "Yes, Father. I know you must despise me and hate me." "No, my son; you misjudge me," answered the old man, with a kindly smile, sitting up, and pressing Mark's hand, as the latter stooped down to him. "On the contrary I am drawn toward you, Mark. There is much in you to love; only overcome these besetting faults, which are your worst enemies." "I shall try--thank you,"--Mark's voice quivered with emotion. "I haven't forgot what you said to me t'other day. I shall not forget it." "Do not!" exclaimed the clergyman, earnestly, smiling through the mist that gathered in his eyes. "Go; and God bless you!" he added, tenderly. The jockey turned away, humble, and much affected. When he came up to where Chester was at work, he spoke to him in a friendly tone, and asked where he should commence. "Follow after me, if you please," said the young man, with real kindness in his tones. The quarrel seemed forgotten. In a little while, Sam came limping to the field with a jug of fresh water. He was beginning to use his sprained ankle again, but he made awkward work of it. Mr. Royden called him, and drank from the jug, having first offered it to Father Brighthopes. "Any mice, Jim?" asked Sam, slyly. "We have no time to think of mice, my son," said the clergyman. At that moment one of the little animals in question ran away from his rake, and took refuge under the wagon. "I'll ketch him!" said Sam, with eyes sparkling mischief. "Come, come! no nonsense this afternoon," cried Mr. Royden. "Go and carry the jug to the men. They're wanting it by this time." "I'm going right along, sir," replied Sam, starting, but looking back for the mouse. Mr. Royden went on. Turning presently, he saw the boy in hot pursuit of the unhappy mouse. He had forgotten about his lame foot. He was leaping about on the mown sward, and dancing this way and that, with surprising agility. The truth is, his ankle had been nearly well for two or three days; and he had cherished the convenient habit of hopping and jumping only to excuse himself from labor. Betrayed into running by a mouse, and by his passion for mischief, he confirmed a suspicion which had already entered Mr. Royden's mind. "Here, you little rascal!" cried the farmer, provoked, but at the same time not a little amused. "Sam Cone!" Sam did not hear, or would not heed, so enthusiastic was he in the pursuit of fun. At length he made a seizure, with his hand in the turf, and brought up the mouse, screaming with delight. "I got him! I got him! I g----Blast your pictur'!" His song changed suddenly from joy to lamentation. The mouse had bit his finger with its sharp teeth, and would not let go. Sam flirted, yelled, and finally shook him off, with much ado. The animal escaped, while he, reflecting probably that it was a small affair to cry about, became silent, and squeezed the oozing drops of blood from his wounds, glancing sheepishly around, to see who was looking at him. "So, your foot is well enough to chase mice, is it?" said Mr. Royden, with quiet humor. "Now, supposing you should take a rake, and help the men with those win'rows?" "Got bit!" muttered Sam. "Darned ol' mouse!" "Shall we send for a doctor?" laughed James. "His teeth went clear through!" complained Sam, limping again worse than ever, and sucking his finger. But he did not argue the propriety of obeying the farmer's directions. He carried the jug to the men, and went slowly, limpingly, to work. XXIV. THE THUNDER-STORM. Mr. Royden got upon the stack with James, and, to hasten this department of the afternoon's work, Mark Wheeler and one of the laborers pitched up the load. They had now commenced drawing from the windrows where they had been longest exposed to the curing process of the sun. On their return, Chester complained of Sam's laziness, declaring that he was only in the way. "I'm lame, and you know it," said Sam, in an injured tone. "Very lame, I know, you ambitious mouse-catcher!" said Mr. Royden. "I'll favor your broken leg. Here, if you can't rake hay, get up on the rick with James. See if you two can load as fast as Mark and I can pitch." "Get up," cried Mark. "We'll find something for you to do." Mark was a giant at pitching. He rolled up vast forkfuls, with which he inundated Sam at every rod. The latter had no time for fun; the moment he paused, up came a perfect cloud of hay, which he must dispose of, or be buried. A towering load went to the stack. By the time the rick was emptied, the clouds, which had made no show of hostilities for some time, sent out a detachment that swept across the sky, black and threatening, wheeling and darkening the field. "I vow," said Mark, "that looks like rain!" "Rain--sure enough!" articulated Mr. Royden, with a troubled expression. "A big sprinkle struck me right on the nose," cried Sam. "I wish we had got up the hay that was down, the first thing after dinner, and left the cocks," said the farmer, pricking the horses. "I would have risked it in the stack, if I had known it was so well cured. If there should come up a rain, it would be spoilt." There was real danger, and each man went to work as if the hay was all his own. "Don't pitch so fast as you did afore, Mark," whined Sam. "You 'most covered me up, fifteen or sixteen times." "It'll do you good," replied the jockey, heaving a fraction of a ton from the heavy windrow directly upon Sam's head. "Tread it down!" Father Brighthopes, who had been some time sitting by the stack, to rest his old limbs, observed the threatening clouds, and came out again with his rake. "You'd better go to the house, Father," said Mr. Royden, in a hurried tone. "I would not have you get wet and take cold for ten times the worth of the hay." But the old man would not leave the field, which was now a busy and exciting scene. The storm seemed inevitable. Getting the hay into cocks that would shed rain, Chester and the men worked almost miraculously. It seemed as if they had husbanded their strength during the week for this crisis. They were not jaded and disheartened laborers, but bold and active workmen. Meanwhile the new load swelled and loomed up prodigiously. "When I give the word, James," cried Mr. Royden, "drive to the stack as straight as you can go. It must be topped off somehow, before it gets wet." The clouds roared and wheeled in the sky. The lightnings were vivid and frequent. The sultry air grew rapidly cool, and there was a gale rising. A deep gloom had settled upon all the earth, coloring the scene of hurried labor with a tinge of awfulness, as if some dread event were impending. A few heavy drops came hissing down upon the hay. "Drive to the stack, James!" cried the farmer. "Go with what you have got." "Take the rest of this win'row," said Mark; "hadn't we better? I can heave it up in a minute." "Be quick, then; for we must secure the stack." "If the shower will hold off ten minutes, I do believe the boys will have the rest of the hay safe in the cock," observed Father Brighthopes. "How they work!" The shower did hold off wonderfully. Mark and Mr. Royden threw on the remainder of the windrow, making a large, unshapely load. With a feeling of triumph, the farmer saw the horses start at a quick pace for the stack. "The rain is coming!" said the jockey, glancing at a dark fringe of showers dropped from the thunder-clouds over the woods. "It must come, then!" returned Mr. Royden. "We can pitch enough on the stack, though, to make it shed rain, I hope. The rest of the load we will run right into the barn." The farmer sprang to a stone-heap, where he had left his coat, seized it, and threw it over the old clergyman's shoulders. "Walk fast," cried he, "and you will get to the barn before the shower." "A little rain won't hurt me, if I keep at work," replied Father Brighthopes. "I'll stay and help the boys." Mr. Royden remonstrated in vain. A cry from Mark called his attention from the old man. "That load will be off!" The farmer uttered an exclamation of impatience. The great bulk of hay, thrown on in such haste, and trampled down without much regard to shape or order by the boys, was reeling over the side of the rick. James, encumbered with the reins, scrambled to the left as fast as he could, to keep the balance, calling upon Sam to do the same. But the latter was too busily engaged in tying a straw around a large horse-fly to heed the danger. Mark and Mr. Royden ran to steady the load with their forks; but suddenly one of the wagon-wheels fell into a little hollow, and they had scarcely time to escape from the avalanche, as it plunged over them, and settled like a cloud upon the ground. About a third of the load remained on the wagon, which fortunately did not upset; and James had skilfully managed, not only to stop the horses, but to avoid falling off, when the great bulk went over. Not so with Sam. Deep buried in the soft bed he had made, he was too late to save himself, when he discovered the reality of the danger. It was lucky he did not fall upon Mark's fork. As it was, he came down easily, with a very small portion of the load under him, and a very large portion sweeping down upon him. He was quite buried from sight; but in a moment his head appeared amid the billows of hay, and he floundered upon the firm ground. Sam hardly knew what had taken place. At first he stared about him, looking at the wagon, and its contents on the ground; then he examined the straw, which he still held firmly clasped in his right hand. "Thunder and broomsticks!" cried he, "if the darned old load an't off! and I've lost my horse-fly!" Everybody else, except this thoughtless lover of mischief, who witnessed the disaster, expected to see Mr. Royden thrown into a violent passion. Father Brighthopes feared that his patience could not hold out. But the irritable farmer had not exercised his temper during the week to no purpose. He astonished everybody by his coolness. "So much for being in a hurry," said he. "I ought not to have expected such a load to ride across the lot. Now let us be more deliberate, and do well what we do at all. There's no use of crying for an accident that cannot be helped." He and Mark took hold, and threw on enough hay to bind what was left on the rick; and James drove on, just as a sharp shower was commencing. It grew very dark, and they topped off the stack in the rain. But the clouds acted very capriciously. After sifting a little water, they wheeled away to the south, where the rain could be seen streaking down over the woods. But there was no more of it on the meadow for some time; and when at last it began to come down in volleys, the stack was secured, the hay left in the field was thrown up in shapely cocks, the load which had fallen off was once more on the rick and going into the barn, the horses on a keen trot; and the laborers, shouldering their rakes, were hastening from the field. Mr. Royden was never in better humor than when he found the old clergyman, somewhat heated, and perspiring freely, wrapped up in his great mantle, in the kitchen corner, prattling with George and Willie, who had just come home from school. XXV. A STREAM OF PEACE. Since Monday, Hepsy had been quite unwell. She had lost her appetite, of late; and although she seemed more cheerfully resigned to her unhappy lot than ever before, it was easy to perceive that continually she had to struggle with some great pain. Father Brighthopes talked with her a good deal during her illness, and his conversation was an unspeakable comfort to her suffering heart. He imparted a strange power of endurance to her weak nature; he lifted the dark veil from her future; he showed her, opening at the end of the rugged, steep and thorny path she traveled, a paradise of purity, odorous with orange groves and flowery fields, murmurous with falling fountains, and bright with the sunlight of the Saviour's love. There stood angels, too radiant for the weak eye of the doubting spirit to look upon, smiling to welcome her, beckoning with their snowy hands, and chanting psalms of praise to the Being who had given them this labor of love to do. And soon one among them, called Hope, with luminous wings, and a face like the morning star, came down to her, scattering roses and tufts of softest moss upon the jagged stones in her way, and bound a pair of shining sandals upon her bleeding feet. Love, an angel from the highest heavens descended to earth, where mortals behold her divine countenance but dimly, through the misty exhalations of their impure natures, twined her gentle arms about her neck, and kissed her, pointing upward to the infinite Father of all. Then Faith, a seraph serene and strong, took her by the hand, and bathed her pallid brow and fainting lips in the life-giving light of her own immortal eyes. Such pictures the clear vision of the happy old man perceived, and discovered to her soul with a power which seemed like inspiration. Tears of joy stole down her sallow cheeks, as her mind followed his. And when he showed her another path, a little removed from the rocky steeps she climbed,--a circuitous, tempting road, shaded with trees, many of which bore fruits lovely to look upon, but all ashes to the taste, and bordered with flowers that faded continually at the touch; a long, easy way, peopled by the fairest ones she knew, who, stopping momently to eat of the fruits and pluck the flowers, journeyed--Oh, how slowly!--towards the heavenly fields; and when she saw that what seemed glittering gems under their feet were only flakes of mica, while the very rocks she trod upon, now worn a little, began to sparkle with native diamonds, burning beneath her sandals; she no longer repined at her destiny, but thanked God for the discipline which led her soul thus early up to Him. Already Hepsy began to understand the substantial meaning of these pictures. It seemed that everybody was kinder to her than before. Chester never came to the house without sitting down, if only for a minute, by her side, and speaking some tender and brotherly word for her tremulous heart. But others were more changed than he; for in others there had been more need of change. Mrs. Royden seemed a different being. She had become singularly thoughtful and careful of the poor sick girl; and, for some reason, which nobody knew so well as the clergyman, I suppose, she appeared uncommonly even-tempered towards the children, reminding them, from time to time, that "poor Hepsy was sick, and they should do all they could to comfort her, and not disturb her with their noise." On Saturday evening, when the rain lashed the clap-boards of the house, and streaked the window-panes, it was pleasant for all to look back upon the week which was past. The rolling ball of time runs smoothly in the golden grooves of peace. There had been so few jars and discords in the family, that even the children seemed conscious that they had entered upon a new era of life. Owing to the gloom of the storm, the candles were lighted all of an hour earlier than usual, and Father Brighthopes, taking his place by Hepsy's side, who occupied the rocking-chair, with pillows, in the sitting-room, told his pleasant stories, with the family gathered about him, and the little ones on his knees. The beating of the rain was music to all hearts that night; and when the children went to bed, later than was their custom, their happy souls sank softly into slumber, lulled by the rain on the roof. On the following morning, the sky was clear, and the sun shone freshly upon the wet earth. The storm broke away a little before dawn, and when the Sabbath threw open its gateway of gold a thousand birds came fluttering through to announce, in songs of joy, the appearance of the heavenly visitant. A gentle breeze shook the beaded rain from glistening boughs, and dried the drenched grasses, while shining mists stole out of swampy hollows, and faded in the sun. Margaret Bowen, the wooden-legged shoemaker's daughter, who had worked very faithfully and cheerfully since Wednesday without hearing an unpleasant word from Mrs. Royden, wished to go home that morning; and after breakfast James carried her over in the wagon. Willie went too; and the little fellow, overjoyed at his mother's indulgence, took great delight in listening to the birds, in looking at the sparkling leaves and grass, and in watching the wheels as they cut through the puddles and furrowed the softened sand of the road. All the family went to meeting, except Hepsy, Mrs. Royden and the baby. Sam rode behind on an extra seat,--a board placed across the wagon-box,--and fell off twice, without doing material injury to his person; after which trifling accidents he became cautious how he suffered his devotion to fun to send him wheeling over backwards when the horses started suddenly. Chester and James, who walked, witnessed one of his falls, as the wagon passed them on the road. They thought Sam's neck was broken, and ran to pick him up; but, after brushing the moist sand from his clothes, and getting him in the wagon again, they found that he was about as good as new. In the afternoon, Mr. Kerchey took pains once more to invite Chester to ride with him; and, in no way discouraged by his painful deficiency in the brilliant graces of conversation manifested on a former occasion, readily consented to gratify the family with his presence at supper. Mrs. Royden was pleased with Mr. Kerchey's condescension. Her fears that he might have taken offense at Sarah's freedom were happily dissipated; and, speaking with the latter aside, she told her, in a kind and motherly tone, that "she sincerely hoped she would treat their neighbor well." Mr. Kerchey took them by surprise. He made some strikingly original and sensible remarks, without any of his ordinary hesitation. At the table he expressed some sentiments with regard to children which were quite refreshing, and his description of the storm on the previous day was rather picturesque. But no shrewd observer, like Sarah, could fail to see that his language was studied and elaborate. "He has got a little handful of speeches by heart," she whispered to Chester. "He will use them all up soon,--_then_ we'll see if he can talk!" She was confirmed in her suspicions when, questioning some ideas he advanced, she found him utterly unable to answer her in the same easy strain as before. To excuse himself, he, with great difficulty, confessed that those thoughts had been forming themselves in his mind, and that he would have to consider her argument before making a definite reply. "My--ah--words--you see--they are very slow," he observed. "I--frequently have to--ah--note down what I--intend to--express--on particular times--or occasions." "Words are the husk, and thoughts are the corn, of our conversation," said Father Brighthopes, with an encouraging smile. "Too many persons bring only the husks, which they heap upon us in rather uncomfortable abundance." "Yes, sir;--very--ah--true," returned Mr. Kerchey, gratefully. "I think I have--ah----" Here he broke down, appearing utterly incapable of finding the words he wanted. "You have considerably more of the corn than the husk," rejoined the old man; "an excellent and quite excusable fault." "I think, if there is anything disagreeable, it is an everlasting talker," remarked Sarah, her bright eyes sparkling with fun. Chester asked her if it was because she wished to usurp the conversation herself; upon which Mr. Kerchey managed to observe, in his very hardest way, that there were some persons of whose talk he could never tire. He looked intently at Sarah,--just as if he meant her, Lizzie suggested, in a low tone, to James. At this moment Willie diverted the conversation by crying out, "Sam's pinching me!" "Oh, I didn't!" said Sam. "Why do you tell such a story?" demanded Mrs. Royden, with a slight degree of impatience. "I saw you pinch his arm." "I was only brushing a fly off," replied Sam. "He asked me how thick my sleeve was, and he took right hold of skin and all!" whined Willie, rubbing his arm. Sam was reprimanded and Willie was consoled with rind from his father's plate. XXVI. THE RAINY DAY. Monday was showery. Tuesday was fair, and on Wednesday there was a settled rain. It was anything but fine haying weather. The mowers got down a good deal of grass, but it was mostly left lying in the swath. The Roydens took advantage of the dull time to visit at Deacon Dustan's, on Wednesday, with the old clergyman. There was quite a large company present, consisting of old and young people, among the choicest families in Mr. Corlis' society. After dinner the rain "held up," and towards evening the elderly gentlemen of the party went out to walk. Deacon Dustan took great pleasure and no less pride in showing his guests the fairest portions of his goodly estate. Meanwhile he was too shrewd to neglect introducing the discussion of a subject which lay very near his heart. The company were in excellent humor for a favorable consideration of the project of the new meeting-house; and Mr. Corlis became very eloquent on the subject. "Come, Neighbor Royden," cried Deacon Dustan, "you are the only influential man in the society who has not expressed a decided opinion, one way or the other." "It is because I haven't a decided opinion, I suppose," replied Mr. Royden, laughing. "You have heard the case, Father," he added, turning to the old clergyman: "what is your opinion?" "I have hardly come to any conclusion yet," replied Father Brighthopes. "I have some ideas about such projects, however." "Well, we would thank you to let us hear them, Father," rejoined Deacon Dustan. "They must be of value, from your long experience." "Is this Job Bowen's house?" asked the old man; for they were walking leisurely past the shoemaker's residence. "Yes; here lives patient Job, the wooden-legged philosopher," returned Deacon Dustan, good-humoredly. "What of him?" "I was there, the other day, and promised to come again. I don't know when I shall have a better time. After I have said good-day to the family, I will tell you something about new meeting-houses. Will you go in too, Brother Corlis?" Mr. Corlis could not refuse, although he would much rather have remained without. "We will all look in at the door, if you please, gentlemen," said Deacon Dustan. "Job is a curiosity." "I was just thinking that Job's family would have considered a dish from your generous table to-day a very pleasant curiosity," observed Father Brighthopes. "Oh, Job is not quite a stranger to my dishes," returned the deacon, quickly. "I should be sorry to say that he was; and I should be sorry to have you think so." With a smile of sunshine, the old man disclaimed the remotest idea of insinuating such a suspicion. "A fat dish may be considered a curiosity to a poor man at any time, you know," he added, with tender humor. "Even a cold potato and a crust of bread are often great sources of delight, when accompanied with a kind word, and a cheerful, encouraging smile, from the charitable giver." Deacon Dustan opened the door, without knocking. "How are you to-day, Job?" he cried, with his great, strong, energetic lungs. "Ah! my kind friends!" said Job, rubbing his hands, "I wish I could run to welcome you; but you will excuse me, and come in." He spoke in his usual soft and subdued voice. He was sitting on his bench, with the window looking out upon the west behind him; and his bald pate and prominent ears were clearly defined, with a picturesque effect, upon the crimson background of the fiery sunset clouds. "We're too many of us, Brother Job," said the old clergyman, with a smile of sympathetic pleasure: "perhaps you would not like to see us all in your little shop at once?" "The more the better, bless you!" rejoined the soldier shoemaker, in a sort of glow; "only I'm sorry we haven't chairs enough for all of you." "Never mind chairs," observed Father Brighthopes, taking Mrs. Bowen's hand, as she was arranging what available seats there were, with her customary melancholy air. "And how are you to-day, sister?" "I'm pretty well for me," answered the poor woman, in her broken voice. "But we've been hard pushed for means this week; and, besides, since Margaret has been to Mr. Royden's, my other darter has been wo'se, and everything has come upon me." "Yes; she's had a rather hard time on 't," put in Job, mildly, and with a faint smile. "But she does remarkable, that woman does, my friends--remarkable! She means to make the best of everything." "He! he! he!" laughed the grandmother, starting up in the corner, and drawing the blanket around her. "That was a chicken-pie not to be ashamed of," she mumbled, in shrill tones, between her toothless gums. "I han't tasted nothing like it these forty year. Our company was wet and hungry enough when they got there; and you'd better believe that 'ere pie had a relish!" "Bygones, bygones!" whispered Job, touching his forehead, with a tender glance at the old woman. "You mustn't mind her, my friends: we never do. She is a nice old lady, but all out of date, and very deaf." "How does Margaret get along?" asked Mrs. Bowen, in her most ghastly tone. "Oh, very well indeed. She is the best girl we ever had, by all odds," replied Mr. Royden. "I don't know but I shall have to have her come home for a few days," proceeded the other. "I shall, if my other darter continues so sick. I shall want her help more than the money, though we need that bad enough, Lord knows. We're all out of flour; and, if it wan't for the potatoes you sent over Sunday morning, I don't know what we should do." "Oh, we shall do very well, my good wife!" cried Job, cheerily. "The Lord won't forget us! He is our friend: he is on our side, he is. It'll all be right in the end--glory be to God for that thought!" "And for every suffering you will have your reward, my noble Christian brother," exclaimed Father Brighthopes, with kindling enthusiasm. "Believe it: you will come out of the fire all the purer and brighter for the ordeal." Job squeezed a tear from his eye, and, looking up with a countenance full of emotion, as the red light from the western clouds fell upon it, took a book from the bench by his side. "I don't know how I shall thank you for all the comfort I owe you," he said, with a tearful smile. "What you tell me is wonderful consoling for me to think about here at work, and to repeat over to my good woman, when she has her trials. But I take it as kind as anything your sending me the books by Margaret. I don't have much chance to read, and they will last me a good while: the better for me, I s'pose. You see, I read a sentence, then I hammer away at my work, thinking it over and over, and explaining it to my good woman: it does her good when she's having her bad spells." "Which of the books do you like best?" asked the clergyman. "The story of the Pilgrim's Progress is a glorious thing for a lonesome and fainting traveler on the same road, like me!" exclaimed Job. "But I had read that before, and got it pretty well by heart. Now, this _Barnes' Notes_ interests me as much as anything; there was so many things in the Testament I wanted to have explained." "I am delighted to think you are comforted by any of the books," said the old clergyman, warmly. "Oh, I get a world of good out of this one, especially. Wife sometimes tells me 't an't no use to read it; but," said Job, with a gleaming intelligence in his queer face, as the sunset glow deepened upon it, "what do you think I tell her?" Father Brighthopes knew some pleasant sally was coming, and encouraged him to proceed. "I tell her," said Job, quietly chuckling, "the study of _Barnes_ makes my faith _stable_." This little jest appealed to the sympathies of the farmers, and they honored it with a laugh. Job was radiant with joy. "I wish the _Notes_ was condensed into half the number of volumes," he proceeded, under this encouragement. "If I had time to read them, the more the better. But I find them like the waters of a deep stream." Father Brighthopes saw a joke in Job's twinkling eyes, and asked him to explain the comparison. "Ha! ha!" Job laughed, in spite of himself. "It's a little conundrum I made to amuse my good woman, in one of her bad turns. Why are Barnes' Notes like the waters of a deep stream? _Answer_,--because one would find them easier to get _over_, if they were a-_bridged_." The company laughed again; and the clergyman thought it best that they should take leave at the moment when Job was elated with his brilliant success. "It was in the year 'seventeen," spoke up the grandmother, rousing from her dreams, as they were going away; "I remember it as well as if 'twas yesterday." "Poor woman!" muttered Job, with feeling, "I've no doubt but she remembers it a great deal better, whatever it is." "Come again, and I'll tell ye all about it," proceeded the old lady, with a shrill laugh. "I actually gi'n that creatur' three pecks of inions and a pan of dried apples; and she never said so much as _thank'e_, to this day! I might have expected it, though; for she was a Dudley on her mother's side, and everybody knowed how mean that race of Dudleys always was, partic'larly the women folks. Airly in March, in the year 'seventeen." She relapsed again into her dreams; Mrs. Bowen bid the visitors a hoarse and melancholy _good-evening_; and Job stumped to the door on his wooden leg to see them off. XXVII. "OLD FOLKS" AND "YOUNG FOLKS." "Now, then, about the new meeting-house," remarked Father Brighthopes, in a spirited tone, carrying his hat in his hand. The sun was down, the fiery glow was fading from the clouds, and, as the dying light fell upon his large pale forehead and thin white locks of hair, tinging them faintly with gold, Mr. Corlis thought he had never seen so striking a picture of beautiful and venerable age. "We hear you," said Deacon Dustan. "Well," proceeded the old man, "my notion is simply this: if your society can afford to build a new meeting-house, build it, by all means." "There's wisdom for you!" cried the deacon, triumphantly. "My own ideas simplified and expressed in three words, _If we can afford to build_; and who will say we cannot afford so much?" "What is it, to afford?" asked Mr. Royden, perplexed by the old clergyman's decision. "Have you the means to spare for the purpose?" suggested Mr. Corlis. "Ay, that is the question," said Father Brighthopes. "I don't know but you have. I hope you have. But you must consider that to do this thing for your own glory, and not in the service of our Saviour, will be other than acceptable in his sight." "We trust to do all things, connected with the church, to the praise and glory of God," returned Mr. Corlis. "Then your labors will bring their reward. But there are still important considerations claiming our attention. I think the Lord is better pleased with other things than pretty meeting-houses. They who build up his CHURCH find more favor in his sight than the mere constructors of elegant place of worship." "But, to build up the church, we must commence with the frame-work to shelter it," observed Deacon Dustan; "at least, it appears so to me." "The true church of Christ is in our own hearts," returned the old man, with a gentle smile. Deacon Dustan's mind was of too material a cast fully to appreciate this truth; so he only nodded mechanically, and said, "In one sense, certainly." "To build that up, should be our first care. That we can do without carpenter's tools, plank or plaster. _Righteousness_ is the great building material, and _Love_ is the head workman. Christ has not said, 'Rear me stately edifices, and make my houses pleasing unto me with velvet, gilding and paint.' But he has told his followers to feed the hungry, to clothe the naked, to visit the afflicted and comfort them, to lift up the downt-rodden. My brethren," said the old man, "this do as long as ye have any in poverty and distress among you; then, I say, if you can _afford_ it, build a meeting-house of gold, and the Lord will be pleased with the work." The rebuke, although uttered in all kindness and love, came home, with overwhelming force, to all hearts at that time, when they had just witnessed the squalor and rags of a faithful Christian brother in their very midst. Mr. Corlis, who was expected to reply, was struck speechless. "There is a great deal of truth in what you say," observed Deacon Dustan, after a painful silence. "Some of it applies to us, without doubt; but not so much as you suppose. In our own society, you will not find any one left to suffer poverty. If we have ever neglected poor Job Bowen,--and, I confess, I, for one, have not been so thoughtful of him as I should be, even if he were the vilest sinner in the world,--our excuse is, that he differs from our persuasion. He is not one of our brethren." "<sc>Christ</sc> knows not one sect from another, it is the _heart_ he judges," said the old man. "'_Whoever_ doeth the will of my Father, the same is my brother.' For my part, I never thought to inquire into the creed of our poor Christian friend, Job Bowen. It is enough for me to know that his Saviour is my Saviour." Nobody made answer; and, after a pause, Father Brighthopes added, "Ah! how sweetly the evening comes on! Look, there is the evening star in the soft blue sky! You will have fine weather for haying to-morrow." The subject of the new meeting-house was not renewed. By way of contrast with the foregoing scenes, let us now turn to others, of a different nature. Scarcely had Deacon Dustan and the elder portion of his gentlemen guests set out on their walk, when Mr. Benjamin Smith, a brother of our old acquaintance, Josephine, drove up to the door with a load of saddles. Benjamin had been to collect them around the neighborhood. The young people were going to ride. Equestrian exercises had been hinted at by Mr. Kerchey, whose fine, spirited horses were at the disposal of the party, and the girls had caught eagerly at the idea. Mr. Kerchey was not used to the saddle; but Sarah Royden was, and that was enough for him to know. He himself was a little afraid of mounting a mettled horse; but, since she was so fond of the recreation, he had no desire to consult his own feelings in the matter. "I--I wish you would tell me how--ah--these girths go," he said to Chester, after laboring hard for a quarter of an hour saddling his handsomest horse for Sarah. "I wish--one of my--ah--hired men was here--so that I--ah--would not have to--would not be obliged to trouble you." "No trouble at all," cried Chester, who, meanwhile, had saddled four horses in front of Deacon Dustan's barn. He stepped to the stable to see what Mr. Kerchey was about, and, at a glance, burst into a roar of laughter. The amateur farmer had put on the side-saddle, not exactly bottom upwards, but turned square around; and he was trying to buckle the girths upon the stirrup-strap. "I think Sarah would hesitate to ride with the saddle just in this position," said Chester, checking his merriment. He skilfully made the required change, and buckled the girths with such rapidity as struck Mr. Kerchey with amazement, and quite discouraged him from ever touching a side-saddle again. "You see--I--I--I am not--ah--accustomed to this sort of--of business," he stammered, coloring very red. A dozen horses were saddled and led to the door. In the meantime the girls had prepared themselves for the sport. "Oh!" screamed Miss Josephine Smith, as the gallant Chester helped her mount from the block, "my nervth are tho delicate!" How different Sarah! She sat Mr. Kerchey's handsome horse like a queen, holding her head proudly, as he playfully pranced and reared. "I--I--hope--I hope there is no--ah--danger?" articulated the amateur farmer, as he reluctantly loosed his hold of the bridle. Sarah laughed merrily, and boldly struck the animal with her whip. It made Mr. Kerchey gasp to see him bound and plunge. But she kept her balance miraculously. After seeing that every girth was well fastened, and every fair rider safely mounted, Chester leaped into his own saddle from the turf, without touching foot to stirrup. But he dismounted again immediately, smothering his laughter as well as he could. All the gentlemen were mounted, except Mr. Kerchey. His horse, excited by seeing his mate, governed by Sarah, dance about the yard, would not stand still an instant, or come up to the block. Harry Dustan, laughing at his distress, had cantered gayly away with Miss Sedley, the "school-ma'am." Only Chester was thoughtful enough to go to Mr. Kerchey's relief. The latter, heated, agitated, and wofully perplexed, was beginning to see that riding horseback was a far more serious affair than he had imagined. He witnessed the bold riding of his neighbors with dismay. Galloping was to him a perfect mystery. His courage and ambition had never gone beyond a gentle trot. The mere thought of dashing off side by side with Sarah made him dizzy. "Can't you mount?" asked Chester, soberly, considering the circumstances. "No--I--that is--perhaps--on the whole--I'd better not--ah--attempt it." "Oh, that won't do! What will the girls say?" "But, you see--it is all--ah--new to me," stammered Mr. Kerchey. "You'll get into the way of it at once," replied Chester, in an encouraging tone. "It's as easy as running down hill, or running up--an account. Now,"--he wheeled the horse to the block,--"put your leg over the saddle. No! the other leg,--your right one,--unless you want to ride backwards." XXVIII. MR. KERCHEY'S DARING EXPLOIT. After considerable trouble, Mr. Kerchey was mounted, with his feet thrust into the stirrups up to the ankles. Chester, perceiving the smiling faces of the old ladies at the windows and at the door, watching the performance, was so convulsed with mirth that he could with difficulty get once more into the saddle. But the girls had now all galloped up the road, and, with no inducement to make a display of agility and strength, he braced his toe in the stirrup, and leisurely mounted. Mr. Kerchey was a little ahead of him, making too ludicrous an appearance to be easily described. He looked like an animated bag of flour, Chester said, awkwardly balanced, jolting painfully, and seeming momently ready to tumble off. "Oh, you do bravely!" cried the young man, dashing past him, on a smart gallop. Mr. Kerchey groaned, and grasped the saddle with his left hand, desperately, resolved to ride faster. The party had halted a little way up the road, and Chester made haste to send Sarah back to keep Mr. Kerchey company. At first she refused to go, but conceiving the idea of some fun, consented to the arrangement, and rode to meet her admirer. In order that he might not observe the mirth indulged at his expense, the rest of the party galloped on, Chester riding by the side of the sociable Jane Dustan. "What a delightful creature this is!" cried Sarah, wheeling sharply around Mr. Kerchey. "I could ride him night and day without wearying." "Ah! glad to h--h--hear it!" said the amateur farmer, still holding the saddle with a fearful grasp. "I see you are very careful of your horse," she added, letting her animal prance daintily on before. "Is he lame?" "No--not--not exactly----" "Ha! ha! I see! You are preserving his wind in order to outstrip us towards the close of the ride! I shall look out for you, Mr. Kerchey!" "I--beg--to--assure--you--" replied the tortured man, each word jolted out of his lungs by the hard-trotting horse, "I--have no--no such intention." "How I envy you the advantages of living in a city!" exclaimed Sarah. "You have riding-schools there; you must have enjoyed them a great deal, Mr. Kerchey." If, on ordinary occasions, it was difficult for the amateur farmer to express his ideas, what shall we say of him in his present painful situation? All his faculties were called into activity by the threatening danger. His own horse was beginning to prance and amble sidewise; and it was only by the exercise of great vigilance that he kept his balance at all. Let the reader endeavor to carry on a sprightly conversation with a saucy girl and add up a long column of figures at the same time, and he may be able to form a dim conception of the ordeal through which Mr. Kerchey was compelled to pass. "I--I--never--rode much," he managed to articulate. "Indeed? you surprise me," cried Sarah, carefully committing the trifling mistake of touching his horse with the tip of her whip. The animal leaped into the air, breaking so suddenly into a gallop that Mr. Kerchey barely escaped being thrown to the ground. "Whoa--_whoa_--_whoa_!" he ejaculated, in an agitated voice, letting go one of the reins, in his confusion. The horse dashed to the corner of the fence, and stopped so suddenly that Mr. Kerchey, thrown clear over the pommel of the saddle, rested on his neck. Fortunately, having come to this stand, the animal did not move until he had had time to regain his seat; for, as it was, had it not been for the proximity of the rails, on which he braced his hands, the rider must have plunged head foremost to the ground. Sweating a cold sweat, and trembling in every limb, Mr. Kerchey seized both reins, one in each hand, resolved to hold the animal "in," at all hazards. "Whoa--whoa--whoa!" he kept repeating, in tremulous tones, as he once more got into the road. Sarah choked with emotion. "Wouldn't you like a whip!" she asked, as soon as she could summon sufficient gravity to speak. "Oh--no--thank you," gasped Mr. Kerchey. "You'd better. You'll manage your horse much more easily with one. Will you take mine?" Sarah rode up to him, and extended the frightful whip, at sight of which Mr. Kerchey's horse bounded to the side of the road like a frightened deer. Off flew his hat; his hands grasped saddle and mane; and he cried "Whoa--whoa!" again, with all the energy of fear. But some horses, after submitting to a degree of insult, will have their revenge. Mr. Kerchey's thought he would try what virtue there was in running away. Thanks to his feet, thrust ankle-deep in the stirrups, the rider kept his seat this time, but he could not manage the reins and keep his hold of the saddle at the same time. He went by the amazed party of equestrians on the speed of the wind. The horse turned up to the meeting-house, and made for one of the sheds. "He'll break his head!" cried Sarah, terrified at the mischief she had done, reining up to Chester's side. Chester spurred forward, to do what he could to avert so uncomfortable an accident. But already Mr. Kerchey saw his danger, and pulled the bridle with his left hand, still clinging to the saddle with his right. The horse was sufficiently under control to obey the direction. He described a beautiful curve, and went around the meeting-house, reappearing on the opposite side of the green. The immediate danger passed, the spectators began to laugh. Mr. Kerchey reminded Jane Dustan of the celebrated monkey, Andrew Jackson, who rode the pony in the circus-ring "last fourth of July." Mr. Kerchey's performance was more public. He rode in view of the whole neighborhood, his hat off, his feet thrown behind, in the stirrups, his hands still holding on desperately. Around the meeting-house he went again, faster than before. A third time the horse consented to perform the amusing evolution, then rebelled. Wheeling suddenly, he threw Mr. Kerchey sprawling into a black puddle of indescribable water, near one of the sheds. It was well for both horse and rider that the latter had instinctively extricated his feet from the stirrups. As it was, the animal, more indignant, it seemed, than terrified, quietly turned under the shed, and stopped. A magnificent splashing of the water celebrated Mr. Kerchey's descent into the element. He came down like an immense frog, with outstretched arms and legs, sublime. But like anything else than a frog he began to scramble and gasp, and flounder in the puddle. Chester dashed to the spot, dismounted, and helped him out. To describe the ludicrous appearance of the strangling, drenched, muddy, hatless equestrian, or the effect it had upon the convulsed spectators, would be superfluous. With the exception of Chester, only Miss Sedley, a young lady of the finest feelings, and Sarah, whose conscience upbraided her for the mischief she had done, were at all able to control their mirth. "Take me--somewhere!" gasped Mr. Kerchey seeking his handkerchief, to wipe his streaming face. "I'm--hurt. My shoulder--Oh!" "You haven't put any bones out, I hope?" said Chester. "I don't know. I'm afraid," moaned the equestrian, with a most ludicrous expression of mingled grief, pain, fright and mud. "Oh dear! what a--a mournful termination to--to my folly!" He sank upon the ground, and sat with his feet in the puddle, a picture of utter woe. "Excuse me," he said, feebly, "I--I am very--faint." "He is seriously injured, I fear," observed Miss Sedley. "You won't let me--_die_--here in the filth--will you?" groaned Mr. Kerchey, looking up with a despairing expression into the faces of the spectators. Even Chester had to hide his face for laughing. But Sarah, more and more alarmed, felt never less susceptible to merriment. "Do take him right over to Dr. Sackett's!" she exclaimed, with deep solicitude. "Yes," murmured the unhappy man, "if you can get me there. I--I can't walk--I am sure!" "We can carry you," replied Chester. "Come, boys!" "Be careful that I--I don't die by the way!" whispered Mr. Kerchey, on the point of swooning. The young men fastened their horses under the shed, rolled up their sleeves, and "took hold." Happily, the doctor's house was close by, and they arrived seasonably at the door, with their companion still groaning and moaning piteously. No wonder! The doctor found his excuse. Mr. Kerchey had broken an arm, besides doing some extensive damage to his shoulder. When informed of the true state of the case, the company were sobered at once; and Sarah, especially, was very much distressed. "I was the cause of it all!" she exclaimed, with strong feelings of self-reproach. "To make ample reparation," said Jane Dustan, "all you have to do is to take care of your victim during his recovery." "And I'll do it, laugh as you may!" exclaimed Sarah. She kept her word as far as practicable. Mr. Kerchey was carried home the next day; and every afternoon, during the long week he was confined to his room, she called to inquire about his health, and often stopped to make his broth with her own hands, or to read the newspaper for him. Mr. Kerchey loved the broth only because she made it, and when she read he was entertained by the sweet tone of her voice alone. Of course, he forgave her for frightening the horse; and if ever there was a poor fellow in love with a kind-hearted, mischievous, merry girl, it was Mr. Kerchey, convalescent, in love with Sarah Royden. XXIX. MRS. ROYDEN'S DINNER-PARTY. How fast the time fled! How quickly, yet how smoothly, the old clergyman's vacation rounded to its close! Looking back to the day of his arrival, it was hard to realize that more than three weeks had glided away. Yet when he and his friends remembered what had been done, and how many happy and profitable hours they had spent together, the wonder was that so much could have been crowded within so brief a space of time. The present chronicle of the old clergyman's vacation is necessarily meager. It would require a larger volume to do anything like justice to the scenes which opened, shifted and closed, during his stay. I have only seized upon a few salient points, that presented themselves to my mind, and portrayed them with as few hasty touches as I could, without order, and with little study for effect. How much must be gone over in silence, and left entirely to the imagination! The day before that which Father Brighthopes had set for his departure, Mrs. Royden gave a dinner-party. He had become so extensively known and so widely beloved in the society of the neighborhood, that old and young wished to assemble and bid him an affectionate farewell. Was ever a more cheerful gathering? We doubt it. It was a jolly, democratic party. Father Brighthopes was grand-master of the ceremonies. If there was one present more humble than another, he made it his business to take him encouragingly and lovingly by the hand, and lift him up. If it was a sister, how delicately, how tenderly he talked to her, and showed her that bright angel of Hope, his guardian spirit, or genius, and the ready consoler of sorrowing hearts! Deacon Dustan was there, _without_ his new meeting-house schemes; his quiet wife, and Harry and Jane, who were not so quiet, came in his carriage. The Smiths were present; the deacon and his lady. Benjamin, and Josephine, who was so "ecthethively fond of minithterth," and who was sure she could not "thurvive the loth" of so delightful an old man as Father Brighthopes. Mr. Corlis came early, and had a long and earnest conversation with his elder brother, to whom he already owed so much for his kindly warnings and wise suggestions. Mark Wheeler was invited, but he did not come, being unused to such society; but there was one, still less accustomed to the ways of the world, who could not excuse himself, when Mr. Royden sent to have him brought by main force. It was Job, the soldier-shoemaker. He came, with his wooden leg, his subdued voice, his sunny old face, his queer bald pate and prominent ears, and the exhaustless fountain of good humor within his heart. It was the first honor of the kind Job had ever received at the hands of his neighbors. But of late a good deal of interest had been taken in his family, and some who had laid up money to aid in the new meeting-house project had been induced to invest a little of it in comforts and necessaries for the poor man. He felt as though he could really afford to abandon his bench for that day, and enjoy himself, his only objection being the impossibility of Mrs. Bowen leaving the house and going with him. But she was comfortable now at home, and Job was easy in his mind about her. We should not forget to mention that the old soldier made his appearance in an entirely new suit of clothes, and with his Sunday leg on. He joked a good deal about these externals, and amused the company by his genial humor. His coat was one presented him by Mr. Corlis; the waistcoat had belonged to Deacon Dustan, and the trousers were a gift from Father Brighthopes. Job acknowledged half a dozen shirts from the fair hands of Miss Sedley, the school-ma'am, Sarah Royden and Julia Keller; one of which he had on his back. The handkerchief he wore was a present from Chester. His boot alone was the product of his own labor. Job had cut off the trousers to fit his wooden leg, and made a jaunty cap of the fragment. The leg itself was an extra one he had kept by him a long time, using it only on Sunday, Fast Day, Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July. It was quite a handsome stick, elegantly finished, and "well seasoned," Job declared. "I am careful of this leg," he said, in his subdued voice, and quiet, cheerful manner, when the old clergyman joked him about it. "I always keep it on the top shelf at home, with a newspaper around it, to protect it from dust and flies. If you had the gout, sir, you couldn't be more careful of your limbs." This was after dinner. Job was sitting in the easy-chair, out doors, where the shadow of the house sloped across the grassy lawn. The guests were forming a circle around him and the old clergyman, some sitting upon the green sward, others supporting their dignity upon chairs, and a few of the young people lying at their ease along the ground. Mr. Kerchey, who happened to be standing near, with his arm in a swing, exerted himself to speak, and made a comparison between his useless and painful member and Job's comfortable leg. "Get a wooden one, get a wooden one," said Job. "But, then, an arm of that sort wouldn't be so convenient as a leg. I don't think I could make shoes with only one hand. Dear me! when I think of it, how thankful I ought to be that only my leg was taken off! Supposing I had lost an arm,--or my head,--and been obliged to get a new one?" "You wouldn't be the first man to go about with a wooden pate," said Chester. "There are plenty of block-heads in the world." "I believe I was one when I enlisted," laughed Job. "At least, your head was turned," quietly observed Father Brighthopes. Anything the old clergyman said in a facetious vein was sure to raise a laugh. When silence was restored, Job replied, "Very good! capital!"--in his soft half-whisper, and rubbing his hands. "And I am thankful that, although my head was turned then, only my leg has been turned since. My folly was cut off with my offending member, and my ambition was buried with it." The company let Job talk in this way a good while. It was refreshing to hear him; and he delighted to be garrulous. There was not a happier heart present than his; and its simple philosophy and genial humor flowed out and mingled in such a sunny, babbling brook, that no one desired it should be checked. But at length Job himself refused to talk any more. "I'm pumped dry," said he. "If you want anything more from me, Father Brighthopes will have to _prime_ me. I haven't another joke that isn't musty; and now, I say, we'll have a regular-built speech from the old patriarch. Silence!" cried Job, tapping his wooden leg; "attention, every one! Father Brighthopes, we wait to hear from you." The old clergyman, having sat down upon the grass, was so tangled up in the children, who clung to his neck and arms, that he could not arise to respond. "Georgie," said Mrs. Royden, in a tone of gentle reproach, "you shouldn't lie upon Father Brighthopes. Get down, Willie. Lizzie, you are too big to be hanging around his neck." "She is crowning him with a wreath of flowers," murmured Hepsy, who was comfortably seated in the midst of the group. The poor girl's health was much improved; there was a faint flush on her cheeks; but, although in good spirits, she had scarcely spoken before since dinner, having been absorbed in weaving the wreath for the old man's venerable and beloved head. At length he was crowned, the children released him, and he got up, radiant and beautiful, with his young and hopeful spirit shining through his glorious old face. We wish there had been a reporter on the spot. That speech would well be worth preserving, word for word. But we are able to give only a meager outline of it, very imperfect, and without regard to the order in which the sentiments--like so many waves of liquid light--rippled upon the hearts of his hearers. XXX. THE OLD CLERGYMAN'S FAREWELL. The speaker was about to bid farewell, he said, to all those kind friends. (Sensation.) He would leave them, and be soon forgotten. (Cries of "No, no! never!" from old and young. Job smites his wooden leg, and exclaims, with enthusiasm, "Not that, by a long thread!") "Well," continues Father Brighthopes, with suffused features, "I thank you. I hope you will remember me, as I shall remember you. God has been very good to me, in giving me friends, all my life long." "You deserve them, if anybody does," whispers Job, loud enough to be heard by the entire audience. He rubs his hands as if he meant it. "Let me give you a little hint about getting and keeping friends," adds the clergyman, smiling around upon the old people in the chairs, and the young people on the grass or standing up. "I thank Brother Job for suggesting the thought." "Hear, hear!" says Mr. Royden, pulling Willie away from the speaker's legs, and silencing Georgie, who is inclined to blow his grass "squawker." "My friends have generally been of the right kind," proceeds the old man. "If you wish to have your friends of the right kind,"--glancing at the younger portion of the audience,--"I'll tell you how to go to work. "Be always ready to lend a helping hand to those who need assistance. Do so with a hearty good will, not feeling as though you were throwing something away; for, although you get no material return,--which should be the last thing to expect,--you will find in the end that you have been exercising your own capacities for happiness, which grow with their use. Do good for the sake of good, and you will see that the bread thus cast upon the waters comes right back to feed your own hungry souls. "Be ready to sacrifice all externals to friendship, but maintain your integrity. Give the glittering bubbles of the stream and the current will still be yours, clear and strong as ever. What I mean is, abandon circumstances and outside comforts for the sake of those you love, but never desert a principle to follow any man or set of men. If you do, few friends will be obtained, and they will not be firmly attached; while many who would soon have come round to you will be lost forever. But plant yourself on the rock of principle; and, however men may shun it at first, it shall in the end prove a magnet to draw all true souls to your standard. Royal hearts shall then be yours. They can rely on you, and you on them; so there will be no falling off, when the wind shifts to the northeast. Truth is the sun which holds friends in their orbits, like revolving planets, by the power of its magnetism. If the sun forsake its place in the heavens, and go chasing after the bright tail of some gay comet, what will become of the planets? Let the sun be true to itself, and even the comet comes around in time." The old man looks at Chester with a smile which asks, "Is it not so?" "Your philosophy is excellent for men of courage, like yourself," says Chester. "But few can bear to be hated all their lives by the mass of their fellow-men, as many have been, for the sake of the truth." "Those men who do bear that cross are martyrs of the noblest sort," returns Father Brighthopes. "They are not only men of true courage, but men of fortitude, which is a sort of enduring and perpetual courage. To them the truth, and the few who see and love that truth,--if only a handful of poor fishermen and three or four pious women,--will be more precious than all the kingdoms of the earth. If the devil of ambition whispers that by forsaking the former the latter may be gained, they can resist the temptation; for they know the value of internal convictions of right, and the worthlessness of external shows and shadows and happiness. "Great truths, when first revealed to mankind, need such martyrs. Opposition assists in the development of principles, as alternate frosts and heats in spring heave and loosen the soil. New truths, like sheaves of grain, must be well threshed by the flail of persecution, and winnowed by the wind of criticism, to separate the pure wheat from the straw and chaff. "But to none of us, I am confident, will be given the crown of martyrdom. Mankind is too enlightened to make many martyrs now-a-days. We gravitate to truth, and we crucify no more the prophet who reveals it to our sight. This is an age in which principles may be demonstrated, and will always be respected. Then let us embrace them, and have that ballast to steady us in the stormy voyage of life." "Men of principle, even to-day," Chester replies, "are accused of fickleness and inconsistency, and all sorts of unworthy motives, by those who do not understand them." "Very well; I can bear to be misunderstood for a little while," says the old man. "Those who are not established on the same ground of truth imagine that I waver, while it is themselves who are continually shifting. It took the earth a great while to learn that the sun and stars did not revolve around it every twenty-four hours. What cared the eternal sun? A ledge upreared in the midst of a swift river seems to be swimming up-stream; but it is only the water moving. Look up at the moon on a windy night when a storm is breaking away, and she appears to be flying wildly across the floor of heaven. It is the clouds that hurry, and the moon feels nothing of the optical delusion. Let us take example of the stars, the sun, the moon and the planets, in order that the true astronomers of the heart may know how to measure our distances and compute our orbits." "That's my idea, well expressed," says Job, who rubs his hands, feeling that the right kind of friends have finally come around to him; "and that's what I've always told my good woman." The old man pats Job on the shoulder, and says some pleasant word, which makes everybody laugh. He then proceeds with his speech. He goes from the great principle of integrity to the exercise of the minor domestic virtues. He dwells upon the happiness of the home in which love and contentment dwell, contrasting it with the raw atmosphere which pervades houses of the opposite stamp. How plainly his philosophy demonstrates the necessity of an even temper and a sweet disposition! "You can keep house without silver spoons, but not without these," he says. "Charity and kindness are the soft music which regulates the march of life, and cheers the hearts of the soldiers." This allusion to his old profession reminds Job of his wooden leg, which he pats affectionately whistling _Yankee Doodle_ very softly. The old clergyman goes on. He has a good deal to say to the young folks about the active life upon which they are just entering,--its perils and temptations. He warns them against selfishness, and tells them how it narrows and shrivels the soul. But his favorite theme is LOVE; and he dwells much upon the beauty of its offspring, kindness, contentment, cheerfulness. His language is so simple that even Willie can understand all he says. "Well," he remarks, in conclusion, "I am talking too long." "Not a bit of it! I defy you!" cries Job Bowen. "Go on! go on!" exclaim a dozen voices. "I must take leave of you soon; and we can spend the little time that remains to us more pleasantly than in speechifying, or listening to a speech. It is doubtful if I ever meet you again. I am growing old," says Father Brighthopes, with a serene smile. "I have but a little while to stay here on earth. I am going home. Our Father has given me my work to do, and it is almost done. Oh, would I could tell you how joyfully I shall put off corruption for incorruption, and exchange mortality for immortality! "But I shall see you all again, even though we meet here no more. Let us hope so. Let us so live that it shall be so. The Saviour's loving arms are outstretched to receive us all in his embrace." A pause; silence and tears. Mrs. Royden endeavors to conceal emotion by arranging Hepsy's cape. Others resort to their handkerchiefs. The speaker's voice is choked, and there are shining drops gliding down his aged cheeks. To fill up the pause, he lifts Willie in his arms, as that young gentleman is tying long grass around his feet, and murmuring something about keeping him always; kisses him, and presses him to his heart. "What are you crying for?" asks the boy, breaking the silence. With his little brown hand he touches a straw to one of the crystal drops on the old man's face, and strings it off upon it like a bead. "Thus may all our tears become bright gems!" says Father Brighthopes, smiling tenderly upon the child. "But you cannot realize this, my darling. You teach us a lesson quite unconsciously to your young heart. You show us how hope is born of affliction, and how joy springs from the dark soil of distress. My friends, let us look up. Never look down. Remember what an eternity opens above us, beyond all the clouds of this life. And may the good God bless you all!" XXXI. THE DEPARTURE. It was evening when the company dispersed. Father Brighthopes took affectionate leave of each individual, and had a kind and hopeful word for every one. They seemed to be bidding farewell to some beloved old patriarch, who had lived all his days amongst them. The clergyman was left alone with his friends, the Roydens. The evening was spent in sober, sweet communion. In the morning the family was up early; for the old man was to be off at eight o'clock. "Oh, we cannot express how much we owe to you, good Father!" exclaimed Mrs. Royden, with tears of thankfulness in her eyes, on meeting him in the parlor. "My husband seems a different man since you have been with us. And you have taught me a lesson I shall endeavor to profit by. It is hard to overcome fixed habits, and I know I shall often and often--as I do now every day--yield to the dictates of my harsh temper; but I trust I shall come off conqueror in the end!" "We are all weak, of ourselves," said the old man, affectionately. "But there is One who giveth strength." Father Brighthopes found an opportunity to have a farewell talk with poor Hepsy. She could not bear the thought of his going away. This was now her only sorrow; for he had filled her soul with immortal hopes, and taught her to endure patiently all the ills of life. But she feared lest she might go back into the dark, when he was no longer near to reflect the light from above upon her spirit. Had he not promised to write to her, she would hardly have been consoled for his loss; as it was, it seemed as if the sun was going into a dense, cold mist. At length the breakfast was out of the way; the old man had offered up his morning prayer in presence of the family, as, by request of the parents, he had been accustomed to do, of late; his trunks were packed and ready, and the time had come to say the last farewells. James brought the horse to the door, at sight of which Willie just began to comprehend that the old man was really going. "I want to go too!" he cried, clinging to his knees. Father Brighthopes stooped to kiss his plump brown cheek. "Oh, let me go!" exclaimed Georgie, who had not thought of such an arrangement before. "Would you go and leave your father and mother, and Chester and James, and all?" asked the clergyman. "You show me how to do my sums better than they do; and you give me story-books," replied Georgie, bashfully. "And they do a thousand times more for you," said the old man, embracing the boy. "They give you clothes, and food, and send you to school, and do more things for you than anybody can think of." "Oh, you will come again next summer, won't you, Father?" cried Lizzie, kissing him impulsively, when his head was down. "I am too old and feeble to make any promise for another year," replied Father Brighthopes, smiling tenderly. "But I shall come and see you all again, if Providence grant me that indulgence. Be this as it may, I shall always remember you and love you." How gently then he kissed the affectionate girl! He turned and gave his hand to Sarah, whose eyes filled with tears as she received his blessing. Mr. Royden took the old man's arm, and led him to the wagon. "But where is Samuel? I must not neglect him," said Father Brighthopes. At that moment a groaning was heard behind the shed, under the tree where the grindstone stood. "Is that Sam?" asked Mr. Royden. "Yes, sir," replied James. "Something is the matter with him; I don't know what it is. He was taken sick when we were harnessing." "What is the matter, my son?" asked the old man, cheerily, looking over the gate. Sam lay upon the turf, with his head on his arm, for a pillow. "Nothing," he muttered, in a ghastly tone, without looking up. "Come, I am going away. I want to bid you good-bye." Sam groaned again; but endeavoring to conquer his malady, he sat up, and raised his swimming eyes. Mr. Royden took him by the shoulder, and helped him to his feet. "What is the matter?" he demanded. "Nothing, sir," said Sam. "I'm a little sick, that's all. I shall have to set down again." He sank upon the turf, and groaned, with his face in the grass. Father Brighthopes was expressing a great deal of sympathy for him, when Chester came and explained the mystery. "He has been chewing tobacco," said he, with a cruel laugh. "I told him it would make him sick." "You foolish fellow!" exclaimed Mr. Royden; "what did you do that for?" "I only jest wanted to learn how," moaned Sam. "Learn how!" "'Cos all the men chew," added the boy, sitting up again, and burying his face in his hands, as the deathly feeling came over him once more. "Well, well," said the old man, in an encouraging tone, "let this experience be a lesson to you. Let alone the weed. You can be a man without it, if you try. Good-by, good-by, my son!" He got into the wagon, leaving the unhappy lad still moaning and writhing with anguish on the green-sward. Mark Wheeler arrived at the gate, having come to take leave of Father Brighthopes, just as Chester and his father were driving away with their aged friend. The jockey rode the one-eyed colt, which he still retained in his possession,--a perpetual remembrancer of a memorable day in his rugged and uneven life. He dismounted, and shook hands with the old man. Mark was much affected by his kind wishes and gentle admonitions; but the presence of Mr. Royden and Chester embarrassed him, and he could not express his feelings. "Come," said Mr. Royden, observing the state of affairs, "I suppose we have not much time to lose." "I will ride along with you," replied Mark, throwing himself upon the back of the one-eyed colt. Mrs. Royden, Hepsy and the children, watched the little party as they rode away, Chester driving, while his father sat with the gray-haired clergyman on the seat behind him, and Mark trotted his colt along on the road-side, at their right hand; and they who were left at home felt strange emotions of loneliness steal over their hearts, at the thought that the venerable and beloved form then vanishing from sight might never more repose beneath that roof. There was no quarreling nor loud words among the children, that morning, as they set out for school; but their faces were expressive of unusual soberness, and their young hearts quite sad; until the bright birds singing by the way-side, the breezes playing in their hair, and the sunshine flooding all the earth, dispelled their gloom, and led them to forget that the gentle old man they loved was riding on his journey, to his field of labor far away. XXXII. REUNION. A little more than two years had passed away. It was in "peach-time." There was a merry group of young people in Mr. Royden's orchard, one mild September afternoon. There was Chester, proud, happy, overflowing with wit. He was just married, and had come home, to pass a few days, with his fair bride. She was a perfect doll; beautiful to look upon, with her soft eyes, fair cheeks, ringlets and symmetrical form; but there was not much character in her face. Her love for Chester was of the romantic kind. Although they had been a week married, she could not relish a peach unless he gave it her with a smile, having taken out the stone and tasted it himself first. Sarah was there, too,--now Mrs. Kerchey. Let not the reader be surprised. Having broken that gentleman's arm, she could not make up her mind to break his heart also, when he came to woo. He had qualities which she was bound to respect; and at length she saw that, casting all prejudice and false pride aside, she could bestow upon him a large portion of love. Yet she never would have married him, had it not been for her mother's persuasion. Parents like to see their children well situated in life. Mrs. Royden could not rest until she heard Sarah addressed as Mrs. Kerchey. This amiable young couple had been married eighteen months; they were very comfortable, and quite happy; Mr. Kerchey had greatly improved in personal appearance; and the sweet little baby, that Lizzie seemed to carry forever in her arms, and devour with kisses, was their property. Lizzie was a "great girl." But she was very ladylike in her manners. She gave promise of becoming a noble woman. Already she was beginning to have beaux, but she was sensible enough not to care much for them. She was an insatiable reader, and a superior scholar. James, now a blushing, amiable young man, with a little down on his chin, had quite fallen in love with his new sister. How happy, he thought, Chester must be with his heiress, whom he had won in spite of the cruel professor! Georgie was now a stout lad, big enough to climb trees and shake off the peaches, and polite enough to pick the handsomest ones for Mrs. Chester; and Willie was what his father called him, "quite a little man." He felt himself quite a big one, and tyrannized over the turkeys and chickens accordingly. He had a little sister, about three years old,--a sweet child to kiss, except that, on the afternoon we are describing, her face was stained from ear to ear, and from nose to chin, with peach-juice. We must not forget Hepsy. She was there, sitting on the grass, and knitting a purse for Mrs. Chester. O, how her poor heart throbbed when she gazed upon that pretty face! How her eyes had rained tears of late, when they saw only the gloom of her own chamber! But she had conquered that wild passion which once devoured her heart, and banished selfishness from her breast. She loved the fair bride very tenderly, and felt that to see her and Chester happy would console her for all she had endured. Hepsy's health was good, for her, although she was never strong, and often the disease of her spine caused her hours of secret pain. Chester was the life of the company,--brimful of good spirits and fun. Every word he spoke was treasured in Hepsy's heart. With a somewhat different feeling, yet with no less admiration, his fair Sophronia caught at the merest drops of nonsense that dripped from his lips, thinking them pearls. She was not very witty herself, and she naturally looked upon Chester as the most brilliant and talented man then existing in the known world. "There's Deacon Dustan's carriage!" suddenly cried Georgie, from the top of the peach-tree, looking towards the road. The boy had been lately reading stories of the whale-fishery, and he fancied himself a man at the masthead, on the lookout for blowers. "We must go over and see the deacon's people to-morrow, Phronie," said Chester. "O, yes!" exclaimed Phronie, clapping her little hands with childish glee, "anywhere you please." "The carriage has stopped," observed Lizzie, listening. Willie ran off towards the fence to see. His little sister, following him, fell headlong into the grass, and burst a great juicy peach on her bosom, at which she began to cry. "O, never mind, Jenny!" cried Sarah, picking her up, and using her handkerchief to remove the effects of the disaster from the child's clear skin. "You look as though a slight application of water would do your face no harm, sis. What a monster you are, in peach time!" At that moment a tall, awkward youth, with a good-natured grin on his brown features, came through the gate, at the corner of the shed, and shouted, "Hillo!" What a voice! It was rough as the bark of a hickory-tree. "You can't guess who is come," said Sam,--for it was he,--with a broader grin than before. "Anybody to see me?" asked Chester. "Wal, you as much as anybody," replied Sam, throwing his head aside to spit. "Who is it?" Sarah inquired. "Guess!" "How provoking you are, Sam Cone!" exclaimed Lizzie. "Why can't you tell? Georgie said it was Deacon Dustan's carriage that stopped." "So 'twas; I opened the gate for the deacon to drive through; but somebody came with him--you can't guess who." Sam spit again, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "O!" said Sophronia, with a look of disgust, turning away her face; "he chews tobacco!" "What of it?" rejoined Sam, who overheard her. And he rolled the weed in his cheek, with the air of one proud of the accomplishment. "Do spit out the filthy stuff!" exclaimed Chester. "It an't no worse than smoking," retorted Sam. This was a home thrust. Chester, during his last year at school, had become addicted to cigars, which his silly little wife thought delightful in his lips. "O, there's no comparison!" she cried, indignantly. Sam was not convinced; but he could not be indifferent to the opinion of so pretty a creature; so, with a sheepish look, he flung the quid on the ground behind him. "Well, if you can't guess who has come," said he, "I'll tell you. It's the old minister,--Father Brighthopes." "Father Brighthopes!" echoed the children, in chorus. "Yes," said Sam; "Deacon Dustan was over to town when he came, and brought him straight here." There was a general rush for the house. Lizzie--for the first time voluntarily--abandoned the baby to Mr. Kerchey's arms, and ran to greet her old friend. Georgie, who had not forgotten the clergyman, came slipping down the tree, regardless of damage done his clothes. "What else could have happened, to give us a more delightful surprise?" cried Chester. "Come, Phronie. Now you will see, and judge for yourself, the glorious old man you have heard me tell so much about." Hepsy was not the last to start. But she stopped to take Jenny with her. "Come, dear," said she, "you must have your face washed now. What are you doing?" The child, seated upon the turf, was absorbed in the anatomy of a grasshopper. It was one of the oldest of its race,--a large, respectable fellow, over an inch long. In pursuing her investigations, however, Jenny had taken its head off; and it had thus fallen a victim to infant science. "Why, Jenny!" exclaimed Hepsy, "you have killed the poor thing!" "Are you sorry?" lisped the little girl, with beautiful simplicity. "You needn't be," she added, cheerily. "There's enough more of 'em." It took Hepsy a good while to explain exactly why children should not indulge a passion for decapitating insects; and Jenny was sadly troubled when allusion was made to the gentle removal of her own fair head from her shoulders, in order that she might judge how grasshoppers felt under the circumstances. XXXIII. CONCLUSION. It was a joyful meeting, and that day was one of the happiest in the old clergyman's life. He took the children to his bosom with all the warm affection of his sunny nature, with tears of thankfulness in his eyes. He had lasted wonderfully. You could hardly discover that he had grown old at all. There was the same serene face,--aged, indeed, but with a spirit eternally young forever shining through. He had come to pass only a few days with his friends. And those days--would we had space to describe them!--flew swiftly by. Once more the time came for his departure. But he remained long enough to remark, and to rejoice over, the change in Mrs. Royden's household since the day when he first came there to spend his brief vacation. There was sunshine beneath the roof. There was music in the air of the house. There was beauty all around. "We owe it all to your teaching and example," said Mr. Royden, one afternoon, speaking gratefully of the change. "Before you came, we never really knew what religion was. It seemed something separate from the business and everyday affairs of life, and we thought we could not well afford to try its utility. We learned from you that it was the sweetener of every thought and every act of the day. Wife and I have been practising it as well as we could, and we find that it pours the oil of happiness into the machinery of life, which often creaked so drearily before." How the good old man poured out his soul in thankfulness, that night, to his Master, inspired with inexpressible joy by this evidence that his Christian labors of love had been blessed in the hearts of his friends! And so, having been almost worshipped by the Roydens during his stay, and honored with abundant attentions from Mr. Corlis and his society, Father Brighthopes went his way rejoicing and praising the infinite Giver for such abundant blessings. Chester and his bride, having prolonged their visit on his account, departed at about the same time. Some months later, this young couple sent for Hepsy to come and live with them, in their new home in Sophronia's native town. The poor girl gladly went. Henceforth she was resolved to devote herself entirely to the happiness of Chester. He needed her, and he was able to appreciate her self-sacrifice. He would not have had much of a home without her. Sophronia was a sweet girl; but of the art--more valuable than all other arts in a wife--of making a comfortable home she was lamentably ignorant. Having been petted as an heiress, she was a complete child. Wealth can purchase certain luxuries, and insure an outside show; but the talent for making home _home_ lies in the heart of the wife, and transcends in value all the riches of the globe. Had it not been for the good Hepsy, Chester must have led a miserable life, with his unsatisfied domestic feelings, after all the romance of love was over. She made his fireside, and, with the influence she speedily acquired over Sophronia, drew her within the sphere of peaceful home delights, teaching her a higher, holier love for her husband than had ever entered the heart of the giddy young wife before. And was Hepsy happy? There are two kinds of happiness. One consists in the gratification of our wishes and desires, the attachment of friends, the admiration of the world. Another sort of happiness lies in that noble and unselfish love, which devotes itself to promote the welfare of others, quite forgetful of all the thorns that pierce it as it treads the path of duty, and never knowing the poison of envy or the gall of hate. This is the highest, purest happiness known on earth; for it approaches the bliss of the immortals, whose home is in the heavens. Of the former, Hepsy--the poor, sickly, deformed girl--certainly had not much; but the latter was showered upon her in rich abundance, falling like the sweet dew, for want of which the thirsty flowers gasp and wither in the sultry summer day, but which steals softly down, to bathe their rosy cheeks and lily lips, only when they bow their heads under the gloom of night. J. T. TROWBRIDGE SERIES Coupon Bonds. Cudjo's Cave. Drummer Boy, The. Martin Merryvale, His X Mark. Lucy Arlyn. Father Bright Hopes. Neighbor Jackwood. Three Scouts, The. 
43325	----	http://www.freeliterature. (From images generously made available by Europeana and the Bodleian Library of Oxford.) "This etext edition of 'Her Benny' is dedicated to the memory of Edgar, John and Kenneth Graham - three brothers from Liverpool who made good." HER BENNY. A STORY OF STREET LIFE. BY SILAS K. HOCKING, AUTHOR OF "ALEC GREEN," ETC. ILLUSTRATED BY H. TUCK. LONDON FREDERICK WARNE AND CO., BEDFORD STREET, STRAND. [Frontispiece: BENNY AND NELLY BATES IN THE HUT OF JOE WRAG.--_See p._ 30] TO My Bairns (GOD BLESS THEM!) THIS LITTLE BOOK IS DEDICATED WITH MUCH AFFECTION. PREFACE. My pastoral work, during a three years' residence in Liverpool, called me frequently into some of the poorest neighbourhoods of that town, where I became acquainted with some of the originals of this story. It was not until I had seen the little Arabs of the streets in their homes--if such haunts of wretchedness be worthy of that name--that I felt that interest in, and sympathy for them, that I have experienced ever since. Getting to know them in their homes, I was glad to stop and speak to them in the streets, and give them a word of sympathy and encouragement. They are not all bad, as many people seem to think. Many of them try hard to earn an honest living, though they find it a difficult matter, especially when at home they receive no encouragement, while in the streets temptation is being continually put in their way by those of whom "Perks" so justly complained. The grouping of the characters that figure in the story is purely fictitious, but not the characters themselves. Benny and little Nell, Perks and Joe Wrag, Granny and Eva Lawrence, are drawn from life. I knew them well. Some of them are alive to-day, others have gone to their rest. For the interest my little story has awakened in both old and young, in its serial form, I am rejoiced and thankful; and if, in the more permanent and attractive style it now assumes, it shall awaken any sympathy for the poor little waifs of our streets, I shall have my reward. SILAS K. HOCKING. _October_ 21_st_, 1879. CONTENTS I. Brother and Sister II. Addler's Hall III. Roughing it IV. A Friend in need V. "O Death! what dost thou mean?" VI. In which Benny makes a Discovery VII. Two Visits VIII. In which Joe Wrag has a Vision IX. Tempted X. In the Woods XI. Benny Prays XII. Fading away XIII. The Tide turns XIV. A Glimpse of Paradise XV. A terrible Alternative XVI. An Experiment XVII. Perks again XVIII. Adrift XIX. The Border-Land XX. Life at the Farm XXI. An Accident XXII. Recognition XXIII. The Question settled XXIV. The Reward of Well-doing CHAPTER I. Brother and Sister. Perhaps while in our glowing grate The cheerful blaze is rising higher There's some one sitting desolate Without a spark of fire. Oh, what are we, that God hath blessed Our winter homes and made them glad, While other hearts are sore distressed, While other homes are sad? It was getting dark, though the Town Hall clock had only just struck four. But a fog had hung all over Liverpool since morning, and everything was as damp and dismal as it well could be; and now, as evening came on, the fog had settled into a downright drizzle, converting the streets into what seemed to Nelly Bates (who was crouched in the shadow of St. George's Church) to be endless puddles. "I wish Benny would come," said she to herself. "I wonder what has kept him? He said he'd be here when the clock struck four." And she wrapped her tattered clothes more closely around her, and looked eagerly down Lord Street and up and down Castle Street. But no Benny appeared in sight. "I'm glad as how they's lightin' the lamps, anyhow. It'll make it feel a bit warmer, I reckon," she went on, "for it's terrible cold. But Benny won't be long now, nohow. I hope he's sold all his fusees." And she looked wistfully at the unsold matches lying in her lap. Then, after a pause, she went on again, "I's had desp'rate bad luck to-day. I reckon the gen'lmen thinks it too much trouble to take off their gloves to get at the coppers. I wonder if they know what it is to be cold and hungry like me?" And the child moved a little farther into the shadow of the church, to escape the keen cold blast that swept up from the river. Little Nelly Bates was a delicate-looking child, with a pale, thoughtful face, and big, round, dreamy-looking eyes. She had none of that wolfish expression that so often characterizes the street Arabs of our large towns and cities; but, on the contrary, there was an air of refinement about her that was difficult to account for. Poor little waif! Her own mother she could not remember. She had only known a stepmother--a cruel, drunken woman; and, alas! her father was no better. Almost as soon as she could walk she had been sent into the streets with her brother Benny, who was a year older, to get her living as best she could. Never knowing a parent's love, the affections of these two children had gone out to each other. Each to each was more than all the world beside. At the time our story opens Nelly was nine years of age, and Benny, as we said, a year older. Still the minutes dragged along, and Benny came not. The 'busses were crowded with people outside and in, wrapped in huge warm overcoats, and all down Lord Street she watched the hurrying crowds bending their steps homewards. And she tried to picture their cheerful homes, with great blazing fires, and happy children running to greet them, and wondered how none of them ever paused to notice her, shivering there in the shadow of the church. At length the great clocks all around began to strike five, and Benny had not come; a sense of unutterable loneliness crept over the child, and she began to cry. Besides, she was hungry and cold, and there was a great fear in her heart that something had befallen her brother. The last stroke of the Town Hall clock, however, had scarcely died away when she heard the patter of bare feet around the corner, and the next moment her brother, panting and breathless, stood before her. "Oh, Nell!" he burst out, "I's just soft, I is. I's missed a hour in the time. I never did think I was sich a fool. But can't be helped now, nohow." "I was afraid you'd got hurt, Benny; but I don't care now you're all right," said Nelly, looking proudly at the flushed face of her sturdy young brother. "Me hurt? Oh, never fear! I knows how to take care of myself. But what luck, Nell?" "Bad, Benny, very bad. Nobody wanted matches to-day." For a moment Benny was silent, then he burst out, "By golly, Nell! what's us to do? You know what the guv'nor said when we came away this morning?" "Ay," said Nelly. "But 'ave you 'ad bad luck too?" "Horful, Nell--simply horful!" And for a moment the children looked at each other in blank dismay. Just then a gentleman was seen crossing the street carrying a portmanteau. "Here's a gent with a portmantle," whispered Benny to his sister. "I'll try my luck! Foller me, Nell, as quick as you can." And off he darted across the street. "Carry yer bag, sir?" said he, stepping in front of the gentleman; and there was something very appealing in his tone as he spoke. The gentleman looked kindly down into the two honest-looking eyes that flashed in the gaslight. "What will you take the bag to the ferry for?" he inquired. "For what you please to give," said Benny sturdily. "Times is bad at present, and little chaps like us is glad to 'ave what we catches." "Oh, that's it, is it? But I'm afraid this bag is too heavy for you." "Oh, never fear," said Benny, as he got hold of the portmanteau. "I'se 'mazing strong, and I ken carry this like winkin'." And he trotted down the street before the gentleman in a way that showed he was in earnest about the matter. The gentleman looked after the little fellow with an amused smile, but volunteered no further remark. Meanwhile little Nelly, who had become stiff and cramped with cold, followed at a little distance, taking care, however, that Benny did not get out of her sight. On reaching the bridge that led down to the landing-stage, Benny turned round, and, seeing his sister behind, shouted back, "Stay here, Nell, till I come back--I'll be no time sca'ce." And down the bridge he trotted, evidently glad that he was so near laying down his burden. "Woodside boat, sir?" said he, turning round to the gentleman. "Yes, my lad." "Here we is, then, jist in time." And down the gangway he went at a sharp trot, and into the saloon, letting the bag down on one of the seats with a thump. "There you be, sir. Couldn't a-been sarved quicker by a bigger chap." "All right, my little fellow," and he held out his hand. Benny's eyes gleamed as he caught sight of something white between the gentleman's finger and thumb. "Be jabbers! it's a thrip'ny," was his mental soliloquy, as he eagerly clutched the coin; and bowing his thanks as politely as he knew how, he dashed up the gangway with the fleetness of the wind, muttering to himself, "Shouldn't wonder if 't was a fo'penny, arter all." Standing under a lamp, he took the coin out of his mouth and looked at it. "Oh, glory!" he ejaculated; "if 't ain't haaf a bob. Murder and turf! this are a catch!" And he turned two somersaults on the stage by way of expressing his delight, unfortunately, however, planting his foot in his second revolution in the stomach of a young gentleman who was hurrying down to catch the boat. The gentleman soon recovered his sudden loss of wind, though the dirty footprint on his immaculate coat was not so easily removed. "Beg pardon," said Benny, in a fright, and hurried away just in time to escape a vigorous kick aimed at him by the infuriated young gentleman. "My stars and stockings!" he soliloquized, as he hurried up the bridge to join his sister. "If he 'ad a-catched me, I'd a-got a wolloping, an' no mistake. Hallo, Nell! what's a matter?" he said, as he saw great tears on the cheeks of his little crouching sister. "I'se so cold, Benny--oh, so very cold!" sobbed the little girl. "Never mind, Nelly, I'll soon get yer warmed up. Look here, I'se got haaf a bob, and a good warming into the bargain. Now for a roast tater, my gal, and you'll feel as right as ninepence." And, taking his sister by the hand, they hurried away at a quick trot, lessening their pace only when they were quite out of breath, and Nelly declared she was quite warm. "Here's the tater man," said Benny; "now for't, my gal. Pennorth o' taters--hot, plaise, an' a good sprinkle o' salt," said Benny, with quite an air of importance. "All right, my young gent, 'ere you are;" and the man put three moderate-sized potatoes into Benny's outstretched palms. "Now for old Joe's fire, Nell, where the roads is a-mendin';" and once more they hurried away at the same quick trot. In the next street they caught sight of the glowing grate of Joe Wrag, the night watchman, and of Joe himself, sitting in the doorway of his little wooden hut. "You ax him, Nell," whispered Benny; "he winna say no to you." "May we eat our taters by your fire, Joe?" said the plaintive voice of little Nelly, as she placed her tiny hand on the fence, on which a red light was burning. "What dost 'a say, little woman?" said Joe, in a rough though not unkindly voice. "May we eat our taters by your fire, please--Benny an' me?" "Ay, ay, my little 'arties. Come along, I'll make room for 'e here;" and honest old Joe moved aside to make room for the little waifs who sought shelter from the biting cold. "By golly, Nell!" said Benny, as he felt the grateful warmth of the fire, and dug his teeth into the potato, "ain't this sumpshus?" "Ay, Benny," was all the child's answer, as she greedily devoured the two potatoes that Benny had insisted was her share. Then there was silence between them for awhile, and Joe went out and heaped more fuel on the grate, while Nelly kept her eyes steadily fixed on the fire. What did the child see as she gazed into its glowing depths? For ever and anon a sweet smile played around the corners of her mouth, and spread over her pale thoughtful face, lighting it up with a wonderful beauty, and smoothing out the lines of care that at other times were only too visible. Meanwhile Benny was busily engaged counting his money. Fourpence he laid aside for the purpose of purchasing stock for the morrow's sale, a penny he had spent in potatoes, and still he had threepence to the good, besides the sixpence the gentleman gave him, which was clear profit. The sixpence was evidently a great prize to him, for he looked at it long and earnestly. "Wish I could keep it for mysel'," he muttered; "but it's no go--the guv'nor will 'ave to 'ave it. But the coppers I'll keep 'ginst bad times. Here, Nell," he said, nudging his sister, "you keep these 'ere coppers; and then if the guv'nor axes me if I has any more, I can tell him no." "All right, Benny." And again the great round eyes sought the glowing grate, and the sweet smile played over her face once more. "What are 'e looking at, Nell?" said Benny, after a pause. "You look as 'appy as a dead duck in a saucepan." "Oh, Benny, I see such beautiful pictures in the fire. Don't you 'members on fine days how we looks across the river and sees the great hills 'way behind Birkenhead, such miles an' miles away?" "Ay, I 'members. I'll take 'e across the river some day, Nell, when I'se richer." "Will 'e, Benny? I shall be so glad. But I sees great hills in the fire, an' trees, an' pools, an' little rivers, an' oh! such lots of purty things." "Queer!" said Benny. "I don't see nowt o' sort." Then there was silence again, and Joe--who had been to see that the lamps at each end of the torn-up street were all right--came up. "How are 'e now, my 'arties? Are 'e warmer'n you was?" "Ay, Joe, we's nice now," said Nelly; "an' we's much 'bliged to you for lettin' us come." "Oh, ye're welcome. But ain't it time you was to home?" "What's o'clock?" said Benny. "Seven, all to a minit or so." "Ay, then, we must be off," said the children in chorus; and wishing Joe good night, they darted off into the wet, cold street, and disappeared in the gloom. "Purty little hangel!" said Joe, as he stood looking up the street long after they had disappeared. "I wonder what will become o' her when she grows up?" CHAPTER II. Addler's Hall. The whole court Went boiling, bubbling up from all the doors And windows, with a hideous wail of laughs And roar of oaths, and blows, perhaps.... I passed Too quickly for distinguishing ... and pushed A little side door hanging on a hinge, And plunged into the dark. --Elizabeth Barrett Browning. On the western side of Scotland Road--that is to say, between it and the Docks--there is a regular network of streets, inhabited mostly by the lowest class of the Liverpool poor. And those who have occasion to penetrate their dark and filthy recesses are generally thankful when they find themselves safe out again. In the winter those streets and courts are kept comparatively clean by the heavy rains; but in the summer the air fairly reeks with the stench of decayed fish, rotting vegetables, and every other conceivable kind of filth. The children, that seem to fairly swarm in this neighbourhood, are nearly all of a pale, sallow complexion, and of stunted growth. Shoes and stockings and underclothing are luxuries that they never know, and one good meal a day is almost more than they dare hope for. Cuffs and kicks they reckon upon every day of their lives; and in this they are rarely disappointed, and a lad who by dodging or cunning can escape this daily discipline is looked upon by the others as "'mazin' cute." To occupy two rooms is a luxury that only comparatively few families indulge in. Why should they pay rent for two rooms when one will answer the purpose? "We know a trick worth two o' that," is their boast. And so year by year they bid defiance to all law and authority. The police rarely, if ever, venture into this neighbourhood alone, or if one should be foolish enough to do so, he has generally to pay dearly for his indiscretion. House agents and policemen are objects of special aversion. A friend of ours, some years ago, came into considerable property in this neighbourhood, and employed a young man who was new to the work to collect the rents for him. On entering the first house the agent was confronted by a big, villainous-looking man, who demanded in a surly tone what he wanted. "I am come for the rent," said the agent. "Oh, you have, have you?" was the reply. "Yes." "Ah! Did anybody see you come in?" "No." And instantly seizing a huge poker and waving it in the air, he shouted to the affrighted agent, with a terrible oath, "Then I'll take care nobody ever sees you go out." This had the desired effect, and the terrified agent escaped for his life. At the next house at which he called he was received very blandly. "So you have come for the rint, have you?" "Yes, that is my business." "Ah, yes, indeed, very proper. Could you change a five pun' note, now?" "Oh, yes." "That will do." Then raising his voice to a loud pitch, he shouted, "Mike, come down here; there's a chap that 'as five pun' in his pocket; let's collar him--quick!" And a second time the affrighted agent fled, and gave up the situation at once, vowing he would never enter any of those streets again while he lived. It was to this neighbourhood that Benny Bates and his sister wended their way, after leaving old Joe and his warm fire. Whether the lamplighter had neglected his duty, or whether some of the inhabitants, "loving darkness rather than light," had shut off the gas, is not certain; but anyhow Bowker's Row and several of the adjacent courts were in total darkness. This, however, seemed no matter of surprise to Benny and little Nell, who wended their way without difficulty along the rough, ill-paved street. At length they turned up a narrow court, darker and dirtier even than Bowker's Row, which went by the name of "Addler's Hall." About half-way up this court they paused for a moment and listened; then, cautiously pushing open a door, they entered the only home they had ever known. Much to their relief, they found the house empty. A lump of coal was smouldering in the grate, which Benny at once broke up, and soon a ruddy glare from the fire lighted up the dismal room. The furniture consisted of a three-legged round table, a chair minus a leg, and a three-legged stool. On the window-sill there was a glass bottle with a candle stuck in the neck, and under the stairs there was a heap of rags and shavings, on which Benny and his sister slept. A frying-pan was suspended against the wall near the fireplace, and several cracked cups and saucers, together with a quart mug, stood on the table. The only other article of furniture was a small cupboard in a corner of the room close up to the ceiling, placed there, no doubt, to be out of the way of the children. Drawing the chair and the stool close up to the fire, Benny and his sister waited the return of their parents. Outside, the wind moaned and wailed, and whistled through the keyhole and the chinks in the door, and rattled the paper and rags with which the holes in the window were stopped. And as the children listened they shivered, and drew closer together, and nearer the fire. "By golly!" said Benny, "this 'ouse is like a hair-balloon. I wish as how we could keep the wind out." "You can't do that, Benny; it creeps in everywheres." "Are 'e cold, Nell?" "No, not very; but I's very hungry." Just then an uncertain step was heard in the court outside, and the next moment their stepmother staggered into the room. "Now, out of the way, you brats," was her greeting, "while I cooks your faather's supper." And without a word they got out of her way as quickly as possible, for they saw at a glance she was not in the best of humours. They were pleased to see, however, that she had brought with her a loaf of bread, some butter, and several red herrings, and so they were hopeful that for once they would get a good supper. The supper was not quite ready when their father came in, flushed and excited. "Where's the brats?" was his first angry exclamation, glancing round the room. "There," said his wife, pointing under the stairs, where the children were crouched. "Come out here, you young vermin; quick! do you hear?" And the frightened children came out and stood before him. "Have you brought me that sixpence that I told yer? For, if you ain't," said he, scowling at Benny, "I'll loosen yer hide for yer in double-quick time." "Ay," said the little fellow, producing the sixpence, "'ere it are." "Is that all you've got?" Benny shot a quick glance at his sister before replying, which, however, did not escape his father's eye. "Ay," he said, stoutly; "I ain't got no more." "You lie, you villain!" roared the father; "fork it out this moment." "I tell yer I ain't got none," said Benny. Nelly was about to speak here, but a glance from her brother silenced her. "Will you fork it out?" said the father again. "No," was the reply. In a moment Dick Bates had taken the leather strap from his waist, and without mercy rained blow after blow upon the head and shoulders of his child. At first Benny bore the blows without shrinking and without uttering a cry; but this only the more aggravated the inhuman father, and faster and more furious fell the blows, till the little fellow shrieked with pain and begged for mercy. But there was no mercy in the father's heart, and still the blows fell, till little Nelly, unable longer to bear it, rushed in between her father and brother, saying, "You shall not beat Benny so." "Oh, you want it too, do you?" roared he. "Then take that, and that, and that." "Faather," said Benny, "will you strike Nell?" The question for a moment seemed to stagger him, and he looked down upon the pleading face of his suffering child, and into those great round eyes that were full of pain and tears, and the hand that was raised to strike fell powerless to his side, and with a groan he turned away. What was there in the face of his little daughter that touched this cruel, besotted man? We cannot tell. Perhaps he caught a glimpse in that sweet face of his early love. It is said that he loved his first wife dearly, and that while she lived he was tolerably steady, and was never unkind to her. He even went with her to the house of prayer, and listened to her while she read the Bible aloud during winter evenings. These were happy days, but when she died all this was changed; he tried to forget his trouble in drink, and in the companionship of the lowest and most degraded men and women. Then he married again, a coarse drunken woman, who had ever since led him a wretched life; and every year he had become more drunken and vicious. If he yet loved anything in the world, it was his "little Nell," as he always called her. She was wonderfully like her mother, the neighbours said, and that was doubtless the reason why Dick Bates continued to love her when all love for everything else had died out of his heart. He had never treated her before as he had treated her to-night; it was a new experience to the child, and for long after she lay on her heap of shavings with dry eyes and hot cheeks, staring into vacancy. But when the last spark of fire had died out, and her father and stepmother were asleep in the room above, turning to her brother, who was still awake, she said, "Put your arm about me, Benny, will yer?" And Benny put his arm around his little sister, and pressed her face to his bosom. And then the fountain of the child's tears was broken up, and she wept as though her heart would break, and great sobs shook her little frame, and broke the silence of the night. Benny silently kissed away the tears, and tried to comfort the little breaking heart. After awhile she grew calm, and Benny grew resolute. "I's not going to stand this no longer," he said. "What will you do, Benny?" "Do? Well, I dunno, yet; but I's bound to do some'at, an' I will too." After awhile he spoke again. "I say, Nell, ain't yer hungry? for I is. I believe I could eat a grave-stun." "I was hungry afore faather beat me, but I doesna feel it now," was the reply. "Well, I seen where mother put the bread an' butter, and if I dunna fork the lot I's not Ben Bates." "But how will yer get to it, Benny?" "Aisy 'nough, on'y you must 'elp me." So without much noise they moved the table into the corner of the room underneath the cupboard, and placing the chair on the top of the table, Benny mounted the top, and was able to reach the cupboard without difficulty. A fair share of the loaf remained, and "heaps of butter," Benny said. "Now, Nell," said he, "we'll 'ave a feast." And a feast they did have, according to Benny's thinking, for very little of either loaf or butter remained when they had finished their repast. "What will mother say when she finds out?" said Nelly, when they had again lain down. "We must be off afore she wakes, Nell, and never come back no more." "Dost 'a mean it, Benny?" "Ay do I. We mun take all our traps wi' us i' t' morning." "Where shall us go?" "Never fear, we'll find a shop somewheres, an' anywheres is better nor this." "Ay, that's so." "Now, Nell, we mun sleep a bit, 'cause as how we'll 'ave to be stirring airly." And soon the brother and sister were fast asleep, locked in each other's arms. CHAPTER III. Roughing it. Ne'er saw I, never felt a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God, the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still. --Wordsworth Next morning Benny was stirring early, and when the first faint rays of the coming day peeped through the dust-begrimed and patched-up window, they saw the little fellow busily engaged in gathering together what things he and Nelly possessed previous to their final departure from home. Nelly still slept on, and several times the brother paused and looked fondly down upon the fair face of the sleeping child. She looked very beautiful, Benny thought, as she lay sleeping there, with a pink spot glowing on either cheek, and the long flaxen hair thrown carelessly back from the pale forehead. Once or twice she murmured in her sheep, and the same happy smile spread over her face that he had noticed the evening before when she sat gazing into Joe Wrag's fire. "I wonder what she's a-dreamin' on?" he murmured to himself. "Perhaps she sees the hills and flowers and trees agin." Then he set to work again turning over a heap of rubbish that had been pushed as far back as possible under the stairs. At length a joyful exclamation burst from his lips as he came upon a small heap of potatoes. "Here's a fortin', an' no mistake; Nell and I'll be able to walk off the lot." And he brought them out into the room, and wrapped them up in an old handkerchief that his stepmother used to tie round her head when she went out. There were scarcely twenty potatoes altogether, but to Benny they seemed almost an inexhaustible supply. This being done, he sat down beside his sleeping sister and waited until he should hear any movement in the room above. Gradually the cold grey light of the morning stole into the room, revealing all its squalor and dinginess, and Benny felt that he and Nelly would have to make their escape soon, or else they might be prevented. He felt very loth to awake his sister, she slept so sweetly, and he did not know where they might find a shelter when darkness covered the earth again. But there was no help for it. His father might awake any moment, and the neighbours would soon be stirring in the court and in Bowker's Row. So bending over her, he pressed his lips upon her brow: still she moved not. "Nelly," he whispered, "it's time to be movin'." Slowly the great round eyes opened, and looked languidly up into his face. "Come, stir your pegs, Nell, or we'll be too late." "Oh, ay," she said, as the recollection of the previous evening came back to her. "We 'as to be off to-day, ain't we?" "Ay, my gal, we's goin' on our own 'ook now, so look alive." "Does yer think we's doin' right, Benny?" "'Course we is, Nell; I'll take care o' yer, never fear." Thus reassured, she followed Benny silently out of the house and into Bowker's Row; then seeing that no one was about, they set off at a quick trot in the direction from whence they had come the previous night. Nelly had the utmost confidence in Benny's sagacity, and though she had doubted for a moment whether they were doing the wisest thing in the course they were taking, yet she had little doubt that her brother would be equal to every emergency, and that he would find her a home of some sort. And the child had a vague, undefined feeling that they could not be worse off, whatever might happen. To see her Benny punished as she had so frequently done of late was "pain and grief" to her: not only had he suffered the pinchings of cold and hunger during the day, but he had been compelled to bring home a certain amount every night, or else take the consequences of her father's senseless anger. And as the child thought of these things she could not wonder that Benny had resolved to run away and seek a home somewhere else. But what of herself? She had on the whole been much better treated, and she thought perhaps her father did not well know what he was doing last night, as he was in drink. Ought she, then, to run away? "Ay, but I canna leave Benny," was her mental response; and having settled that question, she seemed perfectly satisfied to share the fortunes of her brother, whatever they might be, and help him as best she could to fight the battle of life. As for Benny, he had no qualms of conscience about the matter. He had never heard the command, "Honour thy father and thy mother," and even if he had, it would not have troubled him on the present occasion. He had a feeling that he had been wronged, cruelly wronged, and that he ought not to stand it any longer. Once the question had crossed his mind, "Had he any right to take those potatoes?" But he answered the question to himself by saying, "Ain't I brought home a haaf a bob every night for th' week, an' then bin kep' without supper? By jabbers, I's paid for those taters, and I'll eat 'em." Moreover, his notions of right and wrong were of the vaguest character. He had some dim recollection of his mother, and how she used to tell him it was wrong to steal, and to tell lies, and to cheat. But the more he tried to recall it, the vaguer the recollection became. Yet sometimes when he was tempted to steal, and would look around to see that no one was watching him, a voice within him would whisper, "Don't, Benny, it is wrong to steal," and he would turn away with a sigh, feeling that there was something in that voice that he dared not disobey. In after years he held firmly to the belief that his own mother was permitted to be the guardian angel of his childhood, and that it was she who whispered to him when he was tempted to do wrong. He has also been heard to say, that though he regarded it as very wrong for children, under ordinary circumstances, to leave their home without their parents' consent, yet in his case he thought his action perfectly justifiable. But we must leave this question, with the hope that none of the children who read this story may be driven by cruelty and wrong to a similar course of action, and must follow the little waifs as they threaded their way through the dingy streets that cold December morning. Their object was to reach Joe Wrag's fire before his watch ended, and in this they were successful. Joe was standing before his hut, rubbing his hands over the still glowing grate, though Benny noticed that the fire was burning low. "We's brought some taters from hum, may we cook 'em on yer fire, Joe?" said Benny, putting on as bold a face as he could. Joe looked at the children for a moment without speaking. "Please do, Joe, like a good man," chimed in Nelly's plaintive voice. "Come along with yer, then. But how are 'e out so airly?" "Lots o' bisness on hand," was Benny's prompt reply. "There's some'at up wi' you youngsters, I reckon. But yer not goin' to eat all these taters at once, are yer?" "Oh, no!" said Benny, "we on'y want two apiece, and we want you to keep the rest till we comes agin." "Very likely story," said Joe, gruffly. "Where's yer bin stealin' 'em from?" "Oh, nowheres, Joe," said Nelly. "We bringed 'em from hum, we did, for sure." "Well, ain't that a-stealin' on 'em?" "No!" said Benny stoutly. "I's tooked 'em hum a haaf a bob every night for t' week, and they b'longs to me." Joe shook his head dubiously, as if not certain of the soundness of Benny's logic, but made no further reply. He, however, gave his aid to the children in cooking their potatoes, which were soon done to a nicety, and even gave them a piece of bread, the remains of his own morning's repast. Thus fortified, the children were soon ready for the duties of the day. Their first business was to go into Park Lane and get in a stock of matches for the day's sale; this done, they separated and went their different ways, agreeing to meet in the shadow of St. George's Church at twelve o'clock, and at four, to report progress. Nelly's stand was near the junction of Lord Street, Church Street, Paradise Street, and Whitechapel, going occasionally as far as the "Sailors' Home." Benny, on the other hand, waited about near the landing-stage, selling his matches if he could, but at the same time looking out for an opportunity of carrying some gentleman's bag. But to-day Benny had another object in view, and that was to discover, if possible, some place where he and his sister might sleep when night came on. He knew of a place where, for the payment of a penny each, they might sleep in a cellar on some dirty straw amongst a lot of rough boys. But somehow Benny shrank from introducing his sister to such company as there assembled night after night. He must find some place where they could be alone, if possible, though he felt that that would be no easy matter. The day was beautifully fine, with a clear frosty sky, and both Benny and his sister carried on a brisk sale in fusees, and when they met at noon they were in high spirits over the proceeds of the day. Still Benny had found no place as yet where to spend the night. During the afternoon, however, his attention was directed to some sailors who were caulking a boat not far from the George's Dock. The boat he noticed was turned bottom upward, and that it had one end stove in; evidently it had had rough handling somewhere. And besides this, Benny noticed that there was a large quantity of hemp and tow on which the sailors were kneeling while at their work. Several times during the afternoon he took a look at the sailors, and when at length he saw them lift up the boat and push the tow underneath, his mind was made up. "Stunnin'!" he ejaculated; "I b'lieve we is in luck's way to-day. Couldna have bin better if it wer' a-made for us." Punctually at four o'clock the children were at their trysting-place. They were both in high spirits, for their profits were larger than they had been for many a day past. Benny especially was in high glee, for he had the prospect of a comfortable lodging-place for the night, without any fear of his father's fury, and was consequently eager to communicate his discovery to Nelly. "Golly, Nell," was his greeting, using his favourite expression, "it's a heap too cold to stick in one place. Let's off into Park Lane and git a feed; we can 'ford it to-night." And off they started, hand in hand. The place to which they directed their steps was not the most select, the character of the customers being of no consequence, so long as the money was forthcoming. This fact was well known to Benny, so he entered, leading his sister by the hand, without any trepidation. It was a long narrow room in which they found themselves, with several small tables placed at regular intervals down the sides. A bright fire was burning in the farther end of the room, near which Benny took his seat, requesting that "two penny loaves might be brought, and a pennorth of cheese." They remained as long as they felt they dared do so, then again sought the wintry streets. But the keen frosty air made them long for shelter, and once more they sought the glowing grate of honest Joe Wrag. The old man seemed pleased to see them, and made room for them in his hut, though he said little. Oh, how the fire glowed and crackled in the keen frosty air, revealing to little Nelly Bates scenes of wondrous beauty! And as Joe watched her face glowing in the firelight, he muttered to himself, "Purty little hangel; I hopes she'll grow up good, or--or die--ay, or die!" It was after eight o'clock when they left Joe's warm hut, for Nelly had pleaded so hard to stay that he could not deny her request. She seemed to be twining herself around the old man's heart in a wonderful manner, and but for his fury of a wife he would have taken her to his own home when it became known to him that the children were homeless. It did not take them long to reach the boat; and having satisfied themselves that they were not noticed, they crept underneath in a "jiffey," as Benny would have expressed it. "Brimstone and treacle!" said Benny, as he put his hand on the large heap of tow; "ain't this sumpshus? We'll be as snug as Jonar 'ere." "Ay, Benny, this is fine." "Let's shut out all the daylight fust, Nell, an' then the cold won't git in." Thanks to the abundance of tow this was not difficult, and soon the children were cuddled in each other's arms, feeling warmer than they had felt for many a night past. It was a long time, however, before they could get to sleep. To Nelly especially was it strange. And thoughts too deep for them to express kept crowding into their minds, keeping them wide awake. At length, however, a feeling of drowsiness began to creep over them, and they were just dropping off to sleep when they were startled by a footstep near them, and a hoarse voice muttering, as if in anguish, "O Death, what dost thou mean?" For a moment the children clutched each other in terror; then they heard the footsteps dying away in the distance, and their confidence returned again. "Who could it be?" said Nelly. "A bobby, I 'specks," said Benny; "but he ain't catched us, so we's safe 'nough now." For awhile after they lay listening, but no other footsteps disturbed them, and soon balmy sleep stole over them, sealing their eyelids, and giving rest to their weary little heads and hearts. CHAPTER IV. A Friend in Need. Friendship, peculiar boon of heaven The noble mind's delight and pride; To men and angels only given, To all the lower world denied. --Samuel Johnson. The experiences of Benny and his sister during the next day were but a repetition of what we recorded in the last chapter; but during the second night they found the shelter of the boat but a poor substitute for a home, and in the morning they were stiff and cramped through lying so long in one position; and when they paid Joe Wrag their third morning visit, the old man noticed that all was not right with them. Nelly especially was gloomy and depressed. Joe Wrag was generally a silent man, and not given to asking many questions; but when he saw great tears in Nelly's round eyes as she sat gazing into the fire, he felt that he must know what was troubling the child, and help her if he could. He had also a dim suspicion that they had not been to their home of late, and he wondered where they could have spent their nights; and, like Benny, he dreaded the idea of little Nelly congregating with young thieves and vagabonds, and felt he would rather a thousand times the child should die than that she should grow up to be a wicked woman. So after reflecting for some time, and wondering how he should best get at the truth, he burst out suddenly with the question, "When were you last to hum, eh?" For a moment there was silence, and Benny looked at his sister as much as to say, "That's a poser; we're in for it now." "Come, now," said Joe, seeing their hesitation, "let's 'ave nowt but truth; out wi' it, an' it will be best in the end." "You tell 'im, Nell," said Benny, "'cause he'll b'lieve you." So Nelly, in her sweet pleading voice, told him all the story of Benny's wrong, and of her father's cruelty, and how even she herself had not escaped his anger. "And did he beat you, my purty?" said Joe, clenching his fist tightly at the same time. "Ay, Joe; but I dunna think he know'd what he were a-doin'." For a few moments the old man's face worked as if in pain. Then he muttered to himself, "Some'at must be done, an' no mistake; but what? Eh, what?" Then he looked at the children again. "Don't yer think you'd better go to hum again to-night?" he said; and he watched eagerly for the effect of his question. Nelly was the first to speak. "Oh, no," she said; "we should get it worse nor ever. Dad would a'most kill Benny." And the tears welled up into her eyes again. "I's not goin' to risk it," said Benny stoutly. "I's 'ad hidin's enough to last me a lifetime." "Ay, ay," said Joe. "I wonder, now----" And he looked reflectively into the fire. "What are 'e a-wonderin' on?" queried Benny. But Joe was silent. He had evidently got hold of some idea which he was trying to work out. At length he looked up and said, "Now, away with yer, an' come here again this ev'ning at six o'clock. D'ye hear?" "Ay, ay," was the response; and away they bounded, leaving Joe alone to his meditations. Joe remained some time after they were gone in one position, scratching his head most vigorously, and would doubtless have remained much longer had he not been disturbed by the men who had come to their work, and who set him at liberty from his watch until darkness should again come down upon the earth. Joe walked leisurely to his home as if burdened with some great thought, ate his morning meal in silence, and then went to bed, and lay tossing for full two hours ere he could find a wink of sleep. Joe Wrag had been for many years a complete enigma to a number of well-meaning people, who had become much interested in this silent and thoughtful man, and were anxious to know more about him than he cared to reveal. Several "town missionaries" had tried to make something out of him, but had utterly failed. He had never been known to enter a house of prayer, and whether in the matter of religious knowledge and belief he was a heathen or a Christian was an open question; and yet, notwithstanding this, he lived a life that in many respects was worthy of the imitation of many who made greater professions. Indeed, to be strictly accurate, Joe Wrag never made any profession whatever of any kind, and yet he was as honest as the day, and as true as steel. Honest, not because "honesty was the best policy." Nay, policy never entered into his thoughts; but he was honest because he could not be otherwise. His _soul_ was honest; and as for lying, he loathed it as he would loathe a viper. Nothing could tempt him to be untruthful. In fact, he recoiled as if by instinct from everything mean and deceitful. What teaching he had received, or what influences had surrounded him during his early life, we have never been able to gather. He kept himself mostly to himself, and was silent about the past. Year by year he moved along the even tenour of his way, ever ready to do a kindly deed when opportunity presented itself, but never thrusting himself where he felt he might not be wanted. He had a perfect horror of appearing to be better than he really was; and it was thought that that was his chief reason why he never made any profession of religion. About three o'clock Joe got up, and after partaking of a substantial meal, wended his way to the neighbourhood of Copperas Hill. After turning several sharp corners, he found himself in a small court containing about half a dozen houses. Before one of the doors he paused for a moment, then raised his stick, and gave a sharp rat-tat-tat. The door was instantly opened by a woman who had evidently reached her threescore years and ten. Yet she appeared hale and strong for her age, and though poorly, was yet tidily attired. "Well, ye are a stranger," was her greeting. "I'm verra glad to see 'e, though." "An' I'm glad to see you, Betty." "Well, come tha in. What's i' tha wind?" "Nowt much, Betty; but what thar is consarns you as much as me." "Well, out wi' it, Joe," said Betty, as soon as Joe had seated himself. "No trouble, I 'ope?" "No, not that I knows on; but could 'e make room 'ere for a couple o' lodgers--little 'uns, mind you--children, on'y 'bout so high?" holding out his hand. "Well, what an idear, to be sure! What are ye a-dreamin' on?" "Your old man," said Joe solemnly, "was my mate for mony a year, an' a good man he wur; an' if from that fur-off country he can see what's doin' 'ere, he'd be mightily pleased for 'e to do, Betty, what I'm a-axin' o' yer." "But I dunno that I quite understand," said Betty; "explain your meanin' a bit more." And Joe, in a solemn voice, told the story of little Nell and her brother Benny. "It mebbe, Betty," he said, "they're the Lord's little 'uns. I'm none o' the Lord's mysel'. I've tried to find 'im; but He winna be found o' me. I'm none o' the elect. I've settled that for more'n twenty year now. But if these bairns are the Lord's, we mustna turn 'em away." "All bairns are the Lord's," said Betty; but Joe only shook his head, and sat gazing into the fire. Before he left, however, it was settled that a bed should be made for the children in the corner under the stairs, which would be near the fire also. For this they were to pay a penny per night. "We mustna make paupers o' them, you know, Betty," was Joe's remark. It was also agreed that she should do what washing and mending the children's clothes needed, for which they were to pay also, if they could afford it. "If not," said Joe, "I'll make it square wi' you, Betty." Punctually at six o'clock the children put in an appearance at Joe's hut. They had had but poor luck during the day, and Benny did not feel nearly so courageous as he had felt two days before. The prospect of sleeping night after night underneath a boat was not so inviting as he had imagined it would be; besides, there was the fear that their hiding-place might be discovered, and that even this poor shelter might be taken away from them at any time. He did not confide his fears to Nelly; he felt that it would be cruel to do so; and she--whatever she may have felt--never uttered a single word of complaint. She knew that "her Benny" had enough to bear, and she would not add to his burden. Benny had been very much puzzled at Joe Wrag's manner in the morning, and had wondered much during the day "what he 'ad been a-turnin' over in his noddle." He was desperately afraid that Joe would try to persuade him and Nelly to return to their home, or even insist upon their doing so; and rather than do that, he felt that he would lose Joe's friendship and warm fireside into the bargain. Joe was looking very abstractedly into the grate when they came up to the fence, and for a moment they watched his rugged face with the firelight playing upon it. But Benny, who could read his father's face pretty cleverly, declared to himself that "he could make nowt out o' Joe's." As usual, Joe made room for Benny in his little hut; but to-night he took little Nelly very tenderly on his knee, and stroked her long flaxen hair with his hard rough hand, muttering to himself the while, "Purty little hangel; I reckon she's one o' the Lord's elect." Benny wondered for a long time when Joe was going to say something that he could understand; but somehow to-night he did not like to disturb him by asking questions. Nelly, on the contrary, was far away again from the cold and dingy streets, and the ceaseless roar of the busy town, and was wandering in imagination through sunny meadows where the turf was soft and the grass was green. She fancied she heard the music of purling streams, and the songs of happy birds in the leafy trees that waved their branches over her. The air was fragrant with the scent of flowers that she had heard of, but never seen, and weariness and cold she felt no more. The voice of Joe banished the beautiful vision from the glowing grate, and the child wondered if ever it would become a reality--if ever she would dwell amid such scenes in a life that had no ending. "I've some'at to say to 'e, my dears," was Joe's first exclamation; and the children looked up into his face, and wondered what was coming next. "I've found a hum for 'e, and a reet good 'un, an' ye'r to go to-night." "Oh, scissors!" shouted Benny; and he ran into the street, and had turned two somersaults ere he knew what he was doing; then stood on his head for at least five seconds by way of cooling off, and what other performances he might have gone through I cannot say, had not Joe called him into the hut. Little Nelly said nothing; she only nestled closer to her benefactor, and Joe felt great scalding tears dropping upon his hand, and knew that her heart was too full for her to speak. Then he told them all about their new home, and what would be expected of them, and how he hoped they would be good and kind to the old woman, and always be honest and truthful, and then when they died they might go to the good place. "Does folks go somewheres when they die?" said Benny, with a look of astonishment. "Ay, Ben, that they do." "Oh, beeswax and turpentine!" he ejaculated, "that are a go!" But Nelly's face grew luminous, and her eyes fairly sparkled, as she faintly grasped the idea that perhaps her dreams might come true after all. They had no difficulty in finding their way to Tempest Court, or in discovering the house of Betty Barker. The old woman gave them a rough though kindly welcome, and Benny was soon at his ease. Their bed in the warm corner under the stairs was, to use Benny's phrase, "simply sumshus;" and next morning when they appeared before Joe, it was with faces glowing with gladness and delight. CHAPTER V. "Oh, Death! what does thou mean?" To sleep! perchance to dream;--ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. --Hamlet We must now go back to the morning when Benny and his sister left their home, and pay one more visit to "Addler's Hall." Dick Bates got up in the morning with a splitting headache, and, if the truth must be told, with an aching heart. His sleep had been disturbed by horrid dreams, the recollection of which haunted him still, and made him feel anything but comfortable. He had dreamt that he had been working near the docks, and in going close to the edge of one of them he saw his two children rise to the surface of the water clasped in each other's arms; and while he looked at them, they opened their glassy eyes and cast upon him one lingering, reproachful glance, then sank to the bottom again. Twice during the night had this dream been repeated, and when he awoke in the morning it was with a vague fear of impending evil. Dick Bates, like many other hardened and cruel men, was at heart a great coward, besides being very superstitious. He listened several times for any movement downstairs, but all was still; and this only increased his alarm, for he knew his children were in the habit of stirring early, and he saw by the light that the morning was far advanced. We may judge, therefore, of his alarm when, on coming downstairs, he found the room empty, and he thought, with a terror in his heart that made the perspiration ooze from his forehead, that perhaps his children had been driven by his cruelty to put an end to their existence. He tried to banish the thought as weak and childish, but he could not; his nerves were completely unstrung to-day, and he did not seem at all himself. When his wife came down he sent her into the neighbours' houses, and into Bowker's Row, to inquire if any one had seen them. But everywhere the same answer was given: no one had either seen them or heard them. His wife characterized his fears as "bosh," and declared "he wur wuss nor any owd woman. The brats'll turn up agin to-night, never fear," she said; and Dick sincerely hoped in his heart that they would do so. He was too late to get any work that morning, so he spent most of the forenoon in the house, brooding over his fears. And while he sat there on the low stool with his face buried in his hands, memories of other and happier years crowded in upon his brain. His boyhood life in the country seemed to him now, as he looked back at it through a long vista of years, like a happy dream. And he was glad that his old father and mother were dead, and did not know how low he had fallen. Then he thought of the morning when he had led his first young bride to church, and of the few short years of happiness that had followed. He remembered, too, the promise he had made her on her dying bed--that he would take care of the children, and meet her in heaven. Alas! how he had belied those solemn words! He had not cared for his children, he admitted to himself with shame; but, on the contrary, he had cruelly neglected them, had behaved towards them as the veriest brute. And now perhaps they were dead--driven to death by his cruelty. Then other thoughts took possession of him. "If they're dead," he said, "they are better off: what is there to live for? Better for 'em to die now than to grow up to be like me an' Sall." Then he began to wonder what dying meant. "If I wur sartin," he said, "that there wur nowt arter death, I'd die too." And he got up and walked about the room; after awhile he sat down again, and buried his face in his hands once more. "Mary used to say," he mused, "that bad people went to a bad place an' was tormented for ever; but that if we was good, an' trusted in the Saviour, we should go to 'eaven an' be 'appy for ever. And poor owd father and mother used to say t' same. I remembers it very well! Ah me, I've nearly forgot all sense o' it, though." And thus he mused hour after hour, heedless that his wife swore and raved that "the brats had eat all the butter, and walked off all the taters." When, however, he was made to comprehend this fact, he became less concerned about his children, and a little before noon he started off in search of work. But all the afternoon he was gloomy and depressed, and instead of going to a public house, as was his wont when the day's work was done, he set off home, much to the surprise of his mates, who grew warm in a discussion as the evening advanced as to what "'ad a-comed over Dick Bates." From seven to nine he sat in his own desolate home alone, for his wife was in no humour to keep him company, and every patter of feet in the court made him start and look eagerly towards the door, in the hope that he would see it open, and his children enter; but the door did not open, and his children never came. "I wouldna a-minded so much," he said, "if I hadna a-wolloped poor little Nell;" and he vowed with a terrible oath that "he would treat 'em better in t' future, if he ever had the chance." But when the clock in the steeple not far away struck nine, he started up, muttering to himself, "I canna stand this: I wonder what's comed to me? If 't bairns would come home, I reckon I'd be all right." But the bairns did not come, and he started out to get a glass, to help him to drown remorse. His mates tried to rally him, but they had to confess that it was "no go;" and when at eleven o'clock he left them at the corner of the street, and once more directed his steps towards Addler's Hall, they touched their foreheads significantly to each other, and whispered it as their opinion "that Dick Bates was a-goin' wrong in his noddle, and was above a bit luny." When he reached his home, he opened the door with a beating heart. All was silent, save the heavy breathing of his wife in the room above. He went to the dark corner where his children slept, and felt with his hands; but the bed, such as it was, was empty, and with a groan he turned away and hid his face in his hands. And again his past life came back to him more vividly than it had done for years. "I mun go an' look for 'em," he said. "I shall see 'em floating in one o' the docks, as I did last night in my dream." And with a feeling of despair in his heart he wandered forth again into the now almost deserted streets. As we have before stated, it was a clear frosty night; not a single cloud obscured the myriad stars that glittered in the deep vault of heaven. And as Dick Bates wandered under the light of the stars along the long line of docks, no one would have believed that this anxious-faced man was the brutal drunkard that only on the previous night punished his unoffending children without mercy. Was it God that was working in his heart, bringing back to him the memories of other years, and awaking within him better thoughts? Who shall say it was not? Still on he went, starting continually as he fancied he saw something white on the dark still water. "How nice it would be," he muttered, "to sleep for ever! to be free fra the worry an' trouble." But how could he know that death was endless sleep? Might it not be, as his Mary said it was, the beginning of a life that should never end? He was now near the boat under which his children lay. It was his footstep that startled them just as they were dropping off to sleep. It was his voice that muttered the words, "O Death! what dost thou mean?" How near father and children had come to each other! but neither knew of the other's presence: then they drifted apart again, to meet no more on earth. There were only a few small vessels in the next dock, and all the lights were out. "There they be, sure enough," said Dick, as something white, floating on the surface of the water, caught his eye, and he went close up to the edge of the dock, forgetful of the fact that the huge damp coping stones had, by the action of the frost, become as slippery as glass. He had scarcely planted his foot on one of the huge stones when it slipped from beneath him; a piercing shriek rang out on the startled air, followed by a plunge, a gurgling cry, and the cold water closed over him. A moment later a pale agonized face gleamed up from the dark water, a hurried prayer floated up on the cold frosty air, "Saviour of my Mary, save me!" then the water closed over him again. Two other times, at longer intervals, Dick Bates' agonized and horror-stricken face appeared for a moment on the surface; then the ruffled waters grew smooth, hiding in their dark bosom the dead body of Richard Bates, whose soul had been so suddenly called to its account. The next day the dead body was dragged to the surface, and conveyed to the dead-house, where it was claimed by his wife. An inquest and a funeral followed, of which Benny and little Nell never knew. And it was well, perhaps, they did not. The knowledge would have been pain to the little waifs, and they had already as much trouble as their little hearts knew how to bear. CHAPTER VI. In which Benny makes a Discovery. All unseen the Master walketh By the toiling servant's side; Comfortable words He speaketh, While His hands uphold and guide. --Baynes. Christmas Day this year came upon a Wednesday, and, during the two days preceding it, Benny did what he characterized as a "roaring bizness." There were so many people leaving and arriving by all the ferry-boats and at all the stations, that our hero was kept on the trot nearly all the time. His frank open face seemed to most people, who had a bag or a bundle to carry, a sufficient guarantee of his honesty, and they hoisted their bag upon the little fellow's shoulder without any fear that he would attempt to pry into its contents, or make off with it round some sharp corner. For a time the "match business" was turned over entirely to Nelly's management; and though the modest little girl never pushed her wares--she was too shy for that--yet Benny declared she did "stunnin'." Many a gentleman, catching just a glimpse of the pale sweet face as he hurried past, would turn to have another look at the child, and, without taking any of her fusees, would put a penny, and sometimes more, into the little thin hand. And Nelly would courtesy her thanks, unable to utter a word. Benny declared "he liked Christmas-time 'mazin' well, and wondered why folks didn't have Christmas a sight oftener than once a year." How it was that coppers were so much more plentiful at this time of the year than at any other time was to him a mystery. Poor little fellow! the thought never seemed to enter into his small head that it might be that people's hearts were more open at this festive season than at some other times. However, Benny was not one that speculated long on such questions; he only wished that people were always as ready to have their bags carried, and always gave their pence as ungrudgingly. Once or twice he felt a bit sad, and brushed away a hasty tear, when he saw boys no bigger than himself wrapped up in great warm overcoats, and beautiful little girls with fur-trimmed jackets and high-heeled dainty boots, clasped in the arms of their parents as soon as they stepped from the ferry, and then hurried away to a cab or to a carriage in waiting--and then thought of his own cheerless life. "I specks they's mighty 'appy," he said reflectively, and then hurried away to the other end of the stage, where he thought he saw the chance of employment. On Christmas Eve Benny took his sister through St. John's Market, and highly delighted they were with what they saw. The thousands of geese, turkeys, and pheasants, the loads of vegetables, the heaps of oranges and apples, the pyramids of every other conceivable kind of fruit, the stalls of sweetmeats, the tons of toffee, and the crowds of well-dressed people all bent upon buying something, were sources of infinite pleasure to the children. There was only one drawback to their happiness, and that was they did not know how to lay out the sixpence they had brought with them to spend. If there had been less variety there would have been less difficulty; but, as it was, Benny felt as if he would never be able to decide what to buy. However, they agreed at last to lay out twopence in two slices of bread and ham, for they were both rather hungry; and then they speculated the other fourpence in apples, oranges, and toffee, and, on the whole, felt very well satisfied with the results of their outlay. It was rather later than usual when they got home, but old Betty knew where they had gone, and, as it was Christmas Eve, she had got a bigger fire in than usual, and had also got them a cup of hot cocoa each, and some bun loaf to eat with it. "By golly!" said Benny, as he munched the cake, "I do wish folks 'ud 'ave Christmas ev'ry week." "You are a cur'us boy," said the old woman, looking up with a smile on her wrinkled face. "Is I, granny? I specks it's in my blood, as the chap said o' his timber leg." The old woman had told them on the first evening of their arrival, when they seemed at a loss what name to give her, to call her granny; and no name could have been more appropriate, or have come more readily to the children's lips. "But could folks have Christmas any oftener if they wished to?" asked little Nell. "In course they could, Nell," burst out Benny. "You dunna seem to know what folks make Christmas for." "An I thinks as you dunno either, Benny." "Don't I, though?" he said, putting on an air of importance. "It's made to give folks the chance of doing a lot o' feeding; didn't yer see all the gooses an' other nice things in the market that the folks is going to polish off to-morrow?" "I dunna think it was made purpose for that. Wur it, now, granny?" Thus appealed to, the old woman, who had listened with an amused smile on her face, answered, "No, my child. It's called Christmas 'cause it is the birthday of Christ." "Who's He?" said Benny, looking up; and Nelly's eyes echoed the inquiry. "Don't you know--ain't you never heerd?" said the old woman, in a tone of surprise. "Nay," said Benny; "nothin' sense. Some o' the chaps says 'by Christ' as I says 'by golly'; but I never knowed He was somebody." "Poor little dears! I didn't know as how you was so ignorant, or I should have told you before." And the old woman looked as if she did not know where or how to begin to tell the children the wonderful story, and for a considerable time remained silent. At length she said, "I'll read it to 'e out o' the Book; mebbe you'll understand it better that way nor any way else." And, taking down from her shelf her big and much-worn Bible, she opened it at the second of St. Matthew, and began to read in a tremulous voice,-- "Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judæa in the days of Herod the king, behold, there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem, saying, Where is He that is born King of the Jews? for we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship Him." And slowly the old woman read on until she reached the end of the chapter, while the children listened with wide-open and wondering eyes. To Nelly the words seemed to come like a revelation, responding to the deepest feeling of her nature, and awakening thoughts within her that were too big for utterance. Benny, however, on the contrary, could see nothing particularly interesting in the narrative itself. But the art of reading was to him a mystery past all comprehension. How granny could see that story upon the page of her Bible was altogether beyond his grasp. At length, after scratching his head vigorously for some time, he burst out,-- "By jabbers! I's got it at last!--Jimmy Jones squeeze me if I ain't! It's the specks that does it." "Does what?" said Nelly. "Why, the story bizness, to be sure. Let me look at the book through your specks, shall I, granny?" "Ay, if you like, Benny." And the next minute he was looking at the Bible with granny's spectacles upon his nose, with a look of blank disappointment upon his face. "Golly! I's sold!" was his exclamation. "But this are a poser, and no mistake." "What's such a poser?" said granny. "Why, how yer find the story in the book; for I can see nowt." And Benny looked as disappointed as if he had earned nothing for a week. By much explaining, however, granny enabled him to comprehend in some vague way how the mystery was accomplished; and then arose within the heart of the child an unutterable longing to understand this mysterious art fully, and be able to read for himself--a longing that grew in intensity as evening after evening he tried, by granny's help, to master the alphabet. In fact, it became a passion with the lad, and many an hour in the weeks and months that followed he spent gazing at the placards on the walls, and in trying to explain to the other Arabs that gathered around him the meaning of the mysterious characters. Benny was naturally a sharp lad, and hence, though his opportunities were few, his progress was by no means slow. Sometimes he startled Joe Wrag by spelling out a long word that he had carried in his head the whole of the day, and asking its meaning. Long words had an especial fascination for him, and the way he brought them out in all sorts of connections was truly amusing. Nelly manifested no desire to learn to read. If ever she thought about it, it was only to regard it as something infinitely beyond her capabilities; and she seemed content to remain as she was. But if she could get granny to read to her a chapter out of St. John's Gospel, she seemed to desire no higher pleasure. She would sit with a dreamy far-away look in her half-closed eyes, and the smiles that old Joe Wrag loved to see would come and go upon her face like patches of spring sunshine chasing each other across a plain. She never said very much, but perhaps she thought all the more. To honest Joe Wrag she seemed as if ripening for a fairer country, and for a purer and nobler life. Not that she ailed anything. True, she had a little hacking cough now and then, and when she lay asleep a pink spot would glow on either cheek; but nothing more than that. "Speretual things," mused Joe Wrag one night, as he sat in the door of his hut looking into the fire, "are speretually discerned, an' I b'lieve that child 'as rale speretual discernment: she looks a mighty sight deeper than we thinks she do, that's my opinion. I should like to get howld o' all that passes through her purty little noddle, the little hangel--bless her! As for the boy, 'e's a little hanimal. I reckon the passons would call him a materialist. I don't b'lieve 'e b'lieves nothing but what 'e sees. No speretual insight in 'im--not a bit. P'raps he's like me, don't belong to the elect. Ah, me! I wonder what the likes o' us was born for?" And Joe went out, and heaped more fuel on the fire by way of diverting his thoughts from a subject that was always painful to him. But when he came back and sat down again, and the fire before him blazed up with fiercer glow, the thoughts returned, and would not be driven away. "Bless her!" he said. "She sees in the fire only woods, an' meadows, an' mountains, an' streams; an' I only see the yawning caverns o' hell. An' to think I must burn in a fire a thousan' times bigger an' hotter than that for ever and ever without a single moment's ease; scorching on every side, standin' up or lyin' down, always burnin'! No water, no light, no mercy, no hope. An' when a million million years are past, still burning, an' no nearer the end than at the beginnin'. Oh, how shall I bear it--how shall I bear it?" And big drops of perspiration oozed from his forehead and rolled down his face, testifying to the anguish of his soul. "I canna understand it--I canna understand it," he went on. "All this pain and suffering for His glory. What kind o' glory can it be, to bring folks into the world doomed aforehand to eternal misery? to give 'em no chance o' repentance, an' then damn them for ever 'cause they don't repent! O Lord a mercy, excuse me, but I canna see no justice in it anywhere." And once more Joe got up and began to pace up and down in front of the fire; but the thoughts would not leave him. "'Whom He did foreknow,'" he went on, "'them also He did predestinate.' Mighty queer, that a Father should love a part o' His fam'ly an' hate the rest. Create 'em only to burn 'em for ever an' ever! An' what's the use o' the burnin'? That bangs me complete. If 't was to burn away the dross an' leave the metal, I could understand it. I think sometimes there's jist a bit o' the right stuff in me; an' if hell would burn up the bad an' leave the good, an' give it a chance of some'at better, there 'ud be more justice in it, seems to me. But what am I a-saying? It shows as how I'm none o' the elect, to be talking to myself in this way. What a wicked old sinner I be!" And once more Joe sat down with a jerk, as if he meant to say, "I'm not going to be bothered with such thoughts any more to-night." But alas! he found that thoughts would come, whether he would or no. "Pr'aps," he said, "we don't know nowt about it, none o' us. Mebbe God is more marcyfuller than we think. An' I'm sadly banged about that 'makin' an end o' sin;' I don't see as how He can make an end o' sin without making an end o' the sinner; an' whiles there is millions sich as me in hell, there'll be no end to neither on 'em. I'm sadly out in my reck'nin' somewheres, but 'pears to me if there was no sinners there 'ud be no sin; an' the way to rid the univarse of sinners is to get 'em all saved or kill 'em outright." Much more to the same effect Joe Wrag turned over in his mind that night, but we must not weary the reader with his speculations. Like many other of God's children, he was crying in the darkness and longing for light. He had found that human creeds, instead of being a ladder leading up into the temple of truth, were rather a house of bondage. Men had spread a veil before the face of God, and he had not courage to pull it aside. Now and then through the rents he caught a ray of light, but it dazzled him so that he was afraid there was something wrong about it, and he turned away his face and looked again into the darkness. And yet the night was surely passing away. It wanted but a hand to take down the shutters from the windows of his soul, and let the light--ay, and the love of God that surrounded him, like a mighty ocean--rush in. But whose hand should take down the shutters? Through what agency should the light come in? Let us wait and see. CHAPTER VII. Two Visits. Tell me the story slowly, That I may take it in; That wonderful redemption, God's remedy for sin. Tell me the story simply, As to a little child; For I am weak and weary, And helpless and defiled. --Hankey. One clear frosty evening early in the new year two little figures might have been seen threading their way along Old Hall Street, in the opposite direction to the Exchange. It had not long gone five, and numbers of clerks and warehousemen were crowding into the street and hurrying in the direction of their several homes. But the little figures dodged their way with great skill through the crowded street, still holding each other by the hand and keeping up most of the time a sharp trot. After pursuing a straight course for a considerable time, they turned off suddenly to the right into a less frequented street. Then they took a turn to the left, and then again to the right. It was very evident they knew the streets well, for they wound in and out, now right, now left, without the least hesitation. At length they reached a street where all was darkness, save where here and there the flickering rays of a candle struggled through the dirt-begrimed window. This was Bowker's Row, and Benny and his sister paused for awhile before venturing into the darkness. For several days their little hearts had been aching with curiosity to visit once more their old home. They had no wish to be seen, and as for living again in Addler's Hall, that was altogether out of the question. Still, they were filled with a curiosity that they could not resist to peep at the old spot once more, and ascertain, if possible, how far their father and stepmother were pleased or otherwise with their disappearance. They had talked the matter over for several nights as they lay in each other's arms in the warm corner under Betty Barker's stairs. They admitted that there were difficulties, perhaps danger, in paying such a visit; but at length curiosity became too strong for them, and they resolved to risk it. With Nelly, too, there was something more than curiosity. Notwithstanding his drunken habits and his cruelty to Benny, she loved her father, for there had been times when he had made much of her, and called her "his little Nell." Perhaps she did not love her father very deeply. In comparison to "her Benny," he occupied indeed a very third-rate place in her affections. Still he was her father, and now and then he had been kind to her, and hence he was more to her than a stranger, and her little heart longed for one more sight of his face. They did not wait long at the end of Bowker's Row. Ascertaining that the coast was tolerably clear, they darted up the street, and without any one recognizing them, turned into Addler's Hall. From the window of their late home a feeble light struggled, which satisfied them that the house was not empty. "Take care," said Benny to his sister, "an' don't make no noise if yer can 'elp it." "Right you are," whispered his sister, and with silent footfalls they glided up to the door and listened. From within came the sound of voices, but they were the voices of children--strange voices, too, they were. And Benny looked at his sister and whispered-- "By golly! this are a go. The owd folks 'ave flit, that's sartin." "Can yer get a peep through the winder, Benny?" said Nelly, with a white, startled face. "Dunno, but I'll try;" and try he did, but without success. "Brimstone!" he whispered, scratching his head; "what's us to do? Oh, I 'ave it," he said at length. "Come 'ere, Nell. I's 'mazin' strong, an' I can lift you 'igh 'nough to get a peep." And, taking his sister in his arms, he managed, not without considerable difficulty, to enable her to look through the window and get a glimpse of the inmates of the room. "Do 'e know 'em, Nell?" said Benny, after he had lifted her down very carefully. "No, I dunno who they is; I've never seen 'em afore." "Well, then, we'll ax 'em." And without further ado he pushed open the door. There were four hungry and neglected-looking children in the room, the oldest of them about the same age as Benny. They looked up with questioning eyes at the intruders, but said nothing. "Does you live 'ere?" said Benny, putting on a bold face. "Ay," was the response from all together. "How long?" said Benny. "Week afore last," answered the oldest lad. "Where's the folks as lived 'ere afore you comed?" "Dunno." "Ain't you ever heerd?" "Ay, we've heerd." "Where is they, then?" queried Benny. "Childer is drownded." "Golly! are that so?" and there was an amused twinkle in Benny's eye as he put the question. "Ay," was the response; "we's heerd so." "Where's their faather?" was Benny's next question. "Dunno," said the biggest lad. "Ain't you heerd?" "Ay, we 'ave." "Where is he, then?" "Well, faather says he's gone to Davy Jones, but I dunno where that are." "Nor I too," said Benny, scratching his head. Then he looked at the oldest lad again. "Did the man's missus go wi' him, does yer know?" he inquired. "Never heerd nothing 'bout 'er," said the lad. "An' yer knows nothin' more 'bout 'em?" "No, nothin'." "Mich 'bliged," said Benny, with an air of importance. And taking Nelly by the hand, he walked out of the house. He hardly knew whether he was most pleased or disappointed with his visit, so he said nothing to his sister until they had left Bowker's Row behind them, and got once more into the region of gaslight. Then, turning to his sister, he said, "What does yer think o' it now, Nell?" "P'r'aps father's mended, and 'as gone to live in a better 'ouse," was the quiet reply. "Mos' likely," said Benny, and again they trudged on in silence. At length they paused in front of a chapel that abutted close on to the street. A few people were dropping in quietly one after another, and Benny wondered what they did inside. He had never been inside a church or a chapel; they were most of them so grand, and the people that went were dressed so well, that he had concluded long since that they were not for such poor little chaps as he. But this chapel was anything but grand-looking, and the people who were going in did not look very smart, and Benny began to wonder if he might not dare take a peep inside. While he was speculating as to what he had better do, a gentleman who had been standing in the vestibule came out, and said in a kindly voice, "Well, my little ones, would you like to come inside?" "May us?" said Benny, eagerly. "Oh, yes," was the reply; "we shall be very glad to see you, and there is plenty of room; come this way." And without a word they followed him. "Here," he said, pushing open a green baize door, "I will put you in my pew; you will be nice and comfortable there, and none of my family will be here to-night." For a few moments the children hardly knew whether they were awake or dreaming; but at length they mustered up sufficient courage to look around them. The place they thought was very large, but everything felt so snug and warm that they almost wished they could stay there all night. Still the people dropped in very quietly and orderly, until there were between two and three hundred present. Then a gentleman opened the organ and began to play a voluntary; softly at first, then louder, swelling out in rich full tones, then dying away again, like the sighing of a summer's breeze; anon bursting forth like the rushing of a storm, now rippling like a mountain rill, now wailing as a child in pain; now rushing on as with shouts of gladness and thanksgiving, and again dying away like the wind in far-off trees. Nelly listened with open mouth and wondering eyes, oblivious to everything but the strains of music that were floating all around her. And Benny sat as if transfixed. "By golly!" he whispered to Nelly, when the piece was ended, "if I ever heerd sich music as that afore. It's made me cold all over; seems to me as if some one were pouring cold water adown my back." But Nelly answered nothing; her attention was attracted to a gentleman that stood alone on a platform with a book in his hand. Nelly thought his voice was strangely musical as he read the words,-- "Jesus, lover of my soul, Let me to Thy bosom fly, While the nearer waters roll, While the tempest still is high. Hide me, O my Saviour, hide, Till the storm of life be past; Safe into the haven guide: Oh, receive my soul at last." Then all the people stood up to sing, and the children thought they had never heard anything half so sweet before. Great tears welled up in Nelly's brimming eyes and rolled down her cheeks; though if any one had asked her why she wept, she would not have been able to tell. Then followed a prayer full of devout thanksgiving and of earnest pleading. Then came another hymn-- "Would Jesus have a sinner die? Why hangs He then on yonder tree? What means that strange expiring cry? Sinners, He prays for you and me: Forgive them, Father, oh! forgive; They know not that by Me they live." And once more the congregation stood up to sing. Nelly was even more affected than during the singing of the previous hymn, and while they sang the last verse-- "Oh, let me kiss His bleeding feet, And bathe and wash them with my tears, The story of His love repeat In every drooping sinner's ears, That all may hear the quick'ning sound, Since I, even I, have mercy found,"-- she fairly broke down, and, hiding her face in her hands, she sobbed aloud. She soon recovered herself, however, when the preacher began to speak. Clear and distinct his words rang out:-- "Let the wicked forsake his ways, and the unrighteous man his thoughts, and let him return unto the Lord, and He will have mercy upon him; and to our God, for He will abundantly pardon." And Nelly eagerly drank in his words as he went on to tell how we were all wanderers from our Father's house; and how the Father's heart yearned towards us, and how He had invited all to return home, giving the same invitation to every one of His children, and promising an abundant pardon to all that would come. And then he told, by way of illustration, the beautiful parable of the Prodigal Son, and concluded with an earnest exhortation to all the unsaved to come to the Saviour that very night, and to come just as they were. Nelly felt that she would very much like to "come to the Saviour," but, alas! she did not know how. And when she saw several persons leave their pews and kneel around the communion, she wondered if they were "prodigals going home to the Father." But what of Benny? Alas! if Joe Wrag had seen him that evening, he would have been more than ever convinced that he was none of the elect, and that he had not one particle of spiritual discernment. The words of the preacher seemed to have a very soothing influence upon our hero, for scarcely had he uttered twenty words of the sermon ere Benny was fast asleep. Nor did he wake again till near the end of the service, when he was startled by a strange voice speaking. It was one of the men that Nelly had noticed kneeling at the communion. The man stood up, and with a face radiant with his new-found joy, he said, in broken accents, "Oh, friends, thank the Lord for me, for I have found the Saviour!" Evidently he intended to have said more, but, overcome by his emotion, he sat down and hid his face in his hands. "I'm glad the chap found 'im," said Benny to his sister, as they hurried homeward, "for he seemed desp'rate cut up 'bout it." But Nelly did not answer, she was too full of what she had seen, and heard, and felt, to speak. The next evening, long before service-time, they were waiting around the chapel door, and when at length the door was opened, they were welcomed by the same gentleman that had spoken to them the previous evening, and put into the same pew. And once more was Benny delighted with the music, and once more was he soothed to sleep by the sermon. But not so Nelly. As the preacher explained that wonderful text, "For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him might not perish, but have everlasting life," she seemed to see more clearly what the preacher meant on the previous night. And while he dwelt on the word "whosoever," she felt that she was included in this invitation of mercy. In fact, it seemed to her as if a great deal the preacher had said had been for her special benefit, and that for _her_ the Saviour had provided a home more beautiful than any of the pictures she had seen in Joe Wrag's fire. As they were leaving, near the close of the service, a young gentleman placed his hand on Benny's shoulder, and said, "Well, my little man, I hope you have found the Saviour." "Lor' a massy!" said Benny, with a look of surprise upon his face, "are that little chap lost agin? He can't be well looked arter, that's sartin." "You don't understand," said the young man; "but perhaps I should have asked if the Saviour has found you?" "Not that I knows on," said Benny stoutly. "Nobody finds me, I finds myself." "Dear me!" said the young man, "you mistake my meaning altogether." "Does I?" "Yes, my little fellow. But I will talk with you again some other time, when there is more time." "Will yer?" "Yes; but now good night." "Good night," said Benny and Nelly in chorus, and once more they left the warm house of prayer for the cold and wintry street. "You would understand better, Benny," said his sister, as they journeyed homeward, "if yer would listen to granny, an' not go to sleep whiles the man is talkin'." "Dunno that I should, Nell. I's not 'cute 'bout those things like you is; but let's 'urry on, for I's gettin' as cold as Jonar in the den o' lions." Benny was very fond of Old Testament stories, and granny had humoured his liking in this respect, but the way he mixed up the prophets, patriarchs, and other noted Bible characters, was rather bewildering. "Never mind," he would say, when granny took him to task on this matter, "so long's I gets hold o' the right hend o' the story, mixin' up the names a bit makes no matter, as fur as I can see." So granny let him have his way, concluding that he would mend in that matter as he got older. "But," the old woman would say, "he'll never be like little Nelly. Bless her! I's afeard, sometimes, she's too good an' knowin' to live." CHAPTER VIII. In which Joe Wrag has a Vision. They are going, only going, Jesus called them long ago All the wintry time they're passing Softly as the falling snow. When the violets in the spring-time Catch the azure of the sky, They are carried out to slumber Sweetly where the violets lie. As winter slowly wore away, little Nelly's health began to fail. She seemed weary and languid, and poor little Benny was at his wits' end to know what to get her to eat. After spending more than he could really afford in something that he thought would tempt her appetite, he was grieved beyond measure when she would turn away her head and say, "I's very sorry for yer, Benny, but I canna eat it; I would if I could." And he would be compelled reluctantly to eat it himself, though he would not mind going without food altogether if only "little Nell" could eat. But he comforted himself with the thought that she would get better when the spring-time came, and the streets were dry and warm. He might get her into the parks, too, and she would be sure, he thought, to get an appetite then. And so he kept up his spirits, and hoped for the best. "She's ripenin' for the kingdom," was Joe Wrag's reflection, as he watched her pale face becoming thinner, and her great round eyes becoming larger and more luminous day by day. "She belongs to the elect, there ken be no doubt, an' the Lord don't intend for her little bare feet to walk the cold, dirty streets o' Liverpool much longer. I reckon she'll soon be walking the golden streets o' the shinin' city, where there's no more cold, nor hunger, nor pain. I shall be main sorry to lose her, bless her little heart, for I'm feared there's no chance of me ever seein' her agin' when she's gone. I wonder if the Lord would permit me to look at her through the bars o' the gate just for a minit if I wur to ax Him very hard? 'T will be nice, anyhow, to think o' her bein' comforted while I'm tormented. But it comes 'ard 'pon such as us as don't belong to the elect, whichever way we looks at it." Sometimes Joe would leave his home earlier in the afternoon than usual, and getting a nice bunch of grapes, he would make his way towards Nelly's stand as the short winter's day was fading in the west. He would rarely have much difficulty in finding his little pet, and taking her up in his great strong arms, he would carry her off through bye-streets to his hut. And wrapping her in his great warm overcoat, and placing her on a low seat that he had contrived for her, he would leave her to enjoy her grapes, while he went out to light the fire and see that the lamps were properly set for the night. With a dreamy look in her eyes, Nelly would watch her old friend kindling his fire and putting things "ship-shape," as he termed it, and would think how well she had been cared for of late. By-and-bye, when the fire crackled and glowed in the grate, Joe would come into the hut and take her upon his knee, and she would lean her head against his shoulder with a heart more full of thankfulness than words of hers could utter. And at such times, at her request, Joe would tell her of the mercy that was infinite, and of the love that was stronger than death. She had only been twice to the chapel, for when she and Benny went the following week they discovered that there was no service, and so disappointed were they that they had not gone again; for the chapel was a long distance from Tempest Court, and she was tired when the day's work was done, and to go such a long distance and find the doors closed was anything but inviting. So they had not ventured again. But Nelly had heard enough from granny and while at the chapel to make her thirst for more. And so Joe became her teacher, and evening by evening, whenever opportunity presented, he unfolded to her the "old, old story of Jesus and His love." It made his heart ache, though, to talk of the "good tidings of great joy," and think they were not for him. If the truth must be told, this was the reason why he kept away from church and chapel. He had adopted in early life the Calvinistic creed, and had come to the conclusion, when about thirty years of age, that he belonged to the "eternally reprobate." Hence, to go to church to listen to promises that were not for him, to hear offers of salvation that he could not accept, to be told of a heaven that he could never enter, and of a hell that he could not shun, was more than his sensitive nature could bear. And yet, as he repeated to Nelly the wonderful promises of the Gospel, they seemed sometimes to widen out, until they embraced the whole world, including even him, and for a moment his heart would throb with joy and hope. Then again the bossy front of his creed would loom up before him like an iron wall, hiding the light, shutting out the sunshine, and leaving him still in "outer darkness." One day Nelly rather startled him by saying, in her sweet childish way, "I does like that word who-so-ever!" "Do you?" said Joe. "Oh, yes, very much; don't you?" "Well, I 'ardly knows what to make on it." "How is that, Joe?" said Nelly, looking up with a wondering expression on her face. "Well, 'cause it seems to mean what it don't mean," said Joe, jerking out the words with an effort. "Oh, no, Joe; how can that be?" "Well, that's jist where I'm floored, Nelly. But it seem to be the fact, anyhow." "Oh, Joe! And would the Saviour you've been a-tellin' me of say what He didna mean?" And a startled expression came over the child's face, as if the ground was slipping from beneath her. "No, no, Nelly, He could not say that; but the pinch is about what the word do mean." "Oh, the man in the chapel said it meaned everybody, an' I reckon he knows, 'cause he looked as if he wur sartin." "Did he, Nelly? Then perhaps he wur right." "Oh, yes, it's everybody, Joe. I feels as if it wur so inside." "Purty little hangel!" said Joe, in an undertone. "But there are somethin' in the Book about 'out of the mouths of babes an' sucklings.' I'll read it again when I gets home." That night, as Joe Wrag sat in his hut alone, while the silence of the slumbering town was unbroken, save for the echoing footfall of the policeman on his beat, he seemed to see the iron wall of his creed melt and vanish, till not a shred remained, and beyond where it stood stretched endless plains of light and glory. And arching the sky from horizon to horizon, a rainbow glowed of every colour and hue, and in the rainbow a promise was written in letters of fire, and as he gazed the letters burst forth into brighter flame, and the promise was this, "Whosoever cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast them out." And over the distant hills a great multitude appeared in sight--so many, indeed, that he could not number them. But he noticed this, that none of them were sick, or feeble, or old. No touch of pain was on any face, no line of care on any brow, and nearer and yet nearer they came, till he could hear the regular tramp, tramp of their feet, and catch the words they were chanting as if with one voice. How thankful he was that the great town was hushed and still, so that he could not mistake the words. "And the Spirit and the Bride say, Come. And let him that heareth say, Come. And let him that is athirst come. And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely." And still nearer their echoing footfalls came, when suddenly the glowing arch of fire in his grate fell together, and a policeman passing his hut with measured tread, shouted,-- "Good night, Joe. We shall have a storm, I reckon; the wind has got up terrible during the last hour." "Ay, ay," responded Joe, rubbing his eyes and wondering for a moment what had come over him. "You seem hardly awake, Joe," laughed the policeman. "Believe I 'ave nodded a bit," said Joe. "But, bless me, how the wind do howl!" "Yes, it'll be rough outside the 'bar,' I reckon. I hope we shall have no wrecks. Good night." "Good night," said Joe, as he staggered out of his hut to mend the fire, which done, he sat down to reflect. "Wur it a vision," he soliloquized, "or wur it a dream, or wur it 'magination? Wur it given to teach or to mislead me? But, lor', how bright that promise did shine! I ken see it now. It are in the Bible, too, that's the queerest part on it. An' how beautiful they did sing, an' how they did shout out that part, 'Whosoever will.' Lor' bless us! I can't get it out o' my noddle; nor I dunno that I want to, it's so amazin' comfortin', and much more nearer my idear of what God ought to be, 'cause as how there is no limit to it." And Joe scratched his head vigorously, which was a sure sign that some new idea had struck him. "Well, bang me!" he ejaculated, "if I ain't floored again. Ain't God infinite, an' if that be the case He must be infinite 'all round.' An' that bein' so, then His power's infinite, and His marcy's infinite, an' His love's infinite, an' He's all infinite. No limit to nothin'. An' if that be so, it don't square nohow with His love an' marcy stoppin' just at the point where the elect leaves off an' the reprobate begins." And Joe took a long iron rod and stirred up the fire until it roared again, muttering to himself the while. "Well, if I ain't completely banged. I'll ax little Nell. I b'lieve she knows more about it now than I do, by a long chalk." By this time slates and chimneypots began to drop around him in a decidedly dangerous fashion, and he had again to seek the shelter of his hut. But even there he did not feel quite safe, for the little wooden house rocked and creaked in the might of the storm, and threatened to topple over altogether. There was no longer any chance of meditation, so he had to content himself listening to the roar of the storm. Sometimes he heard its voice moaning away in the distant streets, and he wondered where it had gone to. Then he heard it coming up behind his hut again, at first quietly, as if meditating what to do; then it would gather strength and speed, and he would listen as it came nearer and nearer, till it would rush shrieking past his hut, making it creak and shiver, and once more there would be a momentary lull. And so Joe waited and listened through the wild solemn night, and longed as he had rarely done for the light of the morning to appear. CHAPTER IX. Tempted. Where the watching, waiting angels Lead them from the shadow dim, To the brightness of His presence Who has called them unto Him,-- Little hearts for ever stainless, Little hands as pure as they, Little feet by angels guided, Never a forbidden way. Towards the close of February Nelly caught a very severe cold, which kept her indoors for several days. One night her cough had been so bad that she had scarcely slept at all, and when she got up in the morning, with flushed cheeks and hollow eyes, unrested and unrefreshed, granny insisted that she was not fit to go out, and that she must stay indoors and keep herself warm. Benny was very sorry to lose her earnings, for, alas! it had been a hard struggle for the children to find the necessary coppers day by day to purchase food and pay for their lodgings; and had it not been for Joe Wrag's kindness, they would often have fared much worse. Nelly knew this very well, and hence it was a great trial to her to stay indoors doing nothing, while her Benny was out fighting the world alone. "How will yer manage, Benny?" she said, with an anxious look in her eyes, the first morning that he went out alone. "Oh, never fear, Nell, I'll 'cumulate the coppers somehow," was the response. "What's 'cumulate, Benny?" for it was the first time he had ventured to use that word in her hearing. "Well, I might a-knowed," he said, putting on a knowing look, "that you would not hundercumstand sich words, 'cause as how you don't seem to care for larnin' like me." "Well, you 'ave not told me now, Benny." "Oh, it means as how I'm bound to get the coppers somehow." "How _somehow_, Benny? You'll only get 'em the right way, will yer, now?" "Never fear, Nell; I's not goin' to steal 'em." "But if you dunna get enough, Benny?" "Oh, I'll go hungry for a day or two; 't won't be fust time I's done it." "Poor Benny!" and she placed her wasted hand on his shoulder. "But I 'ope it will be true, what Joe told me t'other night." "What did he tell yer?" "Well, he said the good Lord was sure to provide; that is, you know, Benny, He willna let us starve." "I dunno much about _Him_, Nell." "Oh, but Joe 'as told me lots an' lots about Him; an' He never says what He doesna mean; an' if He says He'll provide, He will, Benny." "Anyhow, I shall be glad to see it," was Benny's observation, as he walked away, leaving Nelly standing at the door. He found the days very long without a sight of his sister's face from morn till eve. But he bore up bravely, and hurried home as early as he possibly could when the day's toil was over. Nobody knew how much "little Nell" was to him: she had been the only comfort of his cheerless life, and when the world seemed more rough and unfriendly than usual, it was Nelly who stood by his side like a ministering angel, encouraging him still to persevere. The sight of her sweet patient face in the evening was like a benediction to him, and after the frugal meal they would sit on the floor with their arms around each other before granny's fire. And Benny would tell his sister all the experiences of the day; making light, however, of the difficulties and disappointments, and magnifying every little pleasure that had fallen to his lot. It was wonderful how thoughtful he was of his sister, and how he anticipated her every want. He would not give her a moment's pain on any consideration if he could possibly help it. Yet Nelly always knew when he was in trouble, though he said nothing about it; for experience had made her quick to detect his every mood. One afternoon, as Benny was passing along a narrow and not very frequented street, he paused before a small hosier's shop. A great many things had been hung outside the door to catch the eye of the passer-by. But one article especially attracted his attention, and that was a woollen "cross-over." "Golly!" he said to himself, "if Nelly only had that, she'd be better in no time." Nelly had been much better that morning, and but for the keen east wind that had been blowing for several days, she would have again ventured into the streets. And as Benny looked again and again at the cross-over, he thought how nice she would look with it crossed over her chest, and how nice and snug and warm it would make her feel. No cold, he was sure, could come through a thing like that; and it was the cold, granny said, that made her cough so much. But he knew he could not purchase it, so with a sigh he turned away. Yet in less than half an hour he was standing before the shop again. "They would never miss it," he muttered to himself, "an' Nelly needs it so much." Then a voice within him whispered, "Don't steal, Benny," and again he walked away. But the tempter followed and gave him no rest. "I could cut the string as easy as that," he said to himself, snapping his fingers. "And it ain't for myself that I wants it, and I dunna think it can be so very wrong to take it for little Nell, when she's so ill." While he was musing thus, he was startled by a voice near him, "Hullo, Ben, are 'e goin' to a funeral, yer look so glum?" Looking up a narrow entry, he saw a lad that went by the name of "Perks," engaged in trying on a pair of shoes, that were evidently new, though they had been well plastered with mud. Perks was not so big as Benny, though he was two or three years older. He was a strange-looking lad. A great shock of fiery red hair made hat or cap totally unnecessary. His face was plain, looked at under any circumstances, but a look of low cunning made it at times appear almost repulsive. Perks was no friend of Benny's, who rarely took the trouble to reply when addressed by him. Benny knew that he was not honest. He never sold matches, and rarely carried parcels, and yet he had generally plenty of coppers at his disposal, and wore better clothes than any of the street lads. But to-day Benny was in a different humour to what he was generally. He had permitted an evil spirit to take possession of him, and so was not so particular about his company. So he walked up the entry close to where Perks sat, and pointing to the shoes, said in a whisper, "Where'd yer get them?" "Walked 'em," was the response. "That is, stole 'em, ain't it?" "Gem'men of our per-fession don't say stole, it ain't perlite," said Perks, trying to look important. "It means that, though," said Benny. "Well, I admit I took 'em without leave, as I takes most things; it's most conwenient." "How did yer manage?" said Benny. "So yer wants to take up the per-fession, does yer?" And there was a cunning leer in his eye as he spoke. "No, I don't," said Benny, colouring up. "What yer ax me for 'ow I did it, then?" "For fun." "No doubt. But, I'll tell yer, nothin' is easier. Folks hang things outside on purpose to be stole. I took up the per-fession 'cause I couldn't 'elp it. Shop-keepers put things right under my nose, an' made me take 'em against my will at fust. Now I's no feelin' 'bout it at all." "'T ain't right, though, nohow," said Benny. Perks was about to sneer at this remark, but thought better of it, and answered, after a pause, "Well, if it ain't, I's not to blame. Folks just put things in my way; an' a chap's not to blame for eatin' butter when it's put in his mouth." To this Benny ventured no remark. And Perks having fastened on the shoes to his satisfaction, said, "Come with me a minute," and together they walked off into a more crowded thoroughfare. Poor Benny! in such a state of mind as he was, he could not have fallen into worse hands. He was fast getting into the toils of the tempter; and who should deliver him? For awhile Benny and Perks walked on in silence, when suddenly Perks clutched his arm and whispered in his ear, "Look alive, an' I'll show yer a bit of nice play." "What yer mean?" said Benny. "Yer see that man afore us, with a bit o' his hankecher peepin' out o' his pocket?" "Ay." "Well, there's another chap walking alongside o' him, an' comin' down the street is three or four more; don't 'e see as how they'll all meet by that lamp-post? Well, ther'll be a bit o' crush, an' I'll just pop in atween 'em at the same time onexpected, an' for a moment we'll be sixes an' sevens, an' then the thing is done." And off Perks darted like the wind. Benny did not wait to see how he succeeded in his undertaking. The poisonous seed had taken root in the soil that had been prepared for its reception, and Benny hurried away to the hosier's shop, alas! already a thief in heart, if not in action, for he had made up his mind to take the cross-over if anything like a favourable opportunity presented itself. "I's not to blame for takin' things," he said, using Perks's words, "if people puts 'em right in one's way." It was getting dusk, and in this narrow street it was darker than in the street he had just left. Yes, there was the cross-over. And, after looking at all the windows in the neighbourhood, to see that no one was watching him, he glided stealthily up to the door. The shopkeeper was busy inside. "So much the better," he thought. "Now's the time," and he stretched out his hand to grasp the coveted article, when a hand was laid upon his arm with a firm grip, and, turning, he saw a face that made the perspiration ooze from him at every pore. Leaving Benny for a moment to recover his fright, we will go back to Tempest Court, and have a look at Nelly. She had been restless and ill at ease all the day--a sign, granny said, that she was getting better; and, indeed, she felt much better in body, though she was uneasy in mind, and, as the day kept fine and got much warmer as the hours wore on, she determined she would go out and see how Benny was getting on, for she had a vague presentiment that all was not right. On reaching the landing-stage she looked anxiously around, but Benny was nowhere visible. This did not trouble her much, but after loitering around for a good part of an hour, and he did not come, she began to feel alarmed; still she waited around, till, unable longer to bear the burden of suspense, she started off to search for him. Up one street and down another she went, looking here and there and everywhere, but without avail. Just before four o'clock she made her way to the old trysting-place by St. George's Church, in the hope that Benny might do the same; but, alas! she was doomed to disappointment, for he did not come; and when she saw the daylight begin to fade, she got frightened, feeling sure that some evil had befallen "her Benny." Evil, alas! had befallen him, though not of the nature that she had feared. At length she saw some one turn up a narrow street that looked like Benny. She could not be certain, but she would follow and see; so with beating heart she hurried up the street. Yes, it was Benny; she was near enough to recognize him now. But when she saw--as she did at a glance--what he was about to do, her heart stood still for a moment; the next moment she hurried forward with the fleetness of the wind, and laid her hand upon his arm, unable to speak a word. For two or three seconds the children looked at each other in silence, then Nelly took her brother by the hand and led him away. She uttered no word of reproach, she only said, "My poor Benny!" and her great round eyes filled with tears, which rolled silently down her wasted cheeks. "It was for you, Nelly. I thought 't would warm yer. I wouldna 'ave done it for myself." And again came the words, in a choking voice, "My poor Benny!" "I didna think it wur so very wicked, seein' as you is so ill, Nelly. Is you very mad at me, Nell?" "I's not mad, Benny, but I's sorry--oh, so sorry! I did not think----" But here she broke off abruptly: she would utter no word of reproach, for she knew it was all out of love for her. That evening she could eat no supper. Benny knew the reason and did not press her, but her silent grief nearly broke his heart. He would rather suffer anything himself than see his sister suffer. And yet now he had given her keener pain than words could tell. In the middle of the night he awoke and found her sobbing by his side as though her little heart would break, and he knew that he was the cause of her grief. "Don't take on so, Nell," he said, in a voice that had the sound of tears in it. And he drew her tear-stained face towards him and kissed her affectionately. But she only sobbed the more. "Do forgive me, Nell," he said. "I's very sorry." "I 'as nothin' to forgive you for, Benny; you's always been good to me. Ax the dear Lord to forgive yer." "I knows nowt about Him, Nell." "But He knows about you, Benny--Joe says so; and He sees everything we does. Ax Him." "Could He hear if I wur to ax Him?" "Yes, Joe says as He hears everything." "Then I'll try Him," said Benny, and, sitting up in bed, he commenced,-- "If you plaise, Mr. God, I's very sorry I tried to stole; but if you'll be a trump an' not split on a poor little chap, I'll be mighty 'bliged to yer. An' I promise 'e I won't do nowt o' the sort agin'." "There, will that do, Nell?" "Say Amen." "Amen," said Benny, and he lay down to listen for the answer. But after waiting a long time and no voice broke the stillness of the night, and Nelly having fallen asleep, our hero concluded that _she_ had received the answer, as she seemed so much comforted; so he thought that he might go to sleep also, which he accordingly did, and did not awake till late in the morning, when he saw his sister bending over him with a calm face, from which all trace of pain had fled, and a beautiful light shining in her eyes. This satisfied him that his prayer had been answered, and once more his heart was at peace. CHAPTER X. In the Woods. I roam the woods that crown The upland, where the mingled splendours glow, Where the gay company of trees look down On the green fields below. Let in through all the trees Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright, Their sunny-coloured foliage in the breeze Twinkles like beams of light. --Bryant. Perks was very much annoyed that Benny had not stayed to see him perform the feat of picking a gentleman's pocket, nevertheless, he was very anxious to cultivate our hero's acquaintance, especially as Benny had generally treated him with unmistakable contempt; so on the following morning he sought out Benny, and tried his very best to make himself agreeable. But Benny was in a decidedly unfriendly mood, and threw cold water on all Perks' advances. But, nothing daunted, Perks kept near him most of the day, and even offered to treat him to what he called "a feed." But it was of no use. Benny had learned a lesson he would not easily forget, and he knew that his safety lay in having as little to do with Perks and his class as possible. So as evening came on and Perks still hung around him, he lost all patience, and, doubling his fist in an unmistakable manner, he said, with a gymnastic flourish, "Look 'ere, Perks, if yer don't walk yer pegs in double-quick time, you'll wish yer had, that's all." "Oh, that's yer game, is it?" said Perks, in a defiant tone, and squaring up in front of Benny. "It are," was the reply; "an' if yer don't want to see fire, you'd better be off like greased lightnin'." "I shall go when I likes, and not afore," said Perks; "an' if yer thinks yer's goin' to bully this little chap, you's got the wrong pig by the ear." "I wants to bully nobody," said Benny, in a milder tone; "but I won't have yer a hangin' about me all day." "I 'spose yer wants to crib somethin' without my knowin' it," said Perks, with a sneer. "It's a lie," said Benny, colouring painfully, as the event of the previous day crossed his mind. "'T ain't a lie, neither," was the response, "or you'd not get so red over it." "D' yer think I's a thief, then?" said Benny. "No," said Perks scornfully, "but I knows it." "An' yer shall know some'at else afore yer a minit older," said Benny, springing upon him, and dealing him a blow between the eyes that made him stagger; and, before he could recover himself, a second blow sent him reeling against a wall. For a moment Perks glared at his antagonist with flaming eyes, but he saw that he was no match for Benny, so he turned on his heel and walked away. He had not gone many steps, however, before he came back again. "Look 'ere, Ben Bates," he said, "you's licked me now, but I'll get my revenge, an' I'll a'most plague the life out o' yer," and once more he walked away. Perks kept his word; from that day he became the greatest plague of Benny's life. He stole his matches, picked his pocket, tripped him up in the street, and annoyed him in every possible way that he could imagine, always mindful, however, to keep out of the reach of Benny's arm; and, being fleet-footed, that was not difficult. Benny, however, said that he could "'ford to bide his time," so he quietly went on his way, feeling that nothing could trouble him very much now that "little Nell" was getting better again. And as the summer advanced she did seem to get very much better. The cough became less troublesome, her appetite improved, her cheerfulness came back, and altogether she seemed to be taking, as Joe Wrag put it, "a new lease of her life." And yet a close observer would have noticed that the improvement was more in appearance than in reality. The pink spot still burned on either cheek, and her great round eyes shone with an unnatural lustre, and her strength, which had been failing for months, did not seem to come back; and though she went out with Benny in the morning and came back with him in the evening, yet each evening she seemed more tired and worn than on the previous one. She made no complaint, however; but, on the contrary, always declared that she was getting ever so much better. For several weeks Joe Wrag had been planning to give the children a treat; and one fine morning in June he put in an appearance at Tempest Court before they had left, much to their surprise and delight. Nelly was the first to see him coming up the court, and ran to meet him, her eyes beaming with pleasure. "Oh, Joe," she exclaimed, "I's so pleased to see you!" "Is you, my purty?" said Joe fondly; and, stooping down, he took her up in his arms, and carried her into the house. Granny looked up in surprise, and Benny stared in bewilderment, fearing there was mischief in the wind. "Yer don't get much heavier," said Joe, sitting down with Nelly on his knee. "We'll have to feed yer up a bit somehow." "Oh, I's very well, Joe," said Nelly, nestling closer to her old friend. "Dunno 'bout that," said Joe reflectively; "but what d' yer say 'bout havin' holiday to-day?" "Oh, Methusaler!" said Benny, brightening up in a moment, "that's the game, are it?" and he went out in the doorway and stood on his head--a sure sign that he was more than usually delighted. Nelly looked up in Joe's face with a beautiful light in her eyes. "D' yer mean it, Joe?" she said, simply. "Ay, my bonny, that I do," responded Joe. "Oh, then, won't it be jist--jist--" "Profusely," said Benny, coming to her rescue with one of his grand words, of which he had been laying in a stock of late. "Now, then," said Joe, "get on yer best togs, and let's be off." Poor children! they had not much of best or worst in the way of attire, but, such as it was, it was clean and neatly mended. Granny did her very best to turn them out respectable, and certainly they did her no discredit. "Where is we going?" said Nelly, as she stepped along by Joe's side, her eyes sparkling with delight. "Into the woods somewhere on t' other side o' the water," said Joe, looking fondly down into the child's beaming eyes. Benny had nearly stood on his head again when he heard that; but thought better of it, and contented himself with a shrill whistle expressive of delight. "Better an' better," he thought, flinging his cap into the air and catching it on his toe; "won't I enjoy myself, just, that's all?" By ten o'clock they were on the landing-stage, and soon after they were gliding up the river towards Eastham. Oh, how the wavelets sparkled in the summer's sunshine, and how the paddle-wheels tossed the water into foam! How happy everything seemed to-day! The ferries were crowded with passengers, all of whom seemed in the best of spirits; and the rush of water and the beat of the engine seemed to Nelly the happiest sounds she had ever heard. Benny was rushing here and there and everywhere, and asking Joe questions about everything. But Nelly sat still. Her thoughts were too big for utterance, and her little heart was full to overflowing. At length they reach New Ferry, where several passengers get off and several others get on; then on they glide again. The river here seems like a sheet of glass, so broad and smooth. Now they are nearing the river's bank, and Nelly is delighted to watch the trees gliding past. How wonderful everything seems! Surely her dreams are becoming a reality at last. For awhile after they land they sit on the river's bank in the shade of the trees, and Nelly rubs her eyes and pinches herself, to be certain that she is not asleep. How grandly the mile-wide river at their feet flows downward to the sea! And what a beautiful background to the picture the wooded landscape makes that stretches away beyond Garston and Aigburth! And Nelly wonders to herself if it is possible that heaven can be more beautiful than this. But Benny soon gets impatient to be off into the wood, and, humouring his wish, they set off up the narrow path, between banks of ferns and primroses and wild flowers of almost every hue. The tall trees wave their branches above them, and the birds whistle out their happy hearts. Here and there the grasshoppers chirp among the undergrowth, and myriads of insects make the air vocal with their ceaseless hum. They had scarcely got into the heart of the wood ere they found that Benny was missing; but they were neither surprised nor alarmed at this, for the lad was fairly brimming over with delight, and could not stay for five minutes in the same place if he were to be crowned. Nelly was as much delighted as her brother; perhaps more so, but she had a different way of expressing it. She felt as she sat on a mossy bank, holding Joe's rough and horny hand within both her own, and looked away up the long avenues between the trees, and watched the dancing sunlight that was sifted down in golden patches, and listened to the dreamy murmur of the summer's wind through the leafy trees, mingling with the song of birds and the lowing of the cattle in the distant fields, as if she could have cried for very joy. It was all so solemn, and yet so delightful, so awe-inspiring and yet so gladsome, that she hardly knew whether to laugh outright, or hide her face on Joe's shoulder and have a good cry. Benny, however, decided the matter for her. He had been wandering no one knew whither, and Joe was beginning to think that it was time to go off in search of him, when they heard him shouting at the top of his voice,-- "Joe, Joe! Golly! Make haste--quick, d' ye hear? Thunder!" Judging by the tone of his voice, as well as by his words, that he was in a difficulty of some kind, Joe and Nelly started off in the direction from whence the sound came. They had not gone far, however, before they espied our hero, and at sight of him Joe stood stock-still and held his sides. For there was Benny suspended by his nether garment to the branch of a tree, and striking out with his hands and feet like a huge octopus in a frantic and vain endeavour to recover a horizontal position. He had gone out on this branch, which was not more than six feet from the ground, for some unknown purpose, and, missing his hold, he slipped, and would have fallen to the ground but for the friendly stump that held him suspended in mid-air. "Joe! Oh, do come! Murder and turf! D' ye hear? What's yer larfin at? Are 'e moon-struck? Oh--h--!" he shrieked out at the top of his voice, still going through most unheard-of gymnastic exercises, and vainly trying to raise his head to the level of his heels. To make the matter worse, a young gentleman passing at the time inquired of Benny, with a very grave face, "Whether his was a new method of learning to swim on dry land? If so, he thought he had got the action nearly perfect, the only thing required was to keep his head just a trifle higher." By this time, however, Joe had come to his relief, and easily lifted him down without further mishap. The young gentleman tried to poke some more fun at Benny, but he would not reply, and soon after set off with Joe and Nelly to get some dinner. After dinner they took a ramble across the fields, in the direction of Raby Mere. Benny's adventure had rather sobered him, so he did not object to assist his sister in gathering wild flowers, while Joe artistically arranged them into what seemed to the children to be a magnificent bouquet. Fleet-footed indeed were the hours of that long summer's afternoon. Benny wished a thousand times that the day could last for ever; and Nelly, though she was getting tired, watched with a look of pain in her eyes the sun getting farther and farther down in the western sky. As they were returning across the fields Benny was strongly tempted to leap a ditch that he had noticed at the beginning of their ramble--so strongly tempted indeed that he could not resist it. So off he set at a swinging trot as soon as they got into the field. Joe guessed what he was after, and called him back; but it was of no use, he either did not hear or would not heed, for he went faster and faster as he neared the ditch. Joe saw him fling up his hands, take a flying leap, and then disappear. After waiting a few moments, and he did not appear on the opposite bank, Joe and Nelly hurried after him. On reaching the ditch they found that he was stuck fast in the mud about two feet from the opposite side, and the more he tried to get out the deeper he sank. "Oh, quick, Joe!" he shouted, "or I'll be out o' sight in another minit." "Sarve you right!" said Joe, laughing; "you had no business to get in there." "I can't stay to argify," retorted Benny; "don't yer see there's scarce anything of me left?" "Ay, I see plain enough," said Joe, going to the other side, and pulling him out, though not without an effort. "I wonder what mischief you'll be into next?" "Dunno," said Benny, regarding his legs with a look of dismay. Then, after a long pause, "I say, Joe, how's I to get this mud off?" "Scrape off what yer can," said Joe, "and let the rest dry, and it'll rub off as clean as a new pin." Benny was rather ashamed of his appearance, however, when he got into the wood again, and found himself in the midst of two or three hundred Sunday-school children and their teachers, all nicely dressed, who had come out for a picnic. But when he saw them each with a small bun loaf and a cup of milk, he could not help drawing near, notwithstanding the rather disgraceful state of his legs. Nelly was also anxious to have a nearer view of all those happy-looking children. Fortunately for Benny, the superintendent of the school was the gentleman that had invited him into the chapel months before. Benny felt sure he knew them again, but whether he did or not he invited all three to sit down with the rest, and gave them each a bun and a cup of milk. Joe was as delighted as the children with the kindness shown, and was soon quite at his ease. After lunch the children ran races for prizes, and Benny was invited to compete with the rest. This suited him exactly, and very soon after, with about a dozen others, he was bounding up a broad avenue between the trees, in a well-matched and most exciting race. For the first half of the distance Benny dropped into the rear, then he began gradually to gain upon the others. Now was his time, so putting on a spurt, for which he had saved his breath, he went bounding ahead of all the others, and amid loud hurrahs came first into the goal. Benny never felt so proud in his life before as when that first prize--a brand new sixpence--was put into his hand. His success, however, disqualified him from competing again, so he had to content himself with watching the others run. But the most delightful circumstance of all to Nelly was when all the children stood up in a large circle, and sang in their pure young voices the following hymn:-- "Land ahead! Its fruits are waving O'er the fields of fadeless green; And the living waters laving Shores where heavenly forms are seen. "There let go the anchor. Riding On this calm and silvery bay, Seaward fast the tide is gliding, Shores in sunlight stretch away. "Now we're safe from all temptation, All the storms of life are past; Praise the Rock of our salvation, We are safely home at last." Nelly never forgot that little hymn to her dying day; and when that evening they glided down the placid river towards home, she repeated to herself over and over again-- "Seaward fast the tide is gliding, Shores in sunlight stretch away." And when in her little corner she lay down to sleep, it was only to dream of the sunlit shores on the banks of the far Jordan river. Heaven seemed nearer and dearer to her ever after that day, and she sometimes almost longed for the sunny slopes of that far-off country where there should be no more weariness nor pain. CHAPTER XI. Benny prays. Prayer is the burden of a sigh, The falling of a tear, The upward glancing of the eye When none but God is near. Prayer is the simplest form of speech That infant lips can try; Prayer the sublimest strains that reach The Majesty on high. --Montgomery. The long summer days passed all too quickly, and autumn came again. The days began to shorten, and the evenings to be cold. Nelly felt the change in an unmistakable manner, for her cough returned worse than ever, and her appetite and strength began to fail rapidly. But the hopeful little child battled bravely with her growing weakness, and each morning went forth to earn her daily bread. One afternoon in October Benny was down on the pier, when he saw Perks coming towards him, and not wishing to have anything to say to him, he was about to turn away, when Perks called out, "Does yer want to hear a bit o' news?" "No!" said Benny. "Yer wants to 'ear what I knows, I'm sartin." "Well! what is it?" said Benny, carelessly. "Your Nelly's killed!" "It's a lie!" said Benny, paling to the lips. "'Taint a lie, neither; she's been run over with a 'bus, an' 'ad her yed cut off." "You lying thief!" said Benny. "If yer not out o' my sight in a minit I'll pound yer to a jelly." And Benny made a rush towards him. But Perks was not to be caught, and was soon out of sight. Benny did not believe a word Perks had said; and yet, somehow, his words troubled him, and very long seemed the time till four o'clock, when he would meet her in the shadow of St. George's Church. If Perks' only object was to plague and annoy Benny, he could not have been more successful, for try as he would, he could not get Perks' words out of his head. Punctually at four o'clock he was standing by the church, but Nelly was not there, and a dull pain crept into his heart, such as he had never felt before. Five minutes pass--ten minutes--fifteen minutes pass, and still Nelly had not come, and Benny began to fear that something had really happened to her. Just then he saw Bill Tucker--a boy of his acquaintance--coming towards him. "Have yer seen Nelly, Bill?" he shouted, when the lad got within hearing distance. "Ay; ain't yer heerd?" "Heerd what?" said Benny, growing paler than ever. "Why, she's got hurt," said the other. "Are 'e sure, now?" said Benny, great tears starting in his eyes. "Ay, quite sure. I seed the perlice myself takin' her to the 'firmary." "Oh, no! 't aint true, are it, Bill? Say yer a-foolin' me," said Benny, trembling from head to foot. "I wish it weren't true," said, the lad, "but I seed 'em pick her up mysel', an' I's 'feared she's dead; she looked like it." "Did a 'bus run over her?" "No. A big dog runned agin her, an' she fell with her yed on a sharp stone." "Yer quite sure, Bill?" "Ay, quite," said the lad; "but go to the 'firmary an' see for yoursel'." "Which way?" said Benny. "Haaf-way up Brownlow Hill, an' roun' to the left; a mighty big 'ouse." And off Benny started, like the wind. By dint of many inquiries he found himself in the right street, but looking in vain for the Infirmary. Just then a policeman came up. "Could yer tell me where the 'firmary are, please?" said Benny, doffing his cap. "Why, there, right afore your eyes." "What, that?" said Benny, pointing to the huge building. "Ay, to be sure," said the policeman. "Oh, lor'!" was the reply, "I thought that wur the 'ouse the Queen lived in." The policeman was about to laugh, but noticing Benny's troubled face, he said, "Do you want to get in?" "Ay," said Benny, "that I do." "Then go up this street. There's the lodge door on your left; you can't miss it." "Thanks, sir," and off Benny started. In response to his timid knock the door was opened by a kind-looking man. "This are the 'firmary, ain't it?" said Benny. "Yes, my little man," was the answer. "What do you want?" "I wants to know if Nelly are in 'ere?" "I don't know. Who is she?" "My sister," said Benny, the tears starting in his eyes. "When was she brought here?" "To-day. Bill Tucker said as 'ow she was hurt in the street an' brought here." "Yes, a little girl was brought in two or three hours ago." "Wur she very white, an' had long hair?" "Yes, my little man." "Oh, that wur Nelly. Let me see her, please." "You cannot to-day, it's against rules; you can see her to-morrow morning, after ten o'clock." "Oh, do let me jist peep at her." "I cannot, my little fellow; and besides, it would do her no good." "But it ud do me good," said Benny, gulping down a great lump in his throat. "She is all I has in the world." "I'm very sorry, my boy, but you can't see her to-night." "Not for jist a minit?" "No, not to-night." "She ain't dead, then?" "No, but she is unconscious." "Will she get better?" "I hope so. Now run away and come again to-morrow, and rest satisfied that your little sister will be well taken care of." "Oh, please," said Benny, making a last appeal, the great tears running down his cheeks the while. "I cannot let you see her, however willing I might be," said the man. "Now run away, there's a good lad." "Oh, dear," groaned Benny, as he stepped out into the darkening street. "What shall I do? what shall I do?" He had tasted no food since noon, but he never thought of hunger. He had been on the tramp all the day, but he felt no weariness. There was one great pain in his heart, and that banished every other feeling. Nelly was in that great house suffering, perhaps dying; and he could not speak to her--not even look at her. What right had these people to keep his Nelly from him? Was not she his own little Nell, all that he had in the wide, wide world? How dared they, then, to turn him away? Hour after hour he wandered up and down in front of the huge building, watching the twinkling lights in its many windows. How could he go away while Nelly was suffering there? Could he sleep in his snug corner while his own little Nell was suffering amongst strangers? It could not be. So when the great town grew silent around him, he sat down on a doorstep nearly opposite the entrance, and waited for the morning. The night was chilly, but he felt not the cold; his heart felt as if it would burn through his body. How long the night seemed, and he almost wondered if morning would ever come. Suddenly a thought struck him. Had he not better pray? He remembered how Nelly prayed every night ere she lay down to sleep, and once he had prayed and felt all the better for it. He would pray again. So he got up and knelt on the cold flags, and looking up into the silent heavens, where the pale stars kept watch over the sleeping earth, he said, "Oh, Mr. God, I's in great trouble, for Nelly's got hurt, and they's took her into the 'firmary, an' won't let me see her till to-morrer, but You knows all about it, I specks, for Joe says as how You knows everything. But I dunna want her to die, for Joe says You takes people who dies that is good to a mighty nice place; nicer'n Eastham by a long chalk, an' how You has lots an' lots o' childer; an' if that be the case, I's sure You needn't take little Nell; for oh, Sir, she's all I's got in the world. Please let her stay an' get better. Oh, do now! for I'll break my heart if she dies. An' 'member, I's only a little chap, an' I's no one but Nelly; an' 'tis so lonesome out here, an' she in there. Please make her better. If I was in Your place, an' You was a little chap like me, I'd let Your Nelly stay. I would for sure. An' oh, if You'll let my Nelly stay an' get better, I'll be awful good. Amen." Benny waited for a few moments longer in silence, then got up and crept to the doorstep, and in five minutes after he was fast asleep. He was aroused in the morning about nine o'clock by the door being opened suddenly, against which he was leaning, and he fell into the passage. He got up as quickly as possible, but not in time to escape a fierce kick dealt him by a hard-featured woman. Poor child! it was a painful awaking for him. But he was thankful it was broad day. He was cold, and almost faint for want of food, yet he was not conscious of hunger. When at length he was admitted into the Infirmary he walked as one in a dream. At any other time he would have noticed the long corridors and broad flights of stairs. But he saw nothing of this to-day. He kept his eyes fixed on the nurse who walked before him, and who was leading him to his little Nell. He was told that he must be very quiet, and on no account excite her, or it might prove fatal to her, as she was in a very critical state. She had recovered consciousness on the previous night, but she was so weak, and her nervous system had received such a shock, that she could not bear any excitement. Benny only partly understood what it all meant, but he had determined that he would be very quiet, and make no more noise than he could possibly help. So he followed the pleasant-faced nurse as silently as possible into the Children's Ward. He noticed the two long rows of beds between which they were passing, but he had no eyes for the occupants. At length the nurse stopped by the side of a little cot, and with a sudden bound he stood by her side. He could hardly repress a cry that rose to his lips, and a great lump rose in his throat that almost choked him; but with a tremendous effort he gulped it down, and brushed away the tears that almost blinded him. There in the cot was his little Nell, pale as the pillow on which she lay, yet with a look of deep content upon her face, and just the shadow of a smile lingering round the corners of her mouth. Benny was about to throw his arms around her, but the nurse held up her finger. Nelly's eyes were closed, so that she did not know of their presence, and Benny was made to understand that he must wait until she should open her eyes of her own accord. So he stood as motionless as the little figure on the bed, gazing with hungry eyes at his little sister, who was silently slipping away from his grasp. He had not to wait long. Slowly the great round eyes opened, the vanishing smile came back and brightened all her face, the lips parted sufficiently for her to whisper "My Benny." And with a low cry Benny bent down his head, and the little wasted arms were twined about his neck, and then the round eyes closed again, and the nurse saw two tears steal out underneath the long lashes, and roll silently down her cheek. For a few moments they remained thus in silence, then Benny, unable longer to restrain his feelings, sobbed out-- "Oh, Nelly! I can't bear it; my heart's breaking." "Don't give way so," she said softly. "It's so comfortable here, an' the good Lord'll take care o' you, Benny." "But you will soon be better, Nelly, won't you?" "Yes, Benny, I'll soon be better, but not as you mean it. I's going to Jesus, and shall never have no more cough, nor feel no more pain." "Oh, no! you's going to get better. I axed the Lord last night to make you better an' let you stay." "No, Benny, I shan't stay long. I's known it for months, an' I's willin' to go, 'cause I know as how the Lord will take care of you." "But I canna let you go," said Benny, sobbing louder than ever. Then the nurse came forward, and laid her hand upon his shoulder. "You must not excite your sister," she said kindly, "for that is not the way to make her better." "Oh, but she's all I has," he sobbed. "Yes, poor boy, I know," she replied. "But if your sister leaves you she'll be better off, and will not have to tramp the streets in the cold and wet; so you must think that what is your loss will be her gain." Nelly raised her eyes to the nurse with a grateful look for talking to Benny in that way. And before he left he had grown calm, and seemingly resigned. It was a painful parting; but Nelly did her best to cheer him up, reminding him that in two days he would be able to come and see her again. Granny was in great trouble at the absence of the children, and it was no small relief to her when, about noon, Benny put in an appearance at Tempest Court. One look at his face, however, was sufficient to convince her that something had happened, and when Benny told her what had befallen his little Nell, the old woman sat down and cried; for she knew very well that never more would the little face brighten the dingy court. And granny had got to love the sweet, patient little child as her own; and though for months she had been convinced that the little flower was marked to fall, yet it had come in a way she had not expected, and, like Benny, she felt it very hard to give her up. After dinner Benny went out again to face the world. It was with a very sad heart that he did it; for he felt that from henceforth he would have to fight the battle of life alone. CHAPTER XII. Fading Away. The morning flowers displayed their sweets, And gay their silken leaves unfold, As careless of the noontide heats, As fearless of the evening cold. Nipt by the winds unkindly blast, Parched by the sun's directer ray, The momentary glories waste, The short-lived beauties die away. --S. Wesley. Joe Wrag heard the news in silence. Benny, who had gone to him to tell him what had happened to Nell, was not half pleased that he said nothing in reply. But Joe was too troubled to talk. Like granny, he had known for months what was coming, but it had come suddenly, and in a way that he had not expected, and the old man, as he afterwards expressed it, was "struck all of a heap." Benny waited for some time, but finding Joe was not inclined to talk, he made his way home, leaving the old man gazing into the fire, with a vacant look in his eyes and a look of pain upon his face. No one ever knew what the old man suffered that night. It was like tearing open the wound that had been made twenty years before, when his only son, as the crowning act of his unkindness, ran away from home, and had never since been heard of. "If I could only believe that there was the smallest hope o' my ever getting to heaven," he muttered, "it 'ud be easier to bear." And he hid his face in his hands, while great tears dropped between his fingers to the floor. "Bless her little heart!" he murmured; "she did not believe as how any wur excluded; she allers stuck to that word 'whosoever,' an' sometimes I wur inclined to think as how she wur right. I wonder, now, if she wur? for sartinly it looks the reasonabler. "Bless me!" he said after a long pause, "I'm getting mortal shaky in my faith; I used to be firm as a rock. I wonder if it are my heart getting righter, or my head getting wrong. But I mun have a few more talks wi' the little hangel afore she goes." As soon as Joe was liberated from his watch, he made his way direct to the Infirmary, and bitterly was he disappointed when told that he could not be admitted, and that if he wanted to see the child he must come again on the following day. His heart was yearning for a sight of her face, and another day and night seemed such a long time to wait; but he turned away without a word, and went slowly home. Evening found him again at his post of duty, and the next morning found him anxious and sad. The night had seemed so very long, and he was burning with impatience to get away. The men came to work at length, and off he started with all possible speed. The porter at the door knew him again, and he was admitted without a word. Nelly was expecting him; she knew it was visitors' day, and she was certain he would come, so she waited with closed eyes, listening for the footfall of her old friend. She knew without looking up when he stooped beside her, and reached out her wasted hand, and drew down his weather-beaten wrinkled face and kissed him. For a long time neither of them spoke. Joe felt if he attempted to utter a word it would choke him, for she was far more wasted than he expected to see her, and somehow he felt that that was the last time they would ever meet on earth. Nelly was the first to break the silence. "I's so glad you's come, Joe," she said simply. "Are 'e, my honey?" said Joe, with a choking in his throat. "Ay," she replied; "I wanted to see yer once more. You's been very good to me, Joe, and to Benny, an' I wanted to thank you afore I died." "I dunna want thanks, honey," he said, sitting down in the one chair by her bedside, and hiding his face in his hands. "I know yer does not want 'em, Joe; but it does me good, an' I shall tell the Lord when I gets to heaven how good you've been." Joe could not reply, and Nelly closed her eyes, and whispered again to herself, as she had often done, "Seaward fast the tide is gliding, Shores in sunlight stretch away." Then after awhile she spoke again, without opening her eyes. "You'll not be long afore you comes too, will yer, Joe?" "Perhaps the Lord will let me look at you through the gate," sobbed Joe; "but I'm afeard He won't let sich as me in." "Oh, yes, Joe," she said, opening her eyes with such a pained look. "Does you think the Lord does not love yer as much as I do? An' won't He be as glad to see yer as I shall?" "It does look reasonable like, my purty," said Joe; "but, oh, I'm so afeard." "'Who-so-ever,'" whispered Nelly, and again closed her eyes, while the troubled expression passed away, and the smile that Joe loved to see came back and lit up her pure _spirituelle_ face with a wonderful beauty. And as Joe watched the smile lingering about her mouth as if loth to depart, he felt somehow as if that child had been sent of God to teach him the truth, and to lighten the burden of his dreary life by giving him a hope of heaven. "'Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,'" he muttered to himself. "Yes," said the nurse, coming softly to his side, "out of the mouths of babes He perfects praise." Joe looked up in surprise. "Do you think the bairn is right?" he stammered out. "I'm sure of it," she replied. "But what about the elect?" said Joe, in a tone of voice that proclaimed how deeply he was agitated. "I think the elect are 'whosoever will,'" she replied. "So Nelly thinks," he said, and shook his head sadly, as if such news were too good to be true. The nurse, besides being a kind motherly woman who dearly loved children, was also a person of strong common sense, and hence she saw Joe's difficulty in a moment. "You have no children of your own, I suppose," she said. "I had a son once," said Joe. "I hope he's still living." "You do not love him, of course?" In a moment Joe was on his feet. "Love him!" said Joe, trembling from head to foot. "I'd lie down an' die for him this blessed moment if it would do him good." "Ah! he has been a very good son, I expect," said the nurse. Joe sat down again, and hid his face in his hands. After awhile he looked up and said with evident emotion, "No, he was what people would call a bad son--a very bad 'un." "Then if he were to come home again, you certainly would close the door against him?" "Close the door agin him! Close the door agin my own child, my own flesh and blood! Why, I've been longing for years for him to come home. I wish he'd try me, he should have the best of everything I've got in the house. Oh, marcy! how my poor old heart 'ud ache with joy if he were to come to-night." Joe had got quite excited while delivering himself of this long speech. So the nurse said quietly, "So you think, Joe, that you are better than God." "Better 'n God?" "Yes; more merciful, and loving, and kind." "Who said so?" said Joe, staring at her as if he could scarcely believe his own ears. "Well, you implied it," said the nurse, quietly. "Me implied it?" said he in a tone of bewilderment. "How so?" "Well, you say you have a bad son who has been away many years, and yet you say you love him still, so much so that you would willingly die for him; and that, bad as he has been, if he were to come home to-night, instead of driving him from the door, you would give him the heartiest welcome, and think nothing in the house too good for him. And yet you think God will turn away you. So you must admit, Joe," she said with a smile, "that you think you have more love and mercy in your heart than God has in His?" Joe was silent. And Nelly whispered to the nurse, "Thank you _so_ much." After awhile Joe got up, and leaning over the crib, he kissed the pale brow of the little sufferer. "Good bye, my purty," he whispered. "We'll meet again, I do believe." "Ay, Joe, I'm sure we shall." "I'm main sorry to lose 'e," he said in a faltering voice, and brushing his rough hand across his eyes; "but I ken give yer to God." "I'll be waiting, Joe, 'gin you come. Now kiss me, for I'll be gone, I reckon, afore you come again." Silently Joe bent over her, and pressed a last lingering kiss upon her paling lips. Then, sobbing, turned away and left the room. Granny and Benny called a little later in the day, and found her sinking fast. Her last words to her brother were: "Be good, Benny, an' the Lord will provide, an' we'll meet in heaven." Then she lay as if asleep, taking no further notice of any one. Once or twice the nurse heard her repeating, "Seaward fast the tide is gliding," and felt that the words were sadly true. The nurse told granny that the child was dying, not of the blow on the head, but of swift decline. Nothing could save her, she said. The shock to her nervous system had of course hastened the end; but for that she might have lived till another spring, but certainly not longer. She did not seem to suffer in the least. Hour after hour she lay quite still, while the tide of her little life ebbed swiftly out, and the darkness stole on apace; but she did not fear the gloom. The brave little heart that had borne so patiently the frowns of an unkindly world, was now resting in the love of God. The smile that had so long flickered over her face like firelight on a wall, now settled into a look of deep content. No murmur ever escaped her lips, not even a sigh; now and then her lips moved as if in prayer, that was all. And thus she lay waiting for the messenger that should still the little heart into an everlasting rest, and listening for the footfalls that should tell of the coming of her Lord. After her last look at Benny, she was never seen to open her eyes again, but gradually sank to rest. So fades a summer's cloud away, So sinks the gale when storms are o'er, So gently shuts the eye of day, So dies a wave along the shore. Two days after, Joe and Benny went together to the Infirmary. But they were too late: the pure spirit had gone to God, and the little tired feet were for ever at rest. "Cannot we see her?" said Benny. "No, you had better not," was the reply. Benny felt it very keenly that he might not see his little dead sister, and yet it was best. They were told, however, if they would be at the New Cemetery at the east of the town on the following day, they might see her buried, and mark her grave. It was a cold cheerless afternoon when little Nelly Bates was laid in her grave. There was no pomp or display about that funeral, for she was buried at the public expense. Only two mourners stood by the grave, Benny and Joe, but they were mourners indeed. Benny went from the grave-side of little Nell to his corner under granny's stairs, and sobbed himself to sleep. And Joe went to his hut to muse on the mercy of God, and to revel in his new-found hope of heaven. CHAPTER XIII. The Tide turns. Be what thou seemest: live thy creed, Hold up to earth the torch divine; Be what thou prayest to be made; Let the great Master's steps be thine. --Bonar. How Benny lived through the next few weeks he never knew. It seemed to him as if the world had become suddenly dark. The one little being who had been the sunshine of his life was buried up in the damp cold grave, and now there seemed nothing to live for, nothing to work for, nothing even to hope for; for what was all the world to him now his little Nell was gone? He missed her everywhere, and was continually fancying he saw her running to meet him as he drew near the church where they had regularly met for so long a time; and sometimes he would turn round with a sudden start, and with the word "Nelly" on his lips, as he fancied he heard the pattering of her little feet behind him. He grew despondent, too. While Nelly lived there was some one to work for, some one to bear rebuffs and insults for; but now what did it matter whether he sold his matches or not? He could go hungry; he did not mind. In fact, he did not seem to care what became of him. There seemed to him nothing to fight the world for--nothing. But for Joe he would have moped his life away in some dark corner where no one could see him. But Joe taught him to believe that his little sister was not lost, only gone before, and that perhaps she looked down upon him from heaven, and that it might grieve her to see him fretting so. So he tried to sell his matches or earn a penny in some other way in a listless, hopeless manner. But it was very hard work. And when evening came he would drag himself wearily to his little corner under granny's stairs, and generally sob himself to sleep. He missed his little companion in the evenings almost more than at any time, and wished that he had died with her. Sometimes he went out to the cemetery to see her grave; and no one knew what the little fellow suffered as he knelt there with clasped hands, dropping scalding tears upon the cold earth that hid his little sister from his sight. He seemed to take no comfort in anything, not even in the story-books that granny had hunted up for him, and which he was beginning to read so nicely. He was proud of his learning while Nelly lived; but all that was changed now. And so the weeks wore away, and winter came in dark and cold. But people generally did not seem to mind the darkness nor the cold, for Christmas was drawing near, and they were anticipating a time of mirth and merrymaking, of friendly greetings and family gatherings. The trains began to be crowded again with homecomers for their holidays; shopkeepers began to vie with each other as to which could present in their windows the grandest display; the streets were crowded with well-dressed people who were getting in a stock of Christmas cheer; and everywhere people seemed bent on enjoying themselves to the utmost of their ability. All this, however, only seemed to make Benny sadder than ever. He remembered how the Christmas before Nelly was with him, and he was as happy and light-hearted as he well could be. Yet now the very happiness of the people seemed to mock his sorrow, and he wished that Christmas was gone again. One bitterly cold afternoon he was at his old place, waiting for the railway boat to come up to the stage, in the hope that some one of its many passengers would permit him to carry his or her bag, when he noticed a gentleman standing against the side of the boat with a portmanteau in his right hand, and holding the hand of a little girl in his left. The boat was a long time coming to, for a heavy sea was running at the time, and the gentleman seemed to get terribly impatient at the delay. But Benny was rather glad of it, for he had abundant opportunity of looking at the little girl, whose pleasant, smiling face reminded him more of his little dead sister than any face he had ever seen. "Golly, ain't she purty!" said Benny to himself; "and don't that woolly stuff look hot round her jacket! And what long hair she have!--a'most as long as little Nell's," and he brushed his hand quickly across his eyes. "An' she looks good an' kind, too. I specks the gent is her par." And Benny regarded the gentleman more attentively than he had hitherto done. "Well now, ain't that cur'us!" he muttered. "If that ain't the very gent whose portmantle I carried the night faather wolloped me so. I'll try my luck agin, for he's a good fare, an' not to be sneezed at." By this time the gangway had been let down, and the gentleman and his little girl were among the first to hurry on to the stage. In a moment Benny had stepped forward, and touching his cap very respectfully, said, "Carry yer bag, sir?" "No," said the gentleman shortly, and hurried on. "Oh, please, sir, do!" said Benny, his eyes filling with tears. "I's had no luck to-day." But the gentleman did not heed his tears or his pleading voice. He had been annoyed at the delay of the boat, and he was in no mood to brook further delay. So he said sternly, "Be off with you this moment!" Benny turned away with a great sob, for since Nelly died rebuffs had become doubly hard to bear. He did not try to get another fare, but stood looking out on the storm-tossed river, trying to gulp down the great lumps that rose continually in his throat. "I specks I'll have to starve," he thought bitterly, "for I can't get a copper to-day nohow." Just then he felt a touch on his arm, and turning his brimming eyes, he saw the little girl he had noticed on the boat. "What's the matter, little boy?" she said, in a voice that sounded like music to the sad-hearted child. They were the first kind words that had been spoken to him for the day, and they completely broke him down. At length he stammered out between his sobs, "Oh, I's so hungry an' cold, an' little Nelly's dead; an' all the world is agin me." "Have you no father?" she said. "No; I's no father, nor mother, nor sister, nor nobody. Nelly was all I had in the world, an' now she's dead." "Poor boy!" said the kindly little voice. "And how do you get your living?" "Oh, I sells matches or carries gents' portmantles when they'll let me, or anything honest as turns up." "Well, don't think papa is unkind because he spoke cross to you, but he had been annoyed. And here is a shilling he gave me to-day; you need it more than I do, so I will give it to you. Are you here every day?" "Ay, I's mostly here every day," said Benny, closing his fingers around the bright shilling as one in a dream. The next moment he was alone. He looked everywhere for the little girl, but she was nowhere visible. "Golly!" said Benny, rubbing his eyes, "I wonder now if she wur a hangel. Nelly said as 'ow the Lord 'ud provide. An' mebbe He sent her with that bob. I wish I had looked more particler to see if she had wings, 'cause Nelly said as how hangels had wings." More than twenty times that afternoon Benny looked at the bright new shilling that had been given him; the very sight of it seemed to do him good. It seemed to turn the tide, too, in his favour, for before dark he had earned another shilling; and that evening he trudged to his home with a lighter heart than he had known for many a week. The weather on Christmas Eve was anything but orthodox. There was neither frost nor snow; but, on the contrary, it was close and sultry. Benny had been out in the neighbourhood of Edge Hill with a big bundle for a woman, who dismissed him with three halfpence, and the remark that young vagabonds like he always charged twice as much as they expected to get. So Benny was trudging home in a not very happy frame of mind. He had been tolerably fortunate, however, during the early part of the day, and that compensated him to some extent for his bad afternoon's work. As he was passing along a street in the neighbourhood of Falkner Square he was arrested by the sound of music and singing. Now, as we have hinted before, Benny was very sensitive to the influence of music, and, in fact, anything beautiful had a peculiar charm for him. The window of the house before which he stopped stood slightly open, so that he was not only able to hear the music, but also to distinguish the words that were being sung. It was a pure childish voice that was singing to a simple accompaniment on the piano,-- "There is beauty all around, When there's love at home; There is joy in every sound, When there's love at home. Peace and plenty here abide, Smiling sweet on every side; Time doth softly, sweetly glide, When there's love at home." Benny waited, as if rooted to the ground, until the song ended; waited a minute longer in the hope that the singer would begin again. And in that minute the little singer came to the window and looked out and saw our hero; and Benny, looking up at the same moment, saw the face of his angel, and hurried away out of sight, as if he had been guilty of some wrong. The little singer was Eva Lawrence, the daughter of a well-to-do man of business in the town. She was not ten years of age by several months, but she was unusually thoughtful for her age, and was as kind-hearted as she was thoughtful. As soon as Mr. Lawrence had finished his tea that evening, and had betaken himself to his easy chair, little Eva clambered upon his knee, and, putting her arms about his neck, said, "Papa, what do you think?" "Oh, I think ever so many things," he replied, laughing. "Now, you naughty man, you're going to tease again. But I've begun wrong way about, as usual. I want to ask a favour." "I expected as much, Eva," said her father, smiling. "But how many more Christmas presents will you want?" "But this is not a present exactly." "Oh, indeed," he said, pretending to look serious. "Now, don't be a tease," she said, pulling his whiskers, "for I'm quite serious. Now listen." "I'm all attention, my dear." "You want a little boy to run errands and sweep out the office, and do little odd jobs, don't you?" "Well, who has been telling you that?" "Nobody, papa; I only wanted to know, you see. So you do, don't you?" "Well, I shall the beginning of the year, for the boy I have is leaving. But what has that to do with my little girl?" "Well, papa, our teacher is always telling us that we ought to be little missionaries, and lend a helping hand to the needy whenever possible, and do all the good we can." "Quite right, my dear; but I can't see yet what my little girl is driving at." "Well, she was telling us only last Sunday that lots of people would be better if they had better surroundings; and that if something could be done to get those little street Arabs more out of the reach of temptation, they might grow up to be good and honest men and women." "Well, Eva?" "Well, papa, I should like for you to give one of those little street boys a chance." "Who do you mean?" "That poor boy I gave the shilling to on the landing-stage the other day, don't you remember--when you called me a silly girl?" "And were you not silly, Eva?" "No, papa, I don't think I was; for I am sure the boy is not bad, he has such honest eyes. And he said he had no father, nor mother, nor brother, nor sister, and he seemed in such trouble." "Well, my child?" "You know now what I mean, papa. I confess I had quite forgotten the poor boy till this afternoon I saw him standing in front of the house. I had been singing 'Love at Home,' and he had been listening, I think; and I fancy it had made him sad, for his eyes were full of tears, but when he saw he was noticed he hurried away as quickly as possible." "And suppose I should decide to employ this boy, Eva, where should I find him?" "Oh, he said he was nearly always on the landing-stage. He sold matches there, except when he was running errands." "Well, I will think about it, Eva." "Oh, promise, papa, there's a good man." "I don't believe in making rash promises, Eva," said Mr. Lawrence kindly; "and, besides, I have very little faith in those street boys. They are taught to be dishonest from their infancy, and it is a difficult matter for them to be anything else; but I'll think about it." And Mr. Lawrence was as good as his word; he did think about it, and, what is more, he decided to give the little boy a trial. Benny was on the landing-stage on New Year's Day when Mr. Lawrence was returning from Chester. He had scarcely left the railway boat when several lads crowded around him with "Carry yer bag, sir?" Benny among the number. He quickly recognized our hero from the description Eva gave, and placed his bag in Benny's hand, giving him the address of his office. Arrived there, much to Benny's bewilderment, he was invited inside, and Mr. Lawrence began to ply him with questions, all of which he answered in a straightforward manner, for there was little in his life that he cared to hide. Mr. Lawrence was so much impressed in the boy's favour that he engaged him at once, promising him two shillings a week more than he had intended to give. When Benny at length comprehended his good fortune--for it was some time before he did--he sobbed outright. Looking up at length with streaming eyes, he blurted out, "I can't tell 'e how 'bliged I is," and ran out of the office and hurried home to tell granny the news, not quite certain in his own mind whether he was awake or dreaming. Granny was upstairs when Benny burst into the room, and when she came down the first thing she saw was Benny standing on his head. "Oh, granny," he shouted, "I's made my fortin! I's a gent at last!" Granny was a considerable time before she could really discover from Benny what had happened; but when she did discover she seemed as pleased as the child. And a bigger fire was made up, and a more sumptuous supper was got ready in honour of the occasion. CHAPTER XIV. A Glimpse of Paradise. I know not how others saw her, But to me she was wholly fair; And the light of the heaven she came from Still lingered and gleamed in her hair; For it was as wavy and golden And as many changes took As the shadow of sunlight ripples Or the yellow bed of a brook --J.R. Lowell. For the next month Benny lived in a seventh heaven of delight. The only drawback to his happiness was that Nelly was not alive to share his good fortune. Time was mercifully blunting the keen edge of his sorrow, and day by day he was getting more reconciled to his loss. Yet never a day passed but that he wished a hundred times that his little sister were still with him, that they might rejoice together in his good fortune. He knew that she was better off, and even hoped that she was not altogether ignorant of his success in life. Yet how much pleasanter it would have been, he thought, if they could have journeyed on through life together. Benny had wonderful dreams of future success. Though not of a very imaginative temperament, he could not help occasionally indulging in daydreams and castle-building, and some of his castles, it must be admitted, were of the most magnificent description. He saw the glowing heights before him, the summits of which others had reached, and why might not he? He certainly had commenced the ascent: what was there to hinder him from reaching the top? Had not granny told him of poor Liverpool boys who, by perseverance and honest toil, had become wealthy men, and were now occupying high and honourable positions? Surely, then, there was a chance for him, and if he did not succeed it should not be for want of trying. He felt that already he had got his foot on the first rung of the ladder, and if there was any chance of his reaching the top he would do it. And as he thought thus, the future opened out before him in glowing vistas of unimagined beauty. He knew that he must wait many years; that he must work hard and patiently; that perhaps many difficulties would arise that he could not foresee; still, still, across the boggy valley the mountain rose up with its sunlighted crown, and the question came back--Others had reached the top, then why might not he? It is true he never attempted to put these thoughts into words. They seemed to him too big for utterance; yet they were always with him, lightening his toil and brightening the long future that lay before him. If Benny had been of a less practical turn of mind, he might have done what so many others have done--dreamed his life away, or waited idly for fortune to drop her treasures in his lap. But Benny, notwithstanding his occasional daydreams, was sufficiently matter-of-fact to know that if he was to win any success in life, it must be by hard work. He was already able to read very creditably. But now a new desire seized him--he would learn to write as well. But how was he to begin? He had to confess that that was a poser, for neither granny nor Joe could give him any assistance. Still he had set his heart upon learning to write, and he was not to be defeated. So one day he said to one of Mr. Lawrence's clerks, "Does yer think, Mr. Morgan, that I could learn to write if I was to try very hard?" "Of course you could, Benny," said Mr. Morgan, looking kindly down into the dark earnest-looking eyes of the office boy. For Benny had done several little things for Mr. Morgan, and so that gentleman was disposed to be kind to the little waif. "But how is I to begin?" said Benny eagerly. "I'm busy now," said Mr. Morgan, "but if you will wait till to-morrow, I'll bring you a slate and pencil, and will set you a copy, and then you'll be able to begin right off." Just then Mr. Lawrence called Benny from the inner office, and sent him with a note to Mrs. Lawrence, with instructions to wait for an answer. "You know the way, Benny?" "Yes, sir." "But you've never been to the house?" "No, sir." "Then how do you know the way?" "It's where you has the music an' 'love at home,' sir, ain't it?" Mr. Lawrence smiled and said, "You are on the right track, Benny, I think. Go to the house, and give this note to the servant that opens the door, and say that you have to wait for an answer." "Yes, sir," said Benny, bowing very politely, and hurrying out of the office. Benny had often longed to listen under the window of Mr. Lawrence's house that he might hear again the song that had so touched his heart, and see again the little angel face through whose intercession he owed his good fortune; for Mr. Lawrence had hinted as much as that to him. But even if nothing had ever been said, he would still have connected Mr. Lawrence's kindness to him with his little daughter, who had spoken so kindly to him in the hour of his sorrow and despair, and whose bright shilling he still kept, and regarded with almost superstitious reverence. But he had never dared to listen under the window again; he felt somehow as if he had no business in that neighbourhood, no right to look upon the face of his little benefactress; so he kept away and spent his long winter evenings by granny's fireside, poring over the few books that she and Joe were able to procure for him. Benny could not help wondering, as he hurried along the streets, holding the letter very carefully in his hand, whether he would see again the little face at the window or hear her voice in song. He hoped that one or the other would greet him; but he was disappointed in both. No face was at the window, no sound of music floated out on the bright frosty air. He pulled the door-bell very timidly, and then waited a long time very patiently for the door to open. It was opened, however, at length, and, bowing very low, he said, "Please, 'm, here's a letter from the master, an' I's to wait for an answer." "You'll have to wait some time, then," said the girl, scornfully, "for Mrs. Lawrence has gone out;" and she shut the door with a bang. "May I wait here?" said Benny, looking round the roomy hall. "Yes," said the girl; "I'll have no brats in the kitchen; you can sit on that chair if you like;" and she hurried downstairs. Benny obeyed, and sat for a long time holding his cap between his knees. At length, as he was growing rather impatient, he heard a light step on the stairs near him, and, looking up, he saw his little benefactress descending, carrying a huge doll in her arms. Benny felt himself growing hot all over, for he had no idea whether it was the proper thing to stand or sit still, so he shuffled about on his chair in a very uneasy manner. The little girl looked at him curiously for a moment, and then came towards him, saying, "Are you not Benny, that papa has in his office?" "Yes, 'm," said Benny, shuffling dangerously near the edge of the chair, and blushing to the roots of his hair. "Don't be frightened," she said, noticing his embarrassment. "I've been wanting a long time to see you. Are you waiting for something?" "Ay," said Benny, regaining his composure; "the master sent me with a letter, an' told me to wait an answer." "Well, mamma won't be in yet, so you can come into the nursery; it is warm there." Benny had not the remotest idea what a nursery was, but he followed his guide at what he thought a very respectful distance, and soon found himself in the most wonderful room he had ever seen in his life. Toys of every description were scattered about, and pictures of every description adorned the walls. A swing was suspended from the ceiling in the centre of the room, and in the nearest corner was a doll's house furnished in magnificent style. But what most attracted Benny's attention was a huge rocking-horse. At first he thought it was alive, but soon found out his mistake, though his wonderment was not in the least diminished by his discovery. Little Eva Lawrence was evidently amused at Benny's astonishment, and after regarding him for some time with a merry twinkle in her eyes, said, "Did you never see a rocking-horse before, Benny?" "Never!" was the laconic reply. "Would you like to ride, Benny?" "Wouldn't I just!" said Benny, his eyes beaming with pleasure. "Well, here are the steps; take care you don't fall off, though," said Eva. "Oh, never fear," said Benny, mounting the horse. "Now for 't, miss, an' see if I ain't a stunner at it!" And the next moment our hero was sprawling on the floor in the middle of the room. "Golly!" he ejaculated, picking himself up with a bewildered air, and scratching his head. "I's floored, to a sartinty." "You tried to go too fast to begin with," laughed Eva; "you'll do better next time." "May I try again?" he questioned. "Oh, yes," was the reply; "I want you to enjoy yourself." And enjoy himself he did, to his heart's content. After awhile Eva said, "Now, Benny, I want to know more about you: won't you tell me something about yourself and about your little sister?" "Ay, that I will, if you wish," said Benny, sitting down in a low chair before the fire. And in his simple childish way he told her all the story with which the reader is acquainted--for he had lost all shyness now--told it with a simple eloquence and pathos that brought the tears again and again to his little listener's eyes. Ay, he wept himself when he told of his little sister, of her goodness and of her love. He did not even hide from his listener the story of his temptation, and how but for his little Nelly he would have been a thief in act as well as in heart. With the account of little Nelly's death Eva was much affected, and Benny sobbed again as the recollection of his loss came back to him. "I thought I should ha' died when she were took," said he, between his sobs. "Poor little boy!" said Eva, soothingly; "but you see your little sister's words have come true, after all." "What words, miss?" "Why, what you told me just now, Benny,--how the Lord would provide." "Oh, ay," said Benny, reflectively, "though I wur as near as nothin' to starvin' the day I fust seed you." "Were you? Then perhaps the Lord sent me to help you." "Oh, no doubt on that score," said Benny, stoutly; "I's sartin about that matter." "Do you go to Sunday-school, Benny?" Benny shook his head. "Nor to church or chapel?" "Not since that night me an' Nelly went, that I told you 'bout." "How is that?" "Well, we did try to get into another place o' the sort, smarter like, but the gent at the door shoved us out, an' said there wur no room for such brats as us, an' told us to be off 'bout our bizness." "Poor boy!" said Eva, wondering if he came to the chapel she attended if he would not receive similar treatment. At length she looked up and said, "I would go to that chapel again, that you and Nelly attended, if I were you, on a Sunday. It would not be closed then, and I'm sure that kind gentleman would be glad to have you in the Sunday-school." "Oh, then, I'll go," said Benny, who felt that this little girl's wish was law to him. Soon after Mrs. Lawrence came in, read her husband's note without a word, and hastily wrote a reply. "Make haste, Benny," she said kindly, giving him the letter she had written. "I'm afraid Mr. Lawrence will think you've been away a very long time." Benny took the letter without a word, and hurried away with a heart full of gratitude for the kindly treatment he had received. It seemed to him as if that day he had had a glimpse of Paradise, and had spoken to one of God's angels face to face. How bright and smooth his path of life was growing! He almost feared sometimes that he was dreaming, and that he would awake and find himself destitute and forsaken. He was now beginning to enjoy life, and as he looked back upon the past he almost wondered how he and his little sister had managed to live in those dark years of cold and want. When Joe Wrag first heard of Benny's good fortune, he lifted up his hands, and said in a voice of reverence, "The Lord is good! the Lord is good!" Then after a moment's pause he went on, "But oh! what an old sinner I've a-been, to be sure." "How so?" said Benny. "How so? 'cause as how I turned my back upon God, an' tried to persuade mysel' that He had turned His back on me. Oh, I did, lad, an' in my heart I called Him 'ard names. I didn't dare say it wi' my lips, but in my heart, boy, I said He wur cruel--that He wur a monster, that He had no feelin', that He had shut the door agin' me, when all the time He wur a-sayin', 'Joe, come back, come back, for there's room in the Father's heart and home for thee.' But, oh! praise His name, He sent His hangel to tell poor owd Joe the way, an' reveal the Father's love--He did, boy, for sure." "His hangel, Joe?" said Benny, trying in vain to comprehend all Joe had said. "Ay, His hangel, boy. An' that hangel wur little Nell, bless her! she's wi' Him now, in the land where there's no more sorrow nor pain, an' Joe's on the way." And the old man looked up into the star-bespangled sky, as if he would look through the very floor of heaven. Benny thought of all this, as he hurried from Mr. Lawrence's door, and felt as if he, too, had had an angel sent from God to help him on the way to heaven. Poor boy! he did not see the heavy cloud that was gathering in the sky, nor the dark and painful paths that lay before him, which he, with bruised and bleeding feet, would have to tread. He only saw the promised land, bathed in sunshine and clad in beauty, a land where plenty reigned and want could never come, and knew not of the weary wilderness that lay between. He thought that he had passed through the wilderness already, and that all the sorrow, and hunger, and pain lay behind him. It was well he did so. Let him enjoy the sunshine while it lasts, and dream his happy dreams of coming joy. The awaking will come all too soon. Poor boy! may God protect him in the struggle of life. CHAPTER XV. A Terrible Alternative. Sow truth, if thou the true wouldst reap,-- Who sows the false shall reap the vain; Erect and sound thy conscience keep, From hollow words and deeds refrain. Sow love, and taste its fruitage pure; Sow peace, and reap its harvest bright; Sow sunbeams on the rock and moor, And reap a harvest home of light --Bonar. The days of peace and sunshine sped all too swiftly. Winter soon gave place to budding spring, and spring lengthened into summer. Twelve months had passed since that happy day in Eastham Woods, for June had come again; and the parks and squares were once more green, and the streets were hot and dusty. It had been a strange year to Benny. Pain and pleasure had strangely commingled. Never had he felt such sorrow, never had he known such joy. The old year had closed in sorrow and despair; the new year had opened in joy and hope. Benny had grown much during those twelve months, for neither the chastening of grief nor the stimulus of kindness had been lost upon him. Both had done him good, and so the year had been to him one of growth--growth in every sense. He had grown physically. He was barely twelve yet, but he was well developed for his age; especially so considering how little had been the care bestowed on his childhood. His face was open and pleasant, and there was a frank honest expression in his eyes that won him favour wherever he went. He had grown, too, mentally. Mr. Morgan had regularly set him copies, and Mr. Lawrence, discovering his eagerness to learn, had lent him books that would help him in the pursuit of knowledge. He became a most diligent student. At first he sought after knowledge as a means to an end. He believed that it would help him in the race of life. But the farther he advanced the pleasanter became his studies, and knowledge became precious for its own sake. What at first he set before himself as a stern and even unpleasant duty, became at last a joy and delight. He was eager also to improve his manners. He was anxious to speak correctly, and not be a disgrace to the gentleman who employed him and the butt of the clerks. And it was wonderful what progress he made in this respect. It is true that he frequently forgot himself, and the old expressions that habit had made familiar rolled easily from his tongue. But he had made up his mind to conquer, and he was certainly succeeding. And last, but not least, he had grown morally. For three months he had regularly attended the Sunday-school, and among the five hundred boys and girls that assembled regularly week after week there was not a more diligent inquirer than Benny. The spiritual discernment that Joe Wrag thought he lacked was being given, and the "old, old story" was beginning to have a wonderful fascination for him. Mr. Lawrence was wonderfully pleased with his _protégé_, and had decided that if during the next six months he made such progress as he had done in the past, he should be promoted to a higher position. Benny regarded his fortune as made. Never had life seemed so bright to him as, one Saturday afternoon, he was busy at work putting Mr. Lawrence's office in order. There was no one in the office but himself. Mr. Lawrence had just left, giving him instructions that he must wait till Mr. Morgan returned, who would lock up the offices, and then he (Benny) must bring up the keys to his residence. Benny had swept out the inner office, put the few books that were lying about in their proper places on the shelves, and was busy dusting the furniture, humming to himself the song that haunted him continually-- "There is beauty all around, When there's love at home," when Mr. Lawrence came in hurriedly, and went straight to his desk and began to search carefully among the few papers that were lying on it; then he looked behind it, around it, and underneath it, but it was evident, from the perplexed look on his face, that he could not find what he was in search of. "Benny," he called, "come here." And Benny came in from the outer office, to which he had retired on Mr. Lawrence's appearance. "Has Mr. Morgan returned yet?" demanded Mr. Lawrence, in a stern voice. "No, sir," said Benny, wondering what had happened. "Has any one been here since I left?" "No, sir." "You are quite sure?" "Yes, sir, quite sure." "Then will you tell me what has become of the five-pound note that I left lying on the desk when I went out?" And he looked straight in Benny's face. Benny turned pale, for he knew what the question implied, but he did not quail before Mr. Lawrence's stern gaze, and, looking his employer straight in the eyes, he answered, "I do not know, sir; I have not seen it." "Now, Benny," said Mr. Lawrence, "mind what you are saying." In a moment his face flushed crimson as he answered, "Did you ever know me lie, sir?" "No, Benny," answered Mr. Lawrence; "I never did, nor steal either. Though I can quite conceive how, in a moment of weakness, you might be tempted to do both." "But I've done neither," said Benny, with trembling lip. For a moment Mr. Lawrence was silent, then he said, "Look here, Benny. I left a five-pound note on the desk when I went out. I am quite certain of that--as certain as I am that I stand here at this moment. And, according to your own statement, no one but yourself has been in the office since I left, and when I come back the note is gone. What am I to think?" "It's mighty queer, sir," said Benny, turning pale again; "but I hope you'll not think that I've took it." "I'm afraid that I must think so." Then there was another pause, while Benny trembled from head to foot. At length Mr. Lawrence spoke again. "I do not wish to be hard with you, Benny," he said; "and if you will only confess that you have taken the note, I will forgive you." "And if I was to tell a lie and say I took it, you would ask me for it at once, and I ain't got it." And Benny burst into tears. "No, I will be more lenient still, for I know what a grief it will be to my little girl when she hears about it. If you will only confess that you have taken it, I won't even ask you to return it. But if you will not confess, I'm afraid the law will have to take its course." Poor Benny! It was a terrible moment to him, and he tried to realize how much depended upon his answer. By telling a lie he might still keep his situation and the friendship of his little benefactress, and yet reach the heights to which his ambition pointed. But if he stuck to the truth, what would there be? A prison, perhaps, and then the old life in the streets--hunger and weariness and cold. True, if he told a lie Mr. Lawrence would then have no doubt of his guilt. But, alas! he would still believe him guilty if he told the truth, and not only Mr. Lawrence, but every one else that knew him would regard him as a thief. It was a terrible alternative. Tell a lie, and still go on the shining way that for months had been opening up before him; tell the truth, and go back to the old life, that would now seem worse than death--go back to want and disgrace. At one time he would not have been long in deciding the question. But conscience had been awakened since then, and, while he hesitated, the little pale face of his dead sister rose up between him and his employer, and a voice within seemed to whisper, "Tell the truth, Benny, and the Lord will provide." It was a brief interval since Mr. Lawrence had spoken, but in those few moments Benny had fought the fiercest battle of his life, and had won the victory. He lifted his swimming eyes to Mr. Lawrence and said, "I cannot tell a lie, sir." That was all. Mr. Lawrence regarded him for a few moments in silence, then left the office with a deeply puzzled expression on his face. He did not know what to think. Either Benny was honest or he was a most hardened thief, and somehow he felt that the boy could not be the latter. He had always found him so truthful and thoughtful and obliging. There seemed nothing bad about the boy. And yet where could that note be if he had not taken it? And again he walked back into the office, and commenced a search more careful and diligent than before, but all without avail: the note was nowhere to be found. Sorely puzzled what to do, he left the office once more, and had scarcely got into the street when he stumbled across Police-inspector Sharp. "Good afternoon," said the inspector, touching his hat. "Good afternoon," said Mr. Lawrence, passing on. He had not gone many steps, however, before he turned back. "I don't know but that it is a fortunate thing, Sharp, that I have met you," he said. "The fact is, I'm in a bit of a difficulty, and I don't know a more likely man than you to help me out." "I'm at your service, sir," said Mr. Sharp, "and if I can render you any assistance, I shall be most happy to do so." "Well, the fact is," said Mr. Lawrence, and he went on to tell all the circumstances connected with the missing note, and finished up by saying, "But somehow I cannot for the life of me believe the boy has stolen it." "Indeed, now," said Mr. Sharp, putting on a professional air, "I cannot for the life of me believe that the urchin has _not_ stolen it. So you see my difficulty is in the opposite direction, Mr. Lawrence." "But you don't know this lad, Mr. Sharp." "Well, perhaps, I don't know this particular young dog, but I know the whole tribe of them," said Mr. Sharp, trying to look wise, "and I tell you they are all rogues and vagabonds, from the oldest to the youngest of 'em. Bless you, it is bred in their very bones, and they couldn't be honest if they were to try ever so." "But this boy has been with me six months, and a nicer lad I never knew." "Ay, yes, Mr. Lawrence, their cunning is amazing; and they can play the hypocrite equal to old Satan himself. I tell you what, sir, if you had had the experience of 'em that I've had, you'd mistrust the whole tribe of 'em." "Well, I dare say, Sharp, you know more about them than I do, and I confess that it was with some amount of misgiving that I engaged the boy; but he has never taken anything before." "Did you ever give him the chance?" "Well, perhaps not," said Mr. Lawrence, looking thoughtful. "Just so," said Inspector Sharp. "The young dog has patiently waited his opportunity. Oh, bless you, sir, they know their game." "But what had I better do?" said Mr. Lawrence, looking puzzled. "If you'll leave the matter to me," said Mr. Sharp, "_I'll_ work the oracle for you, and very likely restore you the missing money." "I'm very unwilling to prosecute," said Mr. Lawrence, in a troubled tone of voice. "Just so, just so. I quite understand your feeling. But you'll not have need to do much in that direction, I can assure you," said Mr. Sharp, in a patronizing manner. "Well," said Mr. Lawrence, looking like a man that had made up his mind to submit to a painful operation, "I'll leave the matter in your hands." Half an hour later, as Benny stood in the street waiting until Mr. Morgan had locked the doors, a police constable came forward and touched him on the arm. "You'll come with me!" he said. "I've found fresh lodgings for you to-night." "Did Mr. Lawrence send you?" said Benny, the tears standing in his eyes. "The orders came from him in the first place," said the policeman; "he intends to stop your cribbing for a week or two." "Oh, but I didn't steal the money," sobbed Benny, "I didn't really." "They all say that," laughed the constable; "but from what I can hear, you're a particular cunning dog. However, you're caught this time." Benny felt that it was of no use saying any more, so he walked along by the officer's side with the calmness of despair settling down upon his heart. He had no wish to resist. He knew it would be useless for him to attempt to do so. He had lost everything now, and the only thing he hoped for was that death might come speedily, and that he might soon be laid to rest by the side of his little sister, and be at peace for ever. He thought everybody was looking at him, as the officer led him through the streets, and he could not help feeling thankful now that Nelly was dead. Such disgrace would break her heart if she were alive. And for the first time he felt glad that she was sleeping in her grave. How changed everything had become in one short day! A few hours ago he was mourning the loss of his sister; now he was glad that she was numbered with the dead. But one short hour before the world had never seemed so bright, and he had thought how he should enjoy the beautiful summer evening in Wavertree Park; now the world had never seemed so cheerless and dark, and his evening was to be spent in a prison cell. Poor boy! it is no wonder that he wished he might die, for every hope had been blasted in an hour. On arriving at the police station he was thrust into his cell without a word. He was thankful to find that it was empty, for he wanted to be alone with his thoughts. Selecting the darkest corner, he crouched down upon the floor and rested his head upon his knees. He could not weep, his grief was too great for tears. He could only think and think, until his thoughts seemed to scorch his very brain. And as he crouched thus, while the hours of that summer's afternoon and evening dragged slowly along, his whole life passed vividly before him, he seemed to live it all over again, and he asked himself if he could go back to the old life of hunger and cold in the streets. When Nelly was with him, and they knew no other life, they were not unhappy. But he had had a glimpse of Paradise since then. He had tasted the joys of hope and had cherished dreams of a happy future, and he felt that it would be easier to die than to return in disgrace to what he had thought he had left behind him for ever. It was very hard that just as the world seemed brightest, and hope seemed growing into certainty--just as the path of life was getting clear, and the end seemed certain, that he should be thus thrust down, and thrust down to a lower depth than he had known in his darkest days. Could it be true, he asked himself again and again, that he, who had been trying so hard to be good and truthful and honest, was really in prison on a charge of theft? It had come upon him so suddenly that he thought sometimes it must be all some horrid dream, and that he would surely awake some time and find the bright future still before him. And so the hours wore away, and the light faded in the little patch of sky that was visible through his high grated window, and the cell grew darker and more dismal all the while. At length there was a tramp of feet in the courtyard outside. The key grated in the lock, the door flew open, and two lads were tumbled into the cell. These were followed in half an hour by three others, and Benny became aware by the noises in the courtyard that other cells were being filled as well as the one he occupied. And, as the darkness deepened, night grew hideous with shouts, and laughter, and songs, and curses loud and deep. It seemed to him as if he had got to the very mouth of hell. Nothing that he had ever heard in Addler's Hall or Bowker's Row could at all compare with what he heard that night: now there was the sound of blows; now cries for help; now shrieks of murder, accompanied by volleys of oaths and shouts of laughter. The companions of his own cell were on the whole tolerably orderly, and were evidently disposed to make the best of their situation. They started several songs, but in every case broke down at the end of the second line, so at length they gave up trying, and settled themselves down to sleep. It was far on towards morning before all grew still, but silence did drop down upon the prisoners at last; and Benny, weary with counting the beats of his heart, dropped at length into a troubled sleep. It was late in the morning when he awoke again, and for a moment he was unable to recall what had happened or where he was. Then the memory of the past evening rushed in upon him like a flood, and he buried his face in his hands in the misery of despair. He wondered what granny would think of his absence, and what his teacher would think in the Sunday-school. Alas! he should see them no more, for how could he go to them with such a stain upon his name? While he was musing thus he was startled by a familiar voice addressing him, and looking up he saw Perks looking at him, with a broad grin upon his countenance. "Well, this are a onexpected pleasure!" he said. "I's jolly glad to see yer, Ben. Yer see, I's of a very forgivin' natur'." But Benny made no reply. He only wondered if his misery would ever end. "In the dumps, eh?" continued Perks. "Well, I an' my mates'll help you out in quick sticks: now let's have a song all together. You ken take the big end, that's the bass, yer know." "I want to be quiet," said Benny; "do let me alone." "In course I'll let 'e alone. I looks like it, don't I? I's a very forgivin' natur', Mister Benjamin Bates, you knows that, though I don't forget. But the fact is, I's so pleased to 'ave yer company agin, that I'm bound to show my delight in some way." "If you don't take yourself off, Perks, you'll wish you had," said Benny. "Now, don't be touchy, Mr. Bates. But let's dance a cornpipe, while one o' my mates whistles 'Pop goes the Weasel.'" Poor Benny! he could not escape his tormentor, so he bore throughout that weary Sabbath, as best he could, a series of petty persecutions. He tried to be patient, he even tried to pray, but the only prayer he could utter was, "O Lord, kill me at once, and put me out of misery." CHAPTER XVI. An Experiment. Sow ye beside all waters, Where the dew of heaven may fall; Ye shall reap, if ye be not weary. For the Spirit breathes o'er all. Sow, though the thorns may wound thee: One wore the thorns for thee; And though the cold world scorn thee, Patient and hopeful be. --Anna Shipton. While Benny in his prison-cell was dragging out the weary hours of that June Sabbath, Joe Wrag was engaged in an experiment that had occupied his thoughts for some considerable time. Since that never-to-be-forgotten day when he had kissed his little Nelly a last good bye, he had never doubted three things:--First, that the elect were "whosoever will;" second, that he had been accepted of the Father; and, third, that little Nelly Bates had been to him the "sent of God," to lead him out of the darkness of error into the light of truth. The certainty that he was included in God's invitation of mercy was to him a new revelation. He felt as if he had suddenly grown young again, and, notwithstanding his grief for his little pet, he experienced a joy springing up in his heart the like of which he had never known before. The words that have comforted so many sorrow-bruised hearts--"for we mourn not as those without hope, for them that sleep in Him"--seemed to him to have a new and deeper meaning. For he felt that not only was his little Nelly safe, but that he, too, was secure in the almighty love of God. For several weeks Joe hardly knew at times whether he was in the body or out of it. Wrapped in contemplation, he would forget "all time and toil and care," and the long nights would slip away like a dream. He grew more silent than ever; but the look of melancholy was rapidly disappearing from his weatherbeaten face, and an expression of heart-rest and peace was taking its place. But one morning, as Joe was walking home from his work, lost as usual in contemplation, a thought crossed his mind that fairly startled him, and for several moments he stood stock-still in the street. "Oh, dear! oh, dear!" he groaned. "If I don't desarve to be reprobated, my name's not Joe Wrag." Then he walked on again with rapid strides, as if he would escape the haunting thought. But the thought would not leave him; nay, it seemed to grow into a living voice, that sounded clear and distinct above the roar of the streets. "Joe Wrag," it said, "is your religion such a selfish thing, and is your joy such a selfish thing, that you can think of nothing but yourself? Are you the only one for whom Christ died? Are there no tired and toil-worn men and women around you struggling in the darkness and longing for light? Do you want heaven all to yourself, that you invite no one to go along with you? For shame, Joe Wrag, you are actually growing selfish! In your thankfulness that you have found a place of shelter, you have forgotten the many outside still exposed to the storm. Is this what you have learnt of Christ? Get down on your knees, man, and ask His pardon, and ask Him for grace also that you may be saved from yourself, and that henceforth you may live for Christ and humanity." "O Lord, have marcy!" cried Joe, rushing on faster and faster. "I've been as blind as a bat, an' as selfish as sin could make me. Enter not into judgment with me for Thy marcy's sake, an' I'll try to do better--I will, for sure." When Joe reached his home, he went at once to his bed-room, and, falling on his knees, he poured out his soul in a long and agonizing prayer. He prayed for grace and strength, he prayed for light and wisdom. He did not ask for peace or joy, but he asked to be made holy and useful, that he might do diligently his life-work, and be able to say when death came, "I have finished the work that Thou gavest me to do." When Joe came downstairs a light was shining in his eyes, such as his wife (who had been for many years Joe's "thorn in the flesh") had never seen before. From that day Joe Wrag was a changed man, and, as might be expected, his wife was the first to notice the change and the first to appreciate it. That very morning, instead of eating his meal in silence, as had been his custom for many years, he began to talk to her, to ask her questions, and to interest himself in domestic affairs. And when he had taken his four or five hours' sleep, instead of moping in silence, as he had been in the habit of doing, until it was time to go to his work, he actually began to help his wife to tidy up the house, and even anticipated her wants in several little matters, and altogether made himself so agreeable that his wife was at her wits' end to know what had come over him. Mary Wrag had grown, as the years had slipped by, from a light-hearted, high-spirited girl, into a sour, disappointed, and vixenish woman. Poor Joe was utterly at a loss to understand the change that had come over her. He could not think that he had contributed to it in the smallest degree. He had never crossed her, never answered her back when she snarled at him, never bothered her with his own troubles, and never vexed her by trying to pry into hers. He had always let her have her own way, and had scarcely interfered with her in anything, and hence it was a mystery to him how she had grown so cross-grained and sour. It was a very common mistake, and one that has been fraught with the most serious results. He did not know how, in the years gone by, his wife had longed to share his troubles (for she was too proud to tell him), and how she wanted him to share hers. He did not know what a trouble it was to her when he sat hour after hour moody and silent, never speaking to her, and taking no interest in anything she did or said. He did not know what bitter tears she shed in the early years of their wedded life, because he would not notice a new bow of pink ribbon she had made, or a new fashion in which she had done up her glossy hair. "I don't believe," she would say bitterly, "that Joe cares a bit what I wears. It's not a bit of pleasure to try an' make oneself look nice, for he never notices." And so she grew cross and sour. He never blamed her, it is true, but she complained to herself that he never praised her, and even when she got thoroughly out of temper and gave him a good "blowing up," his silence only exasperated her all the more. "I'd rather a thousan' times over," she would say, "that he'd get cross, an' answer back again, than sit still, turnin' up his eyes like a dyin' dolphin." Had Joe known all this, it would certainly have been a great trouble to him, and yet if he had known it, it would doubtless have saved him many years of pain. But after the morning to which we have alluded, Joe's conduct and manner changed in a remarkable degree. He became thoughtful and attentive and communicative, and he began to think, too, that his wife's temper was improving; and after a few weeks he was surprised at the wonderful change that had come over her, little dreaming that it was the change in himself that had produced the change in his wife. The experiment to which we alluded in the opening sentences of this chapter was that of trying to get hold of his neighbours and acquaintances, and helping them if possible to a higher and better life. There were people living all round him--some of them he had known for twenty years--who never went to church or chapel, and who seemed utterly unconcerned about death and the great hereafter that lay beyond it--people whose life was one hopeless round of toil, with nothing to brighten or cheer its dull monotony. Some of them were decent people too, honest and industrious. It is true they got drunk occasionally, and were not always as civil to their wives and families and to each other as they might be; yet, notwithstanding, they had a soft place in their hearts, and were ever ready to watch by a sick neighbour's bed-side, or lend a helping hand to a mate more needy than themselves. How to get hold of these children of the great Father, and lead them into His fold, was a problem that had puzzled Joe for some time. At length he decided, with his wife's consent, to invite them to tea, or as many of them as could be accommodated, some Sunday afternoon, and when he had got them together, to talk to them on those matters which were of such vital importance. Accordingly the invitations were sent out, and on the Sunday afternoon already mentioned some fifteen men found their way to Joe Wrag's cottage, wondering what was in the wind. When they had all got comfortably seated on the forms that Joe had provided, Joe stood up in a corner of the room, and looked around him: evidently it was no easy task to begin to talk. Joe had no idea that it would be so difficult. Every eye was fixed upon him with a wondering expression. Joe coughed two or three times, then making a tremendous effort, he said, "You all know me, mates?" "Ay," they all exclaimed, "we ought to, anyhow." "Ay, jist so," said Joe, feeling more at ease now that the ice was broken; "but I've discovered lately, lads, that I ain't a-done my duty." "Come, old boss, we ain't a-blamin' yer; so don't begin a ballyraggin' yoursel' in that way," said one of the men. "Facts is stubborn, though," went on Joe, "an' I see that I've kep' mysel' too much to mysel', an' I ain't a-been that neighbourly as I ought to ha' been; but I intend to do differ'nt." "Well, I'm hanged," said the man who had before spoken, "if I ain't considerable at a loss, Joe, to know what yer drivin' at." "I 'spects so, no doubt, but I'm not good at 'splainin'; but it 'pears to me, mates, as how we ain't got hold o' life by the right end." "Yer mean _us_, Joe?" questioned several voices together. "Well, p'raps I do. Yer don't git much comfort in this life, and yer ain't preparin' for a better life. Don't stop me; but I used to think that heaven wern't for me, and for lots o' us poor chaps--that we didn't belong to the elect; but, bless yer, lads, I know now, that the elect are everybody as likes. We are all God's children, an' He loves us all, the bad 'uns as well as the good 'uns, an' He's promised pardon an' heaven to whosoever will. Let me tell 'e lads, how it came about. A little girl an' her brother comed an' axed me to let 'em warm theirselves by my fire one pinchin' cold night. A purtier little critter than little Nelly never breathed, wi' her great round eyes an' sweet mouth. I seem to see her now, though she's asleep in her grave. Well, when her father druv 'em from home, I got a place for 'em wi' Betty Barker. An' Betty used to read to 'em out o' the Testament. An' then they got into a chapel, an' heerd a couple o' sermons--leastaway Nelly did; the lad were asleep durin' the preachin'. Well, you can't tell how eager that little gal became to know more about the Saviour, an' heaven, an' all the rest o' it. An' she used to come an' ax me all sorts o' questions. Bless yer, that little girl had real speretuel insight; she used to floor me complete. I never heerd sich posers as she used to put sometimes. But I tell 'e, mates, every one of the questions helped to lead me out o' the darkness into the light. Day after day it got clearer, an' yet I doubted. I spoke the promises to the little gal, and yet I were afeard to take 'em mysel'. I had a vision, too, one night, an' that helped me amazin'. But not until my little Nell was dyin' did I see clear. The nurse said to me what she seed the little gal wanted to say, an' that took down the last shutter, an' the light streamed in. I can't tell yer all the joy, lads, I've felt, but for a long time I kept it all to mysel'. But the Lord has showed to me how selfish I've been, an' now I want for everybody to get close to the Saviour." For a moment there was silence, then one of the men said, "But there's wussur chaps 'n us goin'." "Ay, that's true, lad," said Joe; "but you're all bad enough to be better, an' the Saviour wants 'e all to be good, an' He wants to help 'e all to be patient an' bear the burden of life, an' He wants to show 'e how much He loves an' cares for 'e all." "I dunna think He ken love us very much," said one of the men sullenly, "or He wouldn't ha' put us in this 'ere muck all our lives." "Well, lads," replied Joe thoughtfully, "I 'fess I can't 'splain all. An' the Book tells us how we on'y see through a glass darkly. We looks at life an' the world an' everything through a smoked glass, an' it all 'pears dark. But I tell 'e, lads, this I know, that God loves us, ay, loves us, and He'll make everything right and square by-and-bye, if we will only leave it wi' Him." "I dunna see much sign o' the love anywheres," said the man in reply. "P'r'aps so," said Joe. "But yer see, mates, as how sin an' the devil have comed in th' world, an' they's made terrible mischief, terrible, and many o' us 'as bin 'elping the devil all we could, an' so between us we's got oursels into a queer scrape, an' piled misery an' sorrow o' top o' our 'eads. But God loved us so much that He sent the Saviour to take away our sin an' make us free. An' yet all the time we complain as if our Father made all the mischief an' trouble, when most o' us 'as a-made it oursels." "Ay, that's true, lad," said Dick Somerset, the man that had spoken most. "Course it are true," said Joe, brightening up. "An', besides, it may be a good thing for us to be kep' poor an' 'ave plenty o' 'ard work. The Lord knows best, you may depend on 't, what's best for us; lots of us couldn't stand riches, 't would be the greatest curse we could 'ave. I b'lieve if you place some people on a hoss they'd ride to the devil, but if you were to keep 'em in clogs they'd plod on all the way to Paradise." "It's 'nation 'ard, though," said several of the men, "to be allers a-grindin' away at it as we's bound to do." "Ay, lads," said Joe, "that are true, an' yet I reckon we ain't a-tried very much to better our position. Some o' yer 'as spent in drink what yer might a-saved, an' if yer 'ad a-done so, an' 'ad spent yer evenin's improvin' yer mind an' gettin' some larnin', ye might ha' been better off. I might, I see it now quite clear; but as I said at the fust, we's 'ad hold o' life by the wrong end. An' I wants us all to begin afresh." "But how is we to do it, Joe?" said several voices. "Well, let's begin by axin' the Lord for pardon for all the past, an' for strength to do better for the future." And Joe got down upon his knees at once and began to pray, and while he pleaded the promises, it seemed to him as if the little room became full of the presence of the Most High. All his hesitancy of speech vanished. It seemed to him as if he had got hold of the very hand of God, and he cried out, "I will not let Thee go until Thou bless me." Promise after promise crowded into his mind with more rapidity than he could utter them; until at length, overcome by his feelings, he cried out, "I canna doubt, I canna doubt no more!" then he hid his face in his hands, and there was silence throughout the room. When he rose from his knees his face fairly shone with joy, and the men looked wonderingly at him and at each other. Just then there was a knock at the little kitchen door, and Joe's wife came in to say that she was waiting to bring in the tea. "Right thee are, lass," said Joe. "I'd nearly forgotten the tea; bring it away as fast as thee likes." And Mary Wrag and a neighbour's wife who had come in to help began to bring in large plates of cake and bread and butter, which the men greedily devoured. It was very evident that whatever they thought of the other part of the service, they enjoyed this part of it. Joe was more pleased than he could tell at his experiment, and from that day every Sunday afternoon his house was thrown open to any of his neighbours who might like to come in, and hear the Bible read, and have a little conversation about spiritual things. It was wonderful, now that the tongue of this silent man had been unloosed, how freely he could talk, and he never lacked a congregation. The neighbours flocked to hear him talk of Jesus and of His wondrous love, and in Joe's little kitchen many a weary and heavy-laden soul found peace and rest. In a little Bethel near his home Joe found a place to worship God. He loved now to be in the house of prayer. It no longer gave him pain to talk of heaven and of the joys of the redeemed for he knew that heaven was open to him, and that in a little while he would find again the little angel that led him into the light, and look upon the Saviour whom he loved. CHAPTER XVII. Perks again. I knew, I knew it could not last; 'T was bright, 't was heavenly, but 'tis past Oh, ever thus from childhood's hour I've seen my fondest hopes decay. I never nursed a tree or flower, But 't was the first to fade away; I never nursed a dear gazelle To glad me with its soft black eye, But when it came to know me well. And love me, it was sure to die. --Moore. On the Monday morning Benny was brought before the magistrates, charged with stealing five pounds from his master's office. He was almost ready to faint when placed in the dock; but, conscious of his own innocence, he gathered up his courage, and answered fearlessly the questions that were addressed to him. Inspector Sharp gave the particulars of the case, adding that though the money had not been found on the prisoner, or indeed anywhere else, yet he had no doubt that the lad had accomplices to whom he had given the missing property. Benny denied most emphatically that he had seen the money: he admitted that appearances were against him. "But, oh," he said, looking at the presiding magistrate, his eyes swimming with tears, "I'm not a thief, sir, if you'll on'y believe it; I'm not, really." Benny's honest face and simple straightforward answers evidently made in his favour; but as Mr. Lawrence had not appeared against him, he was remanded until the following day, so he was removed once more to his cell. Perks's case was not tried that day, so once more Benny had him for a companion. During most of the evening Perks sat in one corner, with his face in his hands, and his elbows on his knees, without either speaking or moving. Benny took the opposite corner, glad for once that he had a chance of being quiet. He wondered what would be done to him, whether he would be sent to prison or set at liberty. He felt that he did not care much what happened, for to be penned up in prison, he thought, could not be much worse than to go back in disgrace to the old life of selling matches in the street. Above the grated window the little patch of blue began to fade as the day waned and darkened into night. Then a solitary star appeared, and looked down with kindly eye into the dreary cell. Benny watched the star twinkling so far above him, and wondered what it could be. Was it one of God's eyes, or the eye of one of His angels? Could it be his Nelly that was looking at him? Or were the stars only holes in the floor of heaven to let the glory through? He could not tell, but somehow that kindly star looking in upon him seemed to comfort his heart; and he felt that though the world buffeted him, and would not give him a chance of getting on, yet he was not forgotten of God. Then his thoughts turned to Perks. Was God watching him also? for the star was not visible from the corner where he crouched. Why was he so quiet? Was he sorry for what he had done, or was he ill? Benny was glad to be quiet; and yet somehow as the darkness deepened he felt lonesome, and wondered what had come to the silent figure in the corner. It was so unusual for Perks to be quiet so long. He listened for a moment, but all was still. And still the minutes dragged away, and the silence became oppressive. "Perks!" said Benny, unable longer to keep quiet; and his voice awoke the sleeping echoes of the cell, and made it sound hollow as a tomb. But the echoes were his only answer. "Perks!" in a louder voice. Still there was silence, and Benny began to get frightened. Was he dead? he wondered. How awful it would be to be in that cell all night alone with a dead body! "Perks, do speak!" in a tone of agony. And he listened for an answer, while the perspiration stood in great drops upon his forehead. But still only silence. He could hear the thumping of his own heart distinctly, and he became hot and cold by turns with fright. At length he thought he heard a noise coming from the corner where he felt sure Perks was crouched dead. It sounded like suppressed laughter. What could it mean? He dared not move from his corner. Was it Satan come to carry away Perks? for he was very wicked, he knew. It had got too dark now to see anything distinctly; but there was a shuffling noise on the floor. Horrors! it was coming across the cell towards him. What was it? He could see some unshapely thing moving. Now it was drawing itself up to its full height. Benny nearly shrieked out in an agony of terror. Then it flashed across his mind in a moment--Perks was playing him another of his tricks. Waiting until Perks was near enough, he dealt him a blow straight from the shoulder that sent him sprawling to the other end of the cell. "Oh, lor a massy!" he shouted, "if that ain't a stinger!" "Serves you right," said Benny. "Lor, but didn't I give you a scarin', just! I never did injoy a thing as much in my life; but, oh, lor! I nearly busted once or twice wi' larfin'." "I think I gived you a scarin' too," retorted Benny. "Well, I confess it comed raather sudden like; so that's one to you, Ben. I'll give you yer due." "I've a good mind to pound you to a jelly," said Benny. "Yer always on with yer tricks." "Well, I didn't 'tend to scare yer, Ben, for I wur bissy medertatin' on a little plan I 'as in my yed; but when yer spoke 'Perks!' anxious like, the idear comed to me all in a moment. Oh, lor, weren't it a spree!" "I don't see no fun in it," said Benny. "Oh, lor, yer don't?" and Perks laughed again. "But I say, Ben, I wants yer 'elp in carryin' out as purty a bit o' play as ever you seen." "Is it what you've been thinking about all the evenin'?" "Ay, lad, it's the most butifullest idear that wur ever 'atched in this 'ere noddle; an' if you'll only 'elp me, my stars! our fortin's made." "You're up to no good again, I'll be bound," said Benny. "Well, I reckon you'll alter your mind on that score when yer 'ears the details o' my plan," said Perks, coming closer to Benny's side. "Well, what is it?" "I must whisper it," said Perks, "though I dunna thinks any bobbies is around listenin' at this time o' night, but it's allers best to be on the safe side." "I don't want to 'ear it," said Benny, "if it's some'at you must whisper. It's no good, that I'm sartin of." "Don't be a ninny, Ben. Just listen." And Perks confided to Ben a plan of getting into the house of an old man who kept a little shop, and lived all alone, and who kept all his money locked up in a little cupboard in the room behind the shop. "How do you know he keeps his money there?" said Benny. "Never you mind," was the answer; "I does know it to a sartinty." "Where does the old man live?" "No. 86 ---- Street." "What's his name?" "Jerry Starcher. Ain't yer 'eard o' 'im?" "Ay," said Benny. "Then you'll 'elp?" said Perks, eagerly. "Ay," said Benny, "but not in the way you thinks." "What does yer mean?" "I mean, if I git out of this place, I'll put the old man on his guard." "What, an' split on me?" "No, I'll not mention names." "Then I 'opes ye'll be sent to a 'formatory an' kep' there for the next five year." "Do you? Why?" "'Cause yer a fool, Ben Bates." "How so?" "'Cause ye are, I say." "Well, your saying so don't make it so, anyhow," retorted Benny: "Don't it, though? But look 'ere: ye're 'ere for stealin', and I can tell yer from 'sperience, that a gent as takes up the perfession is worse nor a fool to give it up agin 'cause he 'appens to get nabbed." "But I'm not here for stealin'," said Benny, colouring. "Ye're not, eh?" said Perks, laughing till the tears ran down his face. "Well, that are the richest bit I's heard for the last month." "But," said Benny, with flashing eyes, "though I'm here charged with stealing, I tell yer I'm honest." "Are that a fact now, Ben?" said Perks, looking serious. "It is," replied Benny; "I never took the money." "Well, so much the worse," said Perks. "How's that?" "Cause yer might as well be a thief, hout an' hout, as be charged wi' bein' one. I tell 'e there's no chance for yer; the bobbies'll 'ave their eyes on yer wherever yer be; and if yer gits a sitivation they'll come along an' say to yer guv'nor, 'Yon's a jail-bird, yer'd better 'ave yer eye on 'im;' then ye'll 'ave to walk it somewheres else, an' it'll be the same everywheres." "How do you know that?" said Benny. "'Cause I's 'sperienced it," was the reply. "I's older 'n you, though you's biggest; but I reckons as I knows most, an' it's true what I say. Why, bless yer, the first time I ever nabbed I got a month, an' I wor so horful frightened, that I vowed if ever I got out I'd be honest, an' never get in no more; but, bless yer, it wur no go. The bobbies told each other who I wur, an' they was always a-watching me. I got a sitivation once, a honcommon good 'un too; but, oh, lor, the next day a bobby says to the guv'nor, says he, 'Yon's a jail-bird, you'd better keep yer eye on 'im;' an' you may guess I'd to walk in quick sticks. I made two or three tries arter, but it wur no go. As soon as hever a bobbie came near I'd to be off like greased lightnin', an' you'll find out what I say. If yer not a thief now, ye'll 'ave to come to it. I tell yer there's no help for it." "But I tell you I'll _not_ come to it," said Benny, stoutly. "But I knows better," persisted Perks; "there ken be no possible chance for yer. Ye're down, an' the world'll keep 'e down, though yer try ever so." Benny looked thoughtful, for he had a suspicion that a good deal that Perks said was true. He was down, and he feared there was very little, if any, chance of his getting up again. He had proved by experience that the world was hard upon poor lads, and he knew it would be doubly hard upon him now that his character was gone. Yet he felt that he could not become a thief. He would sooner die, and he told Perks so. But Perks only laughed at the idea. "You'll find that dyin' ain't so precious easy, my lad," he said in a patronizing tone of voice. And Benny felt that very likely Perks' words were true in relation to that matter, and so he was silent. "You'd better come partner 'long wi' me," said Perks, in a tone of voice that was intended to be encouraging. "No," said Benny. "I'll help you if you'll try to be honest; for look here, Perks: there's another life besides this, an' if we're not good we shall go to the bad place when we die, for only good people can go to heaven. An' I want to go to the good place, for little Nell is there; an' I want to see her again, for she was all I had to love in the world, an' oh! it 'ud grieve her so if I were to be a thief, an' grieve the good Lord who died for us all. No, Perks, little Nell begged me afore she died to be good, an' she said the Lord 'ud provide, an' I means to be good. Won't you try to be good too, Perks? I'm sure it 'ud be better." "No," said Perks: "folks 'as druv' me to what I is. I tried to be honest once, an' they wouldn't let me, an' so I intends to stick to the perfession now, for I likes it; an' ye'll come to it yet." "I'd rather die," said Benny solemnly. "Humbug!" snarled Perks. "But I'll say this afore I go to sleep, for I's gettin' des'pert sleepy, if ye'll join me in the perfession I'll be a frien' to yer, an' put yer up to all the tricks, an' forgive yer for that hidin' yer give me. But if," and he brought out the words slowly, "ye'll 'sist on bein' a fool, I'll pay off old scores yet, an' I'll plague yer worse nor ever I's done yet; so I give yer fair warnin'. Now for the land o' nod." Neither of them spoke again after that, and soon after they were both locked in the arms of kindly sleep. The following morning Benny was again brought before the magistrates, but nothing new was brought forward in evidence. Mr. Lawrence, however, stated that he did not wish to prosecute, or in any way punish the lad. And as there was no positive evidence that Benny had taken the money, he was dismissed. It was evident, however, that the general belief was that he was guilty; but as the evidence was only presumptive, and this being his first appearance before them, he was given the benefit of the doubt, and set at liberty, with a caution that if he came before them again he would not get off so easily. His week's wages that Mr. Lawrence had paid him was restored to him on leaving the court, and once more he found himself a homeless orphan on the streets of Liverpool. Perks did not fare so well. He was an old and evidently a hardened offender. The case was also proved against him, and he was sentenced to be kept in prison for three calendar months. Perks heard the sentence unmoved. He liked liberty best, it is true, but the only thing that grieved him was that it was summer-time. If it had been winter, he would not have cared a straw; but as it was he was determined to make the best of it, and get as much enjoyment out of it as he possibly could. So Perks and Benny drifted apart, and Benny wondered if they would ever meet again. Life before him lay dark and cheerless. He seemed to have drifted away from everything: no friend was left to him in all the world. There were granny and Joe, but he could not see them, for he felt that if a shade of suspicion crept into their manner, it would break his heart. No, he would keep away. Then there was Mr. Lawrence; he could expect nothing further from him. He believed him to be a thief, of that there could be no doubt, and so doubtless did Morgan and all the other clerks. And then there was little Eva, the angel that had brightened his life for six brief months, and whose bright shilling nothing could induce him to part with. Did she believe him guilty too? Of course she did. His guilt must seem so clear to every one of them. And so he was alone in the world, without a friend to help, unless God would help him; but of that he did not feel quite sure. Sometimes he thought that the Lord would surely provide, but at other times he doubted. He was at liberty, it was true, and ought he not to be thankful for that? he asked himself; but alas! his innocence had not been established. Young as he was, he felt the force of that. And he felt it terribly hard that all--all! even his little angel--believed him to be a thief. Ah! he did not know how sore was Eva Lawrence's little heart, and how she persisted to her father that Benny was innocent, and pleaded with him, but pleaded in vain, for him to take back the poor boy and give him another chance. And night after night she cried herself to sleep, as she thought of the little orphan sent adrift on life's treacherous ocean, and wondered what the end would be. And when one day she tried to sing "Love at Home," the words almost choked her, for the pleading, suffering face of the homeless child came up before her, and looked at her with hungry wistful eyes, as if asking for sympathy and help. But children soon forget their griefs, and as the days wore away and lengthened into weeks, Benny was almost forgotten, till one day a circumstance occurred which made him again the talk of the Lawrence household. What that circumstance was shall be told in its proper place in the unfolding of this story of Benny's life. CHAPTER XVIII. Adrift. A fathomless sea is rolling O'er the wreck of the bravest bark; And my pain-muffled heart is tolling Its dumb peal down in the dark. The waves of a mighty sorrow Have 'whelmed the pearl of my life; And there cometh to me no morrow, To solace this desolate strife. Gone are the last faint flashes, Set is the sun of my years; And over a few poor ashes I sit in my darkness and tears. --Gerald Massey. Had any of our readers been passing the front of St. George's Hall during the afternoon of the day on which Benny was acquitted, they might have seen our hero sitting on one of the many steps, with his face buried in his hands and his elbows resting on his knees. Hour after hour he sat unmolested, for Perks was no longer at liberty to tease him, and the police did not notice him. Benny was utterly unconscious of the flight of time, for he was trying to decide upon some course of action by which he could honestly earn his daily bread. He felt that he was beginning life again, and beginning it under tremendous disadvantages. He knew that there was a great deal of truth in what Perks had said to him. All who knew him would mistrust him, and even should he succeed in getting employment under those who did not know him, they might soon get to know, and then he would be dismissed. He was getting too big to be a match boy. He did not understand blacking shoes, and yet to remain idle meant starvation. "I'm wuss nor a chap buried," he said to himself, thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets and staring around him. "I've heerd of chaps beginnin' at the bottom, but lor a massy! I'm beginnin' furder down than that by a long chalk. I'm six feet under ground, an' I'll 'ave to bore a hole up inter the daylight, or die, I 'specks." As the afternoon wore away he became conscious of a feeling of hunger. Fortunately, he had sufficient money to keep him from starving for a day or two. He counted over the coins very carefully, and laid aside eighteenpence as being due to granny, and which he resolved should be paid. "I'll begin honest," he said to himself, "an' I'll keep on at it too, or go to heaven to little Nell." So after purchasing two sheets of paper and two envelopes, he made his way to a small eating-house and ordered some bread and cheese. He was not long in devouring his very simple meal, and then with a lead pencil commenced his first attempt at letter-writing. The first letter contained only a few words of warning to Jerry Starcher. The second letter was longer, and was addressed to granny. This letter cost Benny a tremendous effort, for, fearing that granny would not be able to read writing, he had, to use his own words, "to print it," and he found it to be a rather slow process. The letter was to the following effect:-- "Deer Grany,--I ken never come 'ome no more. You's heerd what's took plaas, but I nevver stole the money. I is 'onest, for shure I dunno wat I'll do or whair I'll go; but I meen to be 'onest or die. I wish I wur ded. I is very, very, very 'bliged for ole you's don for me an' littel Nel: tel Joe I is 'bliged to 'im to. P'r'aps I'll never see 'e no more, p'r'aps I'll go to littel Nel soon. I 'ope I may, I's very lon-ly. I put with this the money I ow's. Good nite.--Benny." More than one scalding tear fell upon the letter while he wrote, for the tears would come despite his efforts to keep them back. Life seemed to him such an utter desolation, and hope had almost died out of his heart. When he had carefully folded and sealed the letters, he went out again on the steps in the shadow of the great Hall, and waited for the darkness. All around him the people hurried to and fro. But had he been in the heart of Africa he could not have felt more utterly forsaken and alone. When at length the darkness crept over the busy town, he hurried away to Tempest Court, passing Jerry Starcher's, and pushing the letter under his door on the way. His heart beat very fast when he reached granny's door. He was strongly tempted to knock for admittance, for something told him that granny would not turn him away, but he struggled against the feeling. Welcome as would have been his little bed under the stairs, and glad as he would have been for a hiding-place from the world's scorn, yet he felt he would rather not see granny and Joe again while this stain darkened his name. Within the cottage silence and darkness reigned, for granny had retired early to rest--not without a prayer, though, that the boy she was learning to love might see the error of his ways, truly repent of his sin, and lead a new life. For Joe had told her what had befallen Benny, and furthermore had extracted from her the promise that if he should ever seek again the shelter of her home, for his little sister's sake and for the sake of the Saviour, she would not turn him away, but would help him to begin a better life. Benny listened for awhile at the key-hole, then cautiously pushing the letter under the door, he hurried away into the darkness. He had no idea where he would spend the night, nor did he concern himself about the direction he was taking; he only felt that he must go somewhere. So on he went in a northerly direction, passing street after street, till, footsore and weary, he stumbled into a dark corner where he thought nobody would notice him, and soon fell fast asleep. Why could not the policeman who passed a few minutes later, and spied the little crouching figure, have permitted the child to sleep on? He was doing no harm, and the policeman might have known that had the boy a home to go to he would not have been found sleeping in the street. I suppose he thought nothing about the matter, for he seized Benny by the collar and lifted him off the ground, and after shaking him as a terrier might shake a rat, he ordered him to move on, giving emphasis to his words by a cruel kick, which made Benny grind his teeth with pain, and hurry limping down the street. He had not gone far before a clock near him began to strike slowly the hour of midnight. At the first stroke of the bell Benny started, and looked carefully around him. Clang went the second stroke. "It must be the same," he muttered to himself. The third stroke made him certain. He was near Addler's Hall without knowing it. The tone of the church clock was as familiar to him as the voice of his father. Scores of times during the years of his childhood he had listened to that clang, waking up the midnight silence when all the others were asleep. "I wonder if father's comed home yet?" he said to himself; "I'll go and see, anyhow." Bowker's Row was as silent as the grave, and, as usual, wrapped in darkness. But the darkness was no difficulty to Benny, as he made his way cautiously up the dingy street and into the dingier court that was once his home. It seemed very strange to him that he should be there alone in the silent night, and that Nelly should be alone in her little grave miles away from where he stood. What a lot had been crowded into his lonely life since last he stood in Addler's Hall, holding his little sister by the hand! And he wondered if ever Nelly left her beautiful home in the sky to pay a visit to the dreary haunts of her childhood. Before him the door of his old home stood open--the night was not so dark but he could see that--and he could see also that the place wore even a more forsaken appearance than in former days. Pausing for a moment on the threshold, he plunged into the darkness, then stood still in the middle of the room and listened; but no sound of breathing or noise of any kind broke the oppressive stillness. He soon discovered also that the house was destitute of furniture; a few shavings under the stairs alone remained. "The bobbies'll not find me 'ere, I reckon," he said to himself, "though Nelly may." And he stretched himself on the shavings in the corner where he and his little sister used to sleep in the days that had gone for ever. It seemed so strange to be there again, and to be there in sorrow and disgrace; and once or twice he stretched out his hand in the darkness as if expecting to find his little sister by his side. Then, as the memory of his loss and the loneliness of his life crept over him, he gave vent to his feelings in a flood of tears. By-and-bye he grew calm, and soon after fell asleep; and in happy dreams, in which he wandered with Nelly through Eastham Woods, he forgot all his trouble and care. When he awoke the next morning the court was alive and stirring, and Bowker's Row was crowded with ill-fed, ragged, and dirty children: some were doing their best to climb the lamp-posts, some were practising cart-wheel revolutions, some were squatted idly on the pavement, and others were playing with the refuse in the street. On Benny making his appearance, he was greeted with a shout and a howl that made the street echo again, and summoned the elders to the doorways to see what had happened. It was very evident that the older children had recognized him, while many a familiar face appeared at door and window. This Benny thought was very unfortunate, for he was in no mood to be questioned or to brook delay. So he darted down the street as if on a race for life, knocking over several of the older lads who tried to check his progress. For some distance he was followed by a whole tribe of noisy urchins, who shouted at the top of their voices. But Benny was too fleet-footed for them, and soon Bowker's Row and its noisy denizens were left far behind. Benny's first thought now was to secure a substantial breakfast, which was by no means a difficult matter. That done, he made his way toward the docks, in the hope that he might get employment of some kind. But to a little friendless lad, without character or recommendation, employment was not so easily obtained. Most of those whom he addressed did not condescend to notice his question in any way. A few asked him what he could do, and when he replied "Anything," the invariable answer was, "That means nothing," and he was sent about his business. In fact, there seemed to be no work in the whole line of docks that a child of his age was capable of doing. And night found him worn out with fatigue, and with a sadly lightened pocket. However, he kept up his heart as well as he could, and sought rest and sleep in a damp cellar upon some dirty straw, which for the payment of twopence he shared with a dozen other lads, who appeared to be as friendless as himself. That night he slept the sleep of the innocent and weary, and awoke next morning, strengthened and refreshed, to find that all his companions had left and that his pockets were empty! This was a terrible blow to Benny; but when he discovered that his "lucky shilling" was still safe in the lining of his waistcoat, he dried his tears, and went bravely out, hungry as he was, to battle with an unfriendly world. Before sunset, however, he had nearly lost heart, for he had been unable to earn a single penny, and he was almost faint with hunger. So in sheer desperation he sought his old place on the landing-stage, in the hope that he might have the chance of carrying some one's portmanteau, and in that way earn his supper; but everyone to whom he offered his services repulsed him, and for the first time he wondered whether it would be wrong to throw himself into the river, and whether that would not be the easiest way out of his trouble. Somehow he could not help thinking that it would be less wicked for him to do that than to steal. He could not starve; drowning he was sure would be a much less painful death; and, as far as he could see, it had really come to this, that he must either steal or die. But he would not steal, he had made up his mind to that. Had he not promised Nelly that he would be honest? And had not Joe and granny and his Sunday-school teacher told him what a wicked thing it was to be a thief? No; he had settled that matter, and when he had settled a thing in his own mind he was not to be moved. The question then was, what was the easiest kind of death? The river looked beautiful this summer evening, and he thought it must be very nice to rest beneath its cool sparkling waters after the hot glare of the streets. Should he plunge in now, or should he wait a little longer? He had been without food for twenty-four hours. He had no place to sleep, no means of getting supper. Then suddenly he remembered his "lucky shilling." "Queer!" he mused. "The Lord sent His angel wi' this bob, an' I've never wanted it till now, an' now I does want it, I've got it. I'm floored again. Nelly said the Lord 'ud provide, and He do." And he took out the bright shilling and looked at it fondly. Just then he heard a countryman inquiring the way to Lime Street Station, of a man who stood near him. "Here's a chance," he thought; and, stepping forward, he said, "I'll show you the way, sir, if yer likes." "Dost thee know th' way thysel', lad?" inquired the man. "I should think I do," said Benny, drawing himself up to his full height. "Lead the way, then," said the farmer; and Benny trotted on before him, feeling sure that he was safe now for a good supper without spending his shilling. "Thankee," said the farmer, on their arrival at the station; "thee'rt a sharp lad, an' no mistake." And he smiled benevolently, and hurried away to the booking-office, leaving our hero staring after him in utter bewilderment. Benny felt that he would have liked to have had his revenge on that man then and there. "Golly," he said, "don't I feel savage, just!" Just then a gentleman pushed against him, carrying a bulky leathern bag. "Carry yer bag, sir?" said Benny in an instant; and, without a word, the bag was hoisted on his shoulder, and once more Benny was on the trot. By the time he had reached the top of Brownlow Hill he was almost exhausted, and without a word the man (gentleman, I suppose he thought himself) took the bag from his shoulder and handed him a penny in payment for his services. When will men, and professedly Christian men, learn the great though simple lesson--to do unto others as they would that others should do unto them? A benevolent baker, moved to pity by the sight of Benny's suffering face, gave him a twopenny loaf for his penny, with a smile and a kindly word into the bargain, and Benny went out into the darkening street with a lighter heart than he had felt for the day. The evening was oppressively warm, and having no inclination to go back again into the dingy town, where policemen were plentiful, Benny made his way in an easterly direction, hoping that he might find a dark corner somewhere where he might sleep undisturbed. After a while he found himself in the neighbourhood of the cemetery where Nelly was buried. He was not superstitious, so without a moment's hesitation he climbed over the wall, and, getting dark as it was, he easily found his sister's grave; and, stretching himself on the damp grass, with his head upon the little mound under which his Nelly slept in peace, he tried to think--to form some plan for the future. Above him twinkled the silent stars. Around him slept the silent dead. Everything was silent; not a leaf stirred, not even a blade of grass; and yielding to the silent influence of the hour, he fell asleep, though not before he had resolved that he would return to his old haunts no more, but would commence his new life as far away from Liverpool as he could possibly get. Next morning he was up with the lark, and kissing the sod above his sister's face, he hurried away. At noon Liverpool was several miles behind him, and before him--what? Under the shadow of a tree by the roadside he rested for an hour during the heat of the day, and in a clear stream that babbled by he slaked his thirst and washed the dust from his hands and face, then hurried on again. The country looked very beautiful bathed in the summer's sunshine, but he was in no mood to enjoy it. The birds sang their glad songs in the trees, but to him they seemed only to mock his sorrow. In the fields he saw the sleek cattle grazing as he passed, or lying in the sunshine contentedly chewing their cud, while he was footsore, hungry, and sad, and he wondered what the end of it all would be. As the afternoon wore away he found himself hedged in with plantations on every side, and not a single human habitation in sight. For awhile he dragged himself along with fast failing courage and strength; then he gave up in despair. "It's no go," he said; "I ken go no furder." His feet were hot and blistered with his long tramp over the hard and dusty road. His head ached from the fierce heat that had been beating down on him all the day, his strength was all but gone, for he had tasted no food since the previous evening. "I dunno how the Lord's goin' to do it," he said, the tears starting in his eyes. "Nelly said as how the Lord 'ud provide, an' so did the angel that gived me the bob; but I dunna see how. I wonder if He's goin' to take me to heaven? P'r'aps that's the way He's goin' to do it, an' then I'll never be 'ungry no more." Climbing on a gate, he looked around him, but no house was anywhere visible. "It's all up, I reckon," he said sadly, getting down on the inside and making his way through the tangled undergrowth into the heart of the plantation. "I'll find a snug place 'ere somewheres, where I ken wait till the Lord comes. I wonder if He'll be long?" He had not gone far before he found a place that suited him. A luxuriant patch of ferns growing out of a carpet of moss, bordered on every side with tall brushwood, while overhead giant fir-trees sighed and moaned in the evening breeze, made a perfect arbour of quiet and repose. Pressing down the yielding ferns, he had soon a bed soft as he could desire, while a mossy bank made a pillow grateful as a kiss of love to his aching head and burning cheek. "I'll be comfortable 'ere till the Lord comes," he said, stretching out his weary limbs. "I wonder if He'll bring Nelly wi' Him?" Then he closed his eyes and waited. Above him the fir-branches swayed gently in the soft evening breeze, and from far away came the subdued plash of falling water. It was very strange and solemn, but soothing and restful withal. The pangs of hunger abated, too, after he had rested awhile, and his head ceased to ache, while the wind in the trees sounded like an evening lullaby, and brought back to him a vague and misty recollection of his mother rocking him to sleep on her lap, in the years long, long ago. Then the music seemed to come from farther and farther away, till it ceased altogether, and once more Benny slept. And there in the solemn wood we will leave him for awhile to the mercy and care that are infinite. CHAPTER XIX. The Border Land. For since Thy hand hath led me here, And I have seen the border land,-- Seen the dark river flowing near, Stood on its bank as now I stand,-- There has been nothing to alarm My trembling soul; why should I fear? For since encircled by Thy arm, I never felt Thee half so near. Joe Wrag was in great trouble when he heard of Benny's misfortune. Granny was the first to make him acquainted with the fact that something was wrong. Benny had been in the habit of returning earlier on a Saturday evening since he had been with Mr. Lawrence than on any other day of the week, and when that evening wore away and deepened into night, and Benny did not come, granny got very much concerned, fearing some accident had befallen him; and so she remained rocking herself in her chair, and listening in vain for his footfall all through the night. And when morning came she hurried away, old as she was, to Joe's house, in the hope that he would be able to give her some information as to Benny's whereabouts. Joe was thunderstruck at sight of Betty so early on a Sunday morning, and her eager question, "Dost a' knaw where the boy is, Joe?" did not help to mend matters. For a few moments Joe's power of utterance seemed to have left him altogether, then he stammered forth-- "Ain't he hum, Betty?" "Nae, Joe; I's never seen 'im sin yester morn!" Joe looked thoughtful, for he had no reply to this, and Betty sat down in a chair, evidently exhausted. After a while Betty got up to go. "I mun be a-goin'," she said, "he may a-got hum by now." Towards evening Joe called at Tempest Court, but nothing had been heard of the wanderer. The night that followed was one of the longest Joe had ever known, and as soon as he was released from his watch in the morning he went at once to Mr. Lawrence's office. "Is the maaster in?" he said, addressing one of the clerks. "No, my good man," was the reply; "he will not be down for an hour yet. Could you call again?" "Mebbe you'll do as weel," said Joe, scratching his head. "Can yer tell me wot's become o' the boy Benny?" "Oh, yes," said the clerk, smiling complacently, "he's where he ought to have been long ago." "Where's that?" said Joe. "In prison, sir!" "In prison?" in a tone of bewilderment. "Even so," with a bland smile. "I can't say as 'ow I hunderstand," Joe stammered out. "Very likely," said the clerk, "so I will inform you that Mr. Lawrence, having his suspicions aroused, placed a five-pound note on his desk, and then set a watch----" "Well?" said Joe, eager yet fearing to hear the rest. "Well," continued the clerk, "this young friend of yours, who seems to have been an old hand at the work, was seen coolly to take the money. But when charged with the theft, a few minutes after, he stoutly denied all knowledge of the circumstance; but Mr. Lawrence was determined to stand no nonsense, and had him at once marched off to the lock-up." For a moment Joe looked at the clerk in silence, then, without a word, walked out of the office. When he told granny, she was at first indignant. "To think that she, a honest woman, 'ad been a-'arbouring a thief all these months!" But Joe soon talked her into a better frame of mind, and it was then that she promised him that if the prodigal ever came back again she would not turn him away. When Joe read in the paper on Wednesday morning that Benny was acquitted, his delight knew no bounds. He accepted the fact as almost proof positive that Benny was innocent, and went at once to tell granny the news. He found the old woman crying over Benny's letter, with the eighteenpence lying in her lap. When Joe came in she handed him the letter without a word. Joe blew his nose violently several times during its perusal, then laid it down on the table, and walked to the door to hide his emotion. It was several moments before he could command himself sufficiently to speak, then he blurted out-- "The poor parsecuted bairn mun be found somehow, Betty, an' 'ere's off to sairch. Good mornin', Betty." And before the old woman could reply he was gone. During the next three days Joe had but little sleep. He tramped the town in every direction, in the hope that he might glean some tidings of the poor lost lad; but his labour was in vain, and each evening when he returned to his hut it was with a sadly diminished hope of ever finding the boy again. On the evening that Benny, hungry and forsaken, lay down in the wood to sleep, Joe felt his heart drawn out in prayer in such a manner as he had never before experienced. Nearly the whole of the night he spent upon his knees. Now and then he got up and walked out into the silent street, and gazed for a few moments up into the starlit sky. Then he would return to his hut again and pray more fervently than ever. He had returned from his search that evening utterly cast down, feeling that the only resource left to him was prayer. He knew not whether the boy was living or dead. He could hardly think the latter; and yet if he were alive, who could tell what he was suffering? Who but God? To God then he would go and plead for the outcast boy, and who should tell whether God might not regard his prayer and send help and deliverance to the child? Thus hour after hour he prayed on, and when the light of the morning crept up into the eastern sky, he rose from his knees comforted. Were Joe Wrag's prayers answered? No doubt they were. Not in the way, perhaps, that Joe would have liked best, and yet in the best way for all that. God does not always give us in answer to our prayers what _we_ think best, but what _He_ thinks best. To weary, worn-out Benny God gave sleep, deep, dreamless, and refreshing, and in the morning he awoke to the song of birds and to the rustle of a thousand leaves. The music sounded very sweet to Benny's ears, but it was not the music of heaven, as he had hoped it would be. He had waited there in the solemn wood for the coming of the Lord, but He had not come. Heaven seemed farther away from him than ever this morning, and earth was painfully real. He felt himself too weak to stir at first, so he lay still, occasionally opening his eyes to watch the slanting sunbeams play among the tangled foliage, and light up the dewdrops that trembled on every leaf. His head was hot and heavy, and his eyes ached when he kept them open long, and the pangs of hunger were coming on again. What should he do? He lay for a long time trying to think, but his thoughts whirled and twisted like snowflakes in a storm. "P'raps I kin get on a little furder if I tries," he said to himself at length, and suiting the action to the words, he rose from his ferny bed and staggered out of the wood. He had scarcely strength left to get over the gate, but he managed it at length, and then fell down exhausted by the roadside. How long he lay there he never knew; but he was aroused at length by the lumbering of some kind of vehicle coming towards him along the road, and by the shrill whistling of the driver. Nearer and nearer came the vehicle, and then stopped just opposite him. Benny looked up and saw a shock-headed, overgrown lad, standing in what seemed an empty cart, staring at him with a look of wonder in his great round eyes. Benny had reached a stage of exhaustion which made him indifferent to almost everything, so he only blinked at the boy, and then dropped his head again on the grass. "Art a tired?" said the boy at length. "Ay," said Benny, without opening his eyes. "Wilt a 'ave a lift?" "What's a lift?" "A ride, then, if it's properer." "Ay, I'll ride; but 'ow's I to get in?" "Oh, aisy 'nough," said young Giles, jumping out of the cart and lifting Benny in as if he had been an infant. "Golly," said Benny, coming out with his once favourite expression, "you're mighty strong!" "Strong? You should see me lift a bag o' corn! Now, Dobbin," to the horse. "Gee, meth-a-way," and the horse moved on at what seemed a stereotyped pace. "'Ave a turmut?" said the boy at length. "What's a turmut?" "Lor, now," laughed the boy, "you must be green not to know what a turmut is." And he untied the mouth of one of several bags lying at the bottom of the cart, and took out two, and by the aid of a large clasp-knife had both peeled in a "jiffey." Putting his teeth into one, he handed the other to Benny, who readily followed his example, and thought he had never tasted anything more delicious. By the time our hero had finished his turnip they had reached a small village, and Benny was able to get out of the cart unaided. Here were houses at last. Perhaps he might get work here; he would try, at any rate. And try he did; but it was discouraging work. At many of the houses the door was slammed in his face in answer to his inquiry. At a few places the person addressed condescended to ask Benny where he came from, and when he replied "from Liverpool," he was told to be off about his business, as "they wanted no thieves nor pickpockets in their employ." One kind-looking old gentleman asked Benny what he could do. "Anything a'most," was the prompt reply. "You're too clever by a long way," laughed the old man; "but let's perticlerize a bit. Can you spud thistles?" Benny looked bewildered. He knew nothing about "spuds" or "thistles," so he shook his head in reply. "Canst a whet a scythe?" Another shake of the head. "Take out arter the mowers?" "No." "Dibbel tates?" "I don't know." "Humph. Canst a milk?" "I ken drink it, if that's wot you mean," said Benny. "Ha! ha! Mary," raising his voice, "fotch the lad a mug o' milk." And in a few moments a stout red-armed girl brought Benny a pint mug, brimful of rich new milk. "Ay, ay," said the old man, "I see thee canst do thy part in that direction weel eno'. Have another?" "No, thank you." "Humph. I fear thee'rt no 'count in the country, lad." "But I could larn," said Benny. "Yes, yes, that's true; thee'rt a sharp boy. I shouldn't wonder if thee couldn't get a job at t' next village." "How far?" said Benny. "Short o' two mile, I should say." "Thank you." And once more Benny set off on the tramp. It was scarcely noon, and the day was melting hot. Outside the village the sun's rays beat down pitilessly on his head, and made him feel sick and giddy. All the trees were on the wrong side of the road, and he looked in vain for a shady spot along the dusty highway. Still on he tramped, with fast failing strength. A little way before him he saw a farmhouse, with trees growing around it. "If I can only reach that," he thought, "I'll rest awhile." Nearer and nearer, but how strangely everything was swimming around him, and what a curious mist was gathering before his eyes! Ah, there is the sound of voices; a group of haymakers just inside the gate getting their dinner in the shadow of a tree. Was help at hand? He did not know. Gathering up all his strength, he staggered towards them, stretched out his hand blindly, for the mist had deepened before his eyes, then lifted his hands to his temples, as if struck with sudden pain, reeled, and fell senseless to the ground. In a moment a woman raised him from the ground, and supported his head against her knee, while the men crowded round with wondering faces. Then Farmer Fisher came up with the question, "What's to do?" and the haymakers stood aside, that he might see for himself. "The boy's dead," said the farmer, with just a little shake in his voice. "No," said the woman, "he's not dead, his heart beats still." "Go and call the missus, then, quick." Then one of the men started for the farmhouse. Mrs. Fisher was a gentle, kind-hearted woman at all times, especially to children, and just now she was particularly so, for a month had not elapsed since she had laid one of her own children, a boy of about Benny's age, in the silent grave. And when she caught sight of Benny's white suffering face, her heart went out to him instantly. "Take him into the house, John," she said to her husband, the tears starting in her eyes, "and send for the doctor at once." So without further ado Benny was carried into the house, stripped of his dirty and ragged attire, put into a warm bath, and then laid gently in a clean soft bed, in a cool pleasant room. Once only he opened his eyes, looked around him with a bewildered air, then relapsed again into unconsciousness. The doctor, who arrived toward evening, pronounced it a very bad case, ordered port wine to be poured down his throat in small quantities during the night, and promised to call again next day. "Will he live?" was Mrs. Fisher's anxious question. "Fear not," said the doctor: "want, exposure, and I fear also sunstroke, have done their work. Whoever the little fellow belongs to, he's had a hard time of it, and to such death should not be unwelcome." During the next day Benny was conscious at brief intervals, but he lay so perfectly still, with half-closed eyes, that they hardly knew at times whether he was alive or dead. His face was as white as the pillow on which he lay, and his breathing all but imperceptible. The doctor shook his head when he came, but held out no hope of recovery. So that summer Sabbath passed away, and Monday came and went, and Tuesday followed in the track, and Wednesday dawned, and still Benny's life trembled in the balance. The doctor said there was no perceptible increase of strength, while the pulse, if anything, was weaker. Hence, without some great change, he thought the boy would not live many hours longer. Outside the birds twittered in the trees, and the songs of the haymakers floated on the still summer air; but within, in a darkened room, little Benny to all appearance lay dying. He had reached the border land, and was standing on the river's brink. On the other side of the stream was the everlasting home, where his Nelly dwelt, and where hunger and weariness and pain could never come. Why did he linger, when he wanted so much to cross and be at rest for ever? He had no fear, and to the onlookers it seemed easy dying. No sigh or moan escaped his lips; he lay as still as the dead. The day waned at length and darkened into night, and Mrs. Fisher and one of the servants remained up to watch by the little invalid. It was about midnight when they observed a change come over him. The brow contracted as if in pain, the wasted fingers plucked at the clothes, and the breathing became heavy and irregular. Mrs. Fisher ran to her husband's room and summoned him at once to Benny's bedside. John Fisher was a kind man, and needed no second bidding. With gentle hand he wiped away the big drops that were gathering on the little sufferer's brow; then turning to his wife, he said, "Do you think you had better stay, love? I think he is dying." "No, no!" she said, "I cannot see him die." Then, after a pause, she sobbed, "Let me know when it is over, John," and hurried from the room. CHAPTER XX. Life at the Farm. Source of my life's refreshing springs, Whose presence in my heart sustains me, Thy love appoints me pleasant things, Thy mercy orders all that pains me. Well may Thine own beloved, who see In all their lot their Father's pleasure, Bear loss of all they love, save Thee-- Their living, everlasting treasure. --Waring. Mrs. Fisher waited anxiously in an adjoining room for the coming of her husband to tell her that Benny was no more. She could not go back into the sick-room, she dared not see the child die. It was only such a short time ago she held her own dying Rob in her arms while he gasped out his little life, and the wound in her heart was not healed yet: she fancied it never would be. The sick child in the next room, that she had taken to her heart, had opened it afresh, and she felt that to see the little fellow struggling in the agonies of death would be more than her nerves could bear. And so she waited while the moments dragged slowly along. "How tenaciously the child clings to life!" she said to herself as she paced restlessly up and down the room. Still her husband came not. "Can he be fighting death all this while?" she said; "I hope the little spirit will be released soon." Then she fell upon her knees and prayed--prayed long and earnestly that, if it were the Lord's will, the boy that had been thrown upon their care might have speedy and sweet release from the burden of the flesh. It seemed long since she had left the sick-room, and still the moments travelled slowly on. "It cannot be much longer," she said; then a step on the landing made her look up anxiously, and her husband came quickly into the room. "Come this way, Mary," he said, without waiting for her to speak. "Is it all over?" she questioned, looking up into his face. "No, I can't understand it at all: the lad seems better, though he's evidently wrong in his head." Without further remark, she went at once to the bedside, and laid her hand gently upon his forehead. Benny opened his eyes slowly, and raised them to her face, then tried to speak, but only a faint whisper escaped his lips. "What do you say, poor boy?" said Mrs. Fisher kindly, bending down her ear to listen. "May I see Nelly, please?" he whispered. "Who is Nelly?" she replied. "Nelly is my sister; may I not see her?" in the same faint whisper. "Where is your sister, my boy?" said Mrs. Fisher, looking a little perplexed. "Nelly's in heaven," he said. "This is heaven, ain't it?" "No, my boy, this is not heaven," she replied. "Oh, I thought it wur," he said, closing his eyes with a look of pain. And Mrs. Fisher's eyes became moist, as she saw the big tears stealing out under the lashes, and rolling slowly down the pale wasted cheeks. After a while Benny fell into a sound sleep, from which he did not awake till morning. When the doctor came next day he rubbed his hands with glee. "Never had but one case before to equal it!" he said, "but it's wonderful what children will pull through: just as you think they are going right over the precipice, they turn round, and coolly walk back into health." "Do you think he will get better?" said Mrs. Fisher. "More likely than not," was the reply: "the tide has turned, evidently. He had reached the crisis when you thought he was dying last night, and instead of kicking the beam, why, here he is ever so much better." From that day Benny got better. Not rapidly; no, it was a slow coming back to health; still, he did get better. Day by day he gathered strength, though scarcely perceptible at times. The doctor rather wondered at this, for he expected his recovery to be much more rapid. But the secret lay in the fact that Benny did not want to get better. And one day, about a week after the time of which we have spoken, he positively refused to take his medicine. "But it is to make you better," said Mrs. Fisher gently. "But I dunna want to get better," said Benny; "I wants to go to heaven." "But you should be willing to wait the Lord's time, Benny." "I's waited so long," he said fretfully, "that I's tired of waitin'." "But it's wrong to murmur at what is God's will, Benny." "Are it?" he said. "I didn't know, but I's very tired." "But you'll get rested after a while, if you'll be patient." "Ah, then," he said, with a sigh, "I mun try, I s'pose." But in spite of Benny's anxiety to die, health and strength came back to him day by day, and one beautiful July Sabbath afternoon he was dressed, for the first time, in a suit of dead Rob's clothes, and carried into another room, and placed in an easy chair by the window, that he might feast his eyes on the beautiful landscape that stretched out before him. Benny submitted to the process without speaking a word, for he was still very weak; but after he had recovered himself a little, he looked curiously at the clothes in which he was enveloped, as if not at all certain of his identity. "I reckon I's not Benny Bates," he said at length. "Oh, yes, you are," said Mrs. Fisher, who had been watching him with an amused smile upon her face. "Then," he said, looking up, "these is not my togs." "No; but I think I'll give them to you, Benny." "Whew!" lifting his eyebrows. Then he began to search carefully all the pockets; that done, he lifted his white scared face to Mrs. Fisher, and said, "Where's the bob, please?" "Where's what?" "The shillin'." "What shilling?" "The one the angel gived me. Ain't yer seen it?" "No; where was it?" "In the linin' of my wesket." "Oh, then, perhaps we can find it." "Oh, yes, do, please; I wouldna lose that bob for a hunderd poun'." "A hundred pounds is a lot of money, Benny." "Don't care; don't you see? an angel gived it to me." "An angel, Benny?" "Ay, an angel, a real one; but if you'll find the bob, I'll tell yer all 'bout it." After some searching the shilling was found, and Benny, as good as his word, told Mrs. Fisher the story connected with it. In fact, he would, now that the ice was broken, have told that day all the story of his life, but Mrs. Fisher insisted that it would tire him too much, and that she would hear it some other day. So day after day as he sat by the window, with the soft summer breeze fanning his brow, and with the songs of the birds in his ears, he told the story that we have written. Told of his father's cruelty, of Joe Wrag's friendship, and of his sister's love--told of his sorrow and loss, his hunger and despair, and of the angel that came to him in his hour of need--told of his success in Mr. Lawrence's office, of his thirst for knowledge, and of the bright hopes he cherished for the future. And he told her, too, of the charge of theft, of his imprisonment and temptation, of his release and resolve, of his fierce battle with hunger and want; and how, to be out of the reach of temptation, he had wandered away into the country until, worn out with hunger and fatigue, he lay down to die. And while Mrs. Fisher listened, she felt thankful that she had been able to befriend the homeless boy. Benny was winning his way to her motherly heart in a wonderful manner, and was helping to fill the gap caused by the death of little Rob. And could she have had her own way, she would have adopted him as her own, and sent him to school when he was strong enough, with Harry and George. But Benny's independent spirit would not hear of it. He would stay at Scout Farm if he might be permitted to earn his own living; but if they could not find employment for him he must go out into the great world once more, and try over again to earn, by some means, his daily bread. So it was settled at length that he should stay, and learn to be a farmer; and then Benny grew strong rapidly, and ere the sunny September days passed away, he was out in the breezy fields helping to gather in the late harvest, and trying to make himself useful in every possible way. He was willing, nay, anxious to learn, and the work was by no means difficult. For the first few weeks he was very tired when evening came, but the fresh air gave him an appetite, and the work developed his muscles, and life once more became to him a joy. He very soon got to know what to do without being told. He would tie up the cattle in the evening as if he had been used to a farm all his life; groom the horses as if he and they were old acquaintances; and feed the calves with all the dispatch of an old hand at the work. Mr. Fisher was delighted with him; "a handier little chap," he declared, "he had never come across." And instead of being in the way, as Mrs. Fisher feared he would be, he soon made himself necessary to them. When winter came, with its long dreary evenings, he found a new source of pleasure, and that was a night school. It was Mrs. Fisher--to whom he had spoken of his thirst for knowledge--that persuaded him to attend. She knew he would not only derive pleasure, but profit. Benny was considerably puzzled at first as to what a "night school" was like; but he soon discovered its purpose, and night after night, through wind and rain, he plodded along the dark country lane to the neighbouring village of Scoutleigh, eager to improve his mind and add to his small store of knowledge. Never had a village schoolmaster a more diligent pupil than he, and rarely one that improved more rapidly. Nor did he forget in the summer that followed what he had learnt during the winter. There were books in Mr. Fisher's house, to which he had free access, for though on the farm he worked side by side with the hired servants, in the house he was treated as one of the family; and when the day's work was done, he found in his books his most congenial companions. And so he grew in body and mind, and thanked God in his heart for the haven he had found at last. Time passed quickly at Scout Farm. There was always so much to be done that he had little time to brood over the past, or sigh over "what might have been." Occasionally he longed for the busy life of the town he had left, but the feeling was only momentary. On the whole he was pleased with the life he was living, and though he saw no prospect of ever realizing the dreams that once he cherished, yet he tried to be content. So the weeks passed away, and lengthened into months, and the months lengthened into years, almost unconsciously to Benny. He found himself growing into a man almost against his will. * * * * * Six years passed away, and Benny had grown almost out of recognition. No one would have thought that the tall, handsome young fellow that did so large a share of the work at Scout Farm, was the pale and famished child that dragged himself along the dusty highway six years before. He used to laugh sometimes when reminded of the past, and say that he was an example of what hard work, fresh air, and good food could accomplish. Mr. Fisher was almost as proud of him as if he had been his own son, and never seemed tired of declaring that "Ben Bates could swing a scythe, shear a sheep, plough a furrow, build a corn-stack, or thatch a hay-rick equal to any man for ten miles round." Nor was John Fisher the only man that sang Benny's praises. The superintendent of the Methodist Sunday-school at Scoutleigh averred that Benny was the most punctual, diligent, and successful teacher he had. Benny always declared, however, that he learnt more than he ever taught. Up to the time that he commenced to teach, he had looked upon religion as stern, cold duty, and as that only; a question simply of doing or not doing. It is true that he heard occasionally sermons on the subject of experimental religion, but he thought it was only a way the preachers had of expressing themselves. He had no doubt that he was a Christian. He had been trying to be one ever since the death of his little Nell; he said his prayers regularly, and always tried to do his duty; and he asked himself what more could he do. Yet as he studied the New Testament carefully week by week, in order that he might instruct his class of boys, he became slowly conscious of the fact that feelings and experiences were hinted at in that Book of books that he was a stranger to. What did he know about that "peace that passeth understanding," or of "rejoicing with joy unspeakable"? Was his life "hid with Christ in God," and was he certain what was meant by "holding communion with God and fellowship with Christ"? He now began to pay more attention to the sermons that were preached, and to the hymns that were sung. One Sunday morning he stopped singing at the verse, "Jesus, Thine all-victorious love Shed in my heart abroad, Then shall my feet no longer rove, Rooted and fixed in God." "What did it mean?" he asked himself, "this love shed abroad in the heart, inspiring the life, beautifying the character? Was religion as much a matter of love as of duty?" He heard nothing of the lesson that was read; but when the congregation stood up to sing again he was all attention. Slowly the words rang out, and filled the little sanctuary, "Give me the faith which can remove And sink the mountain to a plain; Give me the child-like praying love Which longs to build Thy house again; Thy love, let it my heart o'erpower, And all my simple soul devour. "Enlarge, inflame, and fill my heart With boundless charity divine! So shall I all my strength exert, And love them with a zeal like Thine And lead them to Thy open side, The sheep for whom the Shepherd died." That hymn for the rest of the day became the burden of his prayer, and for many days after, though when the answer came, or how, Benny never knew. That it did come he had no doubt, for he discovered that religion was no longer the cold formal thing he had once imagined it to be, but a warm living something that filled his whole life. Duty now became a joy, because love inspired it. Loving God, he loved His service and loved His people; and at last he understood the words of the Master, "My meat is to do the will of Him that sent Me, and to finish His work." I do not know that any one saw any change in Benny's life, except perhaps the superintendent of the school. He taught from henceforth as if his whole heart and soul were in the work; duty was no longer irksome, but a delight, and when some of the boys of his class were raised to a higher one, he went out into the village and got other boys to take their places. Thus in earnest Christian work he spent his Sabbath days; and on the Monday morning he would start out into the fields with a light heart, feeling all the happier and stronger for doing the Master's work on the previous day. For many months nothing had happened to disturb the quiet and peaceful lives that were lived at Scout Farm. Harry and George were at college, one studying to be a doctor, the other to be a solicitor. Winnie, the baby--born since Benny came to the farm--had grown into a bonny little creature, the pet of all the household; and Mr. and Mrs. Fisher were as contented with their lot as two people could be, and wanted no change of any kind. Benny was a little restless at times, but on the whole was happy. But this quiet life could not be lived always, and soon afterwards a circumstance transpired which was destined to affect Benny's future in a way that he had no conception of. What that circumstance was shall be told in another chapter. CHAPTER XXI. An Accident. The sea of fortune doth not ever flow, She draws her favours to the lowest ebb Her tides have equal time to come and go, Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web No joy so great, but runneth to an end, No hap so hard but may in time amend. --Southwell. Not far from Scout Farm were several gentlemen's residences, occupied chiefly by Manchester merchants, who travelled to and from the city morning and evening by rail. One of the largest of these residences, and also the farthest away from Scoutleigh Road Station, was occupied by a Mr. Munroe, who was reputed to be a man of great wealth, and also of great liberality. In consequence of the distance of Mr. Munroe's house from the station, his coachman used to drive him to Scoutleigh Road in the morning and fetch him in the evening, sometimes taking Mrs. Munroe, or one of the children, at the same time. Mrs. Munroe was the only sister of Mr. Lawrence, of Liverpool, Benny's former master, and, at the time to which we refer, Eva Lawrence was spending a few weeks at Brooklands with her uncle and aunt. Little did our hero think, as he sometimes looked across the valley at Mr. Munroe's house, almost hidden by trees, that his "angel" was staying there. It was doubtless well for him that he did not know. He would have been impatient to look once more upon the face of the maiden that, next to his sister Nelly, had been the brightest vision of his life. He still kept the shilling that she had given him, and often when alone he would take it out of his purse and look at it, and wonder what had become of the little girl that befriended him in his hour of need, and would almost long for one more sight of her angel face. It was at such times as these that Benny grew restless, and pined for the bustle of Liverpool streets, and for the sight of old faces, that day by day were fading from his memory. Yet he never seriously entertained the idea of going back. There were only Joe and granny, and Mr. Lawrence and Eva, that he cared to see, but that they would care to see him was very doubtful, and he could not go back to be looked at with suspicion. And not only so: he believed that he was where God intended him to be. He had a home, and a good one, among friends who believed in his honesty, and treated him with kindness. And even yet, had he been disposed to pay a visit to his old haunts, he had no time. He was fully employed every day of the week, and every season of the year brought its appointed work. The days were so short in winter that they had always their hands full, and sometimes more than they could do. And spring was always a busy time: the lambs had to be attended to; fences had to be repaired; and so many "crops" had to be got in, that hay harvest came upon them frequently before they were ready. Then huge fields of turnips and mangolds and potatoes had to be hoed, and ere that was done the fields were white unto the harvest. Then came sheep-shearing and ploughing land for next year's wheat crop, and potato digging, and half a dozen other things, that allowed them no time for idleness, and it was well for Benny that it was so. He had no time to mope or to waste in useless regrets. One evening he had to pass Brooklands on his way to a neighbouring farm. The day had been beautifully fine--a real June day, people said; a few people complained that it had been too hot about noon, but as the day declined a fresh breeze had sprung up, that made the evening deliciously cool. Benny enjoyed few things more than a saunter across the fields during a summer's evening. And this evening he was just in the mood to enjoy the song of birds, and the scent of apple blossom and new-mown hay. It wanted several hours yet of sundown, so he sauntered on very leisurely, and paused when near Mr. Munroe's house, arrested by the sound of laughter. Not far from where he stood three or four young ladies were engaged in a game of archery, and as he could not be seen by them, he waited awhile to watch them. He did not know that one of those fair maidens was Eva Lawrence; how should he know? She was a little girl when he saw her last, now she was just blooming into womanhood. The beauty, of which her early life gave promise, was now more than realized. But had Eva Lawrence been plain of feature, she would still have been beautiful in the eyes of those who knew her well. Hers was a beautiful life, and people did not wonder that it was mirrored in a lovely face. It was a picture that would have pleased an artist's eye on which Benny gazed, and their rippling laughter formed a pleasant accompaniment to the rustling of the leaves and the music of the brook that murmured down the glen. But as Benny gazed at the picture he only saw one face, that of Eva Lawrence. He thought he had never seen the face before, and yet it affected him strangely. It seemed to bring back to him some half-forgotten dream. What was it that it reminded him of? He could not tell; whatever it might be, it eluded his grasp. Like the snatch of a forgotten song it came and went, leaving nothing definite upon the mind. An hour later he returned by another way across the glen or ravine (adown which the brook babbled) by a narrow bridge with low parapets, and turned a sudden corner down the lane towards Scout Farm. For a moment he paused and remarked to himself, "This is a dangerous corner; I wonder Mr. Munroe does not alter it; and that bridge too, it is altogether too narrow. If I drove this way as often as he does, I would pull down that antiquated structure, and build a good wide bridge with a high wall on either side;" and, having given expression to an opinion that he had expressed a hundred times before, he turned on his heel and quietly pursued his way. He had not gone many yards, however, before he heard a great hue and cry, and, looking down the lane, he saw that Mr. Munroe's horse had taken fright, and was rushing towards him at headlong speed. The coachman, who had been riding behind, had coolly dropped himself down on the road, and stood staring after the flying carriage in blank astonishment, and shouting at the top of his voice. Benny saw that Mr. Munroe was trying in vain to check the mad gallop of the horse, and he saw also that the young lady whose face had attracted him so strangely before was sitting by his side, pale and motionless. Here and there people rushed out from the fields into the road and held up their hands or hoes, but always retreated after a few frantic gesticulations in time for the affrighted steed to pass. Instantly Benny thought of the sharp corner and the narrow bridge over the deep ravine. If the road had been straight, the wisest course would have been to have given the horse rein, and let it tire itself out. But as it was, the horse must be stopped before it reached the bridge, or almost certain death would be the fate of Mr. Munroe and his niece. He had little time to think, but he knew that to attempt to stop the horse would be attended with considerable risk to himself. If he failed to grasp the bridle the horse and carriage would go over him, in all probability killing him on the spot; but he had no time to debate the question, the startled horse was full upon him. In an instant he dashed at the bridle and caught it, the end of the shaft striking him on the arm at the same moment, almost causing him to let go his hold, but he held tight. For a dozen yards the horse dragged him along the road; then he succeeded in getting it on its knees with its nose against a hedge, and Mr. Munroe and Eva alighted in perfect safety. By this time, however, a number of people had gathered round, the coachman amongst the rest, who at once took charge of the horse, and Benny slunk away as quietly as possible, and made his way along the road as fast as he was able. Mr. Monroe, however, seeing his intentions, followed him at once. "Come, come, my young friend," he said; "I cannot let you go without thanking you for your noble act." "Do not mention it, sir," said Benny, with an effort, turning pale at the same time. "I would be ungrateful indeed," said Mr. Munroe, "were I not to mention it. No, I shall never forget that to your heroism my niece and myself owe our lives." "I am very thankful if I have been of service to you," said Benny; "but I could not have acted otherwise, so please----" But he did not finish the sentence; setting his teeth together, as if in pain, he staggered towards a seat by the hedge. Instantly Mr. Munroe sprang towards him, exclaiming, "You're hurt, I'm sure you are; tell me what's the matter." "My arm is broken, that is all," said Benny, with a poor attempt at a smile; then everything began to spin around him in a very bewildering manner, and he could never exactly recollect what happened after. He always carried with him, however, a lively recollection of the process of bone-setting, which he afterwards underwent, and of the sleepless night that followed. Next morning Mr. Munroe came to Scout Farm and sat with Benny for half an hour, chatting about things in general, and before he left he thanked him again in the warmest terms for his bravery, and made him promise to visit Brooklands as soon as he was able, stating that Mrs. Munroe was very anxious to see him, as were also his daughters and niece, especially the latter, who wanted to thank him personally for saving her life. Benny blushed at first and begged to be excused, but Mr. Munroe would not hear of it. So Benny reluctantly consented at last to endure the martyrdom (to him) of being introduced to the fine ladies at the big house, and in his heart wished he was well out of it all. He felt sure that he should look silly and make a hole in his manners, for he had never been used to grand people; and what would be the proper thing to say when they thanked him he had not the remotest idea. "Well, Ben Bates," he said to himself when Mr. Munroe had left the room, "you're in for it now, and no mistake. Here's a pretty kettle of fish for you, my lad, and you've to see to it that you don't go and make a fool of yourself. A lot you know about etiquette and drawing-room manners; and won't you do the graceful before the ladies! Oh, dear, dear!" And he laughed till the tears ran down his face, spite the pain in his arm. "I think I see you going through the introduction, my lad, trying to do the thing proper as if you knew how, and only succeeding in making yourself look silly. And won't the ladies giggle after you're gone!" Then Benny looked serious, and after a long pause he went on again: "Look here, Ben Bates: do you think you are a downright fool, or do you think you have just a few grains of common sense? For, unless you're a born natural, you'll put on no airs at the big house; but you'll just be yourself, remember, and not ape anybody else; you profess a great hatred of sham, then don't be a sham yourself, and make yourself look ridiculous. Remember what you are, Ben Bates; and remember, too, that you've got nothing to be ashamed of." Then, after another pause: "I wish I was well out of this job, notwithstanding. I hate to be thanked. I wonder, by the bye, who that young lady is? How her face reminds me of something, something in the old life, but what I cannot make out. How strange everything seems! I fancy sometimes I must have lived here always, and dreamed all the rest. But no, Nelly was real, and that shilling was real. Ah! I wonder what's become of her." And a far-away look came into his eyes, as if he were back again in the old life of mingled joy and pain. Meanwhile Mr. Munroe was out in the yard talking with Mr. Fisher. "A fine young fellow that of yours, Mr. Fisher," was his first greeting. "Yes," said the farmer; "I'd back him against any young man his age for ten miles round." "An adopted son of yours, I suppose?" "Well, no, not exactly," replied Mr. Fisher. "Beg pardon, I thought you had adopted him." "Well, perhaps you are not far wrong either. You see, he came to us five or six years agone, a poor little famished, wizened creature. It was a sweltering hot day too, and he had walked all the way from Liverpool, sleeping at nights by the roadside, and by the time he got here--or rather, he didn't get here--our folks were making hay in the home close, and he just got inside the gate, and dropped down in a fit, or something of the sort. Well, he was completely done up; the doctor never thought he would come round again, but he did, and you see what a fine fellow he's grown to." "Yes, indeed! And so he has lived with you ever since?" "Ever since. My wife says she believes the Lord directed him here. Any way, the boy was a great comfort to her, for we'd only just buried our little Rob, and he seemed to fill up the gap a bit, you see." "I suppose you find him very handy about the farm now, Mr. Fisher?" "Handy? I tell you, there isn't his equal for miles around. He took to the farm as natural as a duck takes to the water. In fact, the plucky little dog said he wouldn't stay to be a burden to us, and he never has been. In fact, if we came to square accounts, I fancy that I should find that I was considerably in his debt." "And you find him perfectly trustworthy?" "He's as honest as the daylight, sir, and as good as gold. Why, I'd trust him with my life, and so would the missus. She thinks a sight of him, I can assure you." "I do not wonder at it, Mr. Fisher; he's a brave young fellow, and deserves notice and help--if he needed it." "Brave? Well, you've said just right in that, Mr. Munroe; he's as brave as a lion. I don't think the young dog knows what fear is. I expect it'll be getting him into trouble some of these days. But then, bless you, on the other hand, he's as gentle as a woman, and the very soul of kindness. I believe the young scamp would give away the last copper he had, if he saw some one he fancied wanted it more than himself." "Indeed!" said Mr. Munroe, feeling rather amused at Mr. Fisher's enthusiasm. "It is not often you see people possessing so many good qualities." "Good! Well, you've hit it again, the lad _is_ good; and yet, mark you, he ain't none of the goody-goody sort either. Why, bless you, he's as full of fun and frolic as an egg is full of meat. You should just see the carryings on we have here when the lads are home from school. I laugh sometimes fit to kill myself, and yet feel as mad as a sheep at 'em, for they give me no peace of my life." "Well, we cannot expect the young folks to be as sedate and steady-going as we older people, Mr. Fisher." "That's what my wife says, sir; she says it's as natural for the lads to play as it is for the kittens, and that it's quite as harmless, and I don't think she's far wrong. In fact, I generally give in to her; she's had a sight better education than ever I had, so she ought to know better." "Ah, speaking about education, Mr. Fisher, what sort of education has this young man had?" "Well, Mr. Munroe, I confess I'm no judge in matters of that sort. You see, he was never at a day school a day in his life; but for all that he seems to have a natural gift for learning. Our George says he's got on wonderfully; and old Mr. Jones, that keeps the night school yonder at Scoutleigh, says he can't teach him any more." "Excuse me asking all these questions, Mr. Fisher, but I feel quite interested in the young man. It's but natural I should, since I owe my life to him; and I should like to do something for him, if I could see how it's to be done." "It's very kind of you, I'm sure, and I can assure you you'll not find me stand in the lad's way. Fact is, I've thought many times of late that he's too good--too well informed, and that kind of thing--to be a farm labourer all his life, and he'd never get enough as a day labourer to become a farmer on his own account." "Just so; the same thought has occurred to me, but we'll see what can be done. Good morning, Mr. Fisher." "Good morning, sir, good morning." And Mr. Fisher went his way to his farm, and Mr. Munroe to the station, to catch the noon train to Manchester. Benny kept indoors two whole days, and declared that they were two of the longest days of his life. But on the third morning he was out in the fields again with his arm in a sling. He could not work, so he took a book with him and lay down by a sunny hedge, and read till dinner-time. He would not be treated as an invalid. "I'm all right but for my game arm," he said to Mrs. Fisher, when she brought him some little delicacy that she had cooked for his special benefit; "and I think I know some one that will enjoy it a great deal more than I should," looking across to baby Winnie, who was eyeing the dish with curious eyes. "At any rate, she shall have a share. Come here, Winnie," he said, turning to the child, "come to Benny." And the little bit of humanity slipped off her chair in what Benny would have once characterized as "sca'se no time," and came toddling round the table towards him, holding up her little fat dimpled hands, and with eyes brimful of delight. "Take us up, 'enny," said the little prattler; "Winnie 'oves 'oo very much." "Easier said than done, you young foxy," said Benny, laughing down upon the child. "Come, mammy," turning to Mrs. Fisher, "lend us a helping hand, and get this young soldier where she wants to be." And soon Benny and baby were eating out of the same dish, and it would have been hard to decide which enjoyed it most. So day after day passed away, and Benny kept putting off the promised visit to Brooklands. Mrs. Fisher was constantly reminding him of his promise, and yet every day he found some fresh excuse for staying away. One afternoon, however, about a fortnight after the accident, he announced to Mrs. Fisher that he was going to pay his promised visit to the lions that afternoon. "That's right, Benny; though I don't think from your own experience that you have any occasion to call the ladies lions," and Mrs. Fisher bent on him a knowing look. "Right you are, mammy; I believe they are mostly angels after all, and perhaps those at Brooklands will be no exception to the rule." "I'm sure they will be kind to you, Benny; so you had better be off and get ready." Half an hour later he came into the sitting-room to Mrs. Fisher, dressed for his visit. "Now, mammy," he said, "am I presentable?" "Go away with you," she said, laughing, though casting at the same time an admiring look at the manly young fellow that stood before her, "you'll be as proud as a peacock soon." "Right you are again. I feel the pride creeping up already. But now for a sight of the angels, so good-bye." And off he started to pay a visit that was to be fraught with vastly more important issues than he had any conception of. CHAPTER XXII. Recognition. "That strain again; it had a dying fall: Oh, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour."--_Tempest_. When our hero reached the bridge that spanned the narrow dell, he paused for a moment and looked over the low parapet at the deep gully that had been worn away by the action of the water, and shuddered as he thought of what would have happened had he failed to grasp the bridle-rein. "I expect this breakneck place will be remedied now," he said, "that a couple of lives have come near being lost over it. If the horse had not been stopped there could not have been the least possible chance of their escape. Well, well, I'm thankful the affair ended in nothing worse than a broken arm." Passing through the lodge gates, he wended his way slowly along the carriage drive towards the house. High above his head the leafy canopy swayed gently in the summer breeze, making pleasant music, and here and there an industrious bee droned dreamily on leaf and flower. From distant fields the sheep-bells jingled gently, and mingled with the whistling of a plough-boy riding home his tired team, while from a neighbouring farmyard the patient cows lowed lazily while waiting to be milked. When Benny reached the door of the Munroe mansion, he felt strongly tempted to turn and go back again; but concluding that such an action would be exceedingly foolish, he seized the bell-handle, gave it a vigorous pull, and waited. "Is Mr. Munroe at home?" he inquired of the servant who opened the door. "Yes; but he's engaged at present. Will you give me your name?" "Bates. But never mind, you need not disturb him; another time will do as well." "I think the master has been expecting you to call," with a glance at Benny's arm. "Very likely. I said I would call some afternoon." "I'm sure he will see you, then. Come this way, please, into the library." Benny followed without a word, and soon found himself surrounded on every side with books. "Oh, my!" he said, "I think I should enjoy spending a fortnight here. I wonder how long it would take me to read all these books, and how much longer to understand them? Ay, that's the rub--understanding and remembering what one does read." Then he ran his eye along shelf after shelf, reading only the titles. "I expect I should feel like a boy in a sweet-shop, not knowing which bottle to start with. Ah, Wordsworth!" as his eye caught the name. "I've heard of him. I wonder what the inside is like?" He must have found something very interesting, for when Mr. Munroe came into the room half an hour later, Benny did not notice his entrance. Mr. Munroe watched him with an amused smile on his face for about five minutes, then said, "I'm glad you've found something to take your fancy, Mr. Bates." Benny started, and blushed to the roots of his hair. In the first place he thought he was alone, and in the second place it was the first time that he had ever been addressed as "mister." "I beg pardon," he stammered out at length. "I did not know you were in the room." "Don't mention it. I'm glad to see that you are fond of books; and I'm glad to see you here." Benny blushed again, but did not reply. "I was afraid you were not coming," went on Mr. Munroe; "but how is your arm?" "Getting on nicely, thank you; the doctor says it will soon be as right as ever." "I'm glad to hear it. It's a mercy we were not every one of us killed; but I'm having a new bridge built. I've been _going_ to have it done for the last ten years, but kept putting it off; however, they are going to start with the job next week." "I'm very glad to hear it," said Benny. "It's not safe as it is at present." "No, no; you're quite right there." Then there was an awkward pause, and Benny began to feel uncomfortable. Mr. Munroe was the first to speak. "I wanted to see you here," he said, "to have a little conversation with you about--about--yourself," bringing out the last word with a jerk. Benny did not know what reply to make to this, so he said nothing. "I understand you have not always lived in the country?" questioned Mr. Munroe. "No, sir; I lived in Liverpool till I was twelve or thirteen years of age." "And how do you like farming?" "Very well, I think; but, really, I've scarcely thought about it." "You are not uncomfortable, then?" "Oh, no! far from it. Mr. and Mrs. Fisher took me in when I was houseless, homeless, friendless, and all but dead, and ever since have treated me with the utmost kindness. I have a better home now than I ever had before in my life, and as for the work I do, I feel that it's but poor compensation for the kindness bestowed upon me." "You have no wish, then, to be anything different to what you are?" "I did not say so, sir; but as I have no expectation of being other than what I am, I try to be content." "Ah, just so; and yet I am told you have paid considerable attention to intellectual pursuits." "I have tried to make the most of my opportunities for acquiring knowledge. I'm fond of books--very; and knowledge I love for its own sake." "Well spoken, Mr. Bates. I like to hear a young man talk in that way. You are a good penman, Mr. Jones tells me." "He has paid me that compliment before, but I am scarcely a judge." "You understand bookkeeping?" "A little." "Double entry?" "Yes." "Quick at accounts?" "I should think not. I have scarcely had sufficient practice." "I suppose if you stay on the farm there is no prospect of your rising to anything higher than a day labourer?" "Not much, I fear." "Well, now, Mr. Bates, I may as well out with it first as last. I am very much pleased with you; I am, indeed. I cannot forget that you saved my life, and the life of my niece; and I am anxious to help you to something better than being a farm labourer if you will let me. Almost any one can do farm work, and I think you are deserving of something better, because you have educated yourself for it. Now, I shall be glad to take you into my city office, and give you a start in life. I commenced as a clerk at the desk, and what I have accomplished there is no reason why you may not. What do you say, now?" "I hardly know what to say," said Benny. "I am very much obliged to you for your kind offer, but I would like to talk with Mr. and Mrs. Fisher about the matter before I come to a decision." "You are quite right, Mr. Bates. Let me know this day week; and now let us go into the drawing-room and see the ladies." Benny followed Mr. Munroe like one in a dream up a broad flight of stairs, and into a large and luxuriantly furnished room. Then commenced the introduction which he had so much dreaded. He bowed to each one in turn, Mr. Munroe mentioning the name of each person; but Benny never heard a word he said, and was never quite certain whether he was bowing to a lady or gentleman. It was over, however, at length, and he sat down with a feeling of infinite relief, and took up a volume of Milton that was lying on a table near him. Then Miss Munroe came forward with the question-- "Are you fond of poetry, Mr. Bates?" "Yes, very." "You know Wordsworth, of course?" "No. I ought to be ashamed to say so, but I do not." And then followed a conversation about poets and authors of various kinds, and Benny soon forgot his shyness, and chatted away with as much freedom as if he had been at Scout Farm. By-and-bye Eva Lawrence came forward shyly, and with a soft blush tinging neck and face; and Miss Munroe rose and left her and Benny together. It was growing dusk by this time, and she sat with her back to the light, so that Benny could scarcely see her face. "I am very grateful to you, Mr. Bates," she began in a low voice, "for your bravery in stopping our horse the other night." Benny started, for something in the voice reminded him again of other days, and he did not reply for a moment; and Eva went on-- "Uncle tells me that if you had not stopped the horse, nothing could have saved us;" and she shuddered slightly. "I am very thankful, indeed, that I have been permitted to be of service to you," began Benny. Then Mrs. Munroe came forward, and the conversation drifted off into matters in general, for which he was very thankful, and ended in Eva being requested to sing. "What are your favourite songs?" asked Mrs. Munroe. "Well, I hardly know," said Benny, blushing. "I know so very few; but the simpler they are the better they please me, as a rule." "Could you mention one or two?" "Yes; there is one called 'Love at Home,' which I like very much." "Oh, that's one of your old songs, dear," said Mrs. Munroe, turning to Eva. "You remember it, don't you?" "Yes, quite well; but I don't care to sing it, aunt, unless Mr. Bates very much wishes to hear it." "I should like to hear it again very much," said Benny; "but don't sing it if you would rather not." "I will do my best, anyhow;" and she got up and went to the piano. "Ring for lights, dear," said Mrs. Munroe, addressing her daughter; "it is getting quite dark." "No, no, aunt, please," said Eva; "I know it quite well without the music, and I think the gloaming is the nicest part of the day;" and she sat down and began to play over the air; then there was a long pause, for Eva's thoughts had wandered away elsewhere. "We are all attention, dear," said Mrs. Munroe. "Excuse me," said Eva; "but I was thinking of something else. I will tell you all about it directly, if you care to hear." Then, clear and sweet, rang out the words, "There is beauty all around, When there's love at home." And Benny felt thankful that the lights had not been brought, for in the gloom he could hide his emotion. When the song was finished, Eva swung herself round on the music-stool, and said, "You will think me very silly, I have no doubt, but I never sing that old song without thinking of what happened years ago." "Dear me, how old you talk!" laughed her cousin. "Well, Dot, I _am_ getting old; but never mind, I was only a little girl then. Pa and I were returning from Chester, and when we landed from the railway-boat, a pale hungry-looking lad came up to pa and asked him to carry his bag. Well, pa had been delayed, and consequently he was in a hurry, so he said 'No' to the boy in a stern voice, and pushed roughly past, and I saw the boy turn away and begin to cry; so scarcely thinking what I was doing, I went to the boy and asked him why he cried, and he said he was hungry and cold, that he had no father or mother, and that he had just buried his little sister, and nobody would employ him; so I gave him a new shilling that pa had given me, and asked him if he was generally on the landing-stage. "'Yes,' he said; and his face brightened wonderfully at the sight of the shilling, and an honest-looking face it was too; 'I'm mostly hereabouts.' "Well," continued Eva, after a pause, "I thought no more about the lad for several days, when one afternoon I was in the dining-room alone, and I began to play and sing 'Love at Home.' When I had finished, I rose to close the window, and there just outside was the very boy I had given the shilling to, his eyes full of tears; but when he saw he was noticed he shrank away, as if ashamed he had been caught listening." "And so you conceived a romantic attachment to the lad?" chimed in Mr. Munroe. "Of course I did, uncle; but to be serious. Teacher had been telling us that we ought to be little missionaries, etc, and I thought this was a likely case to experiment on. So I got pa interested, and in the end the boy was taken into his office, and a better boy pa said he never had. He was honest, truthful, industrious, and seemed very anxious to learn." Then there was another pause, and if Benny ever felt thankful for the darkness, he did then. It was all clear to him now. This, then, was his little angel, grown into a grand lady! and yet she had not forgotten the poor street boy. He would like to have spoken, and put an end to further revelations, but he dared not trust himself to speak. Then Eva went on again: "I am come to the most painful part of the story. This boy had been with pa six months, when one Saturday afternoon he left him in charge of the office, but he had scarcely got a hundred yards from the door when he remembered that he had left a bank note on his desk, and instantly turned back for it. Well, when he got into the office the note was gone. Nobody had been in the office but the boy, and yet he denied ever having seen it. Well, pa was quite in a way. He searched everywhere, but it was not to be found. So the boy was apprehended on suspicion, and taken to the police-station. I was in a great way too, for it was through me that pa had employed the boy; still, I could not believe that he was dishonest. At the trial he was given the benefit of the doubt and dismissed, and has never been seen or heard of since. But the strangest part of all is, about a month later pa wanted to look at the Directory--a book he does not use very often--and the first thing on which his eye fell as he opened the book was the missing bank-note. He _was_ in a way when he came home, and we chatted about nothing else all the evening, for he remembered then very distinctly how he had laid the note on the open book, and before he went out had shut it up quickly, and placed it on the shelf. What troubled pa so much was, the boy had been robbed of his character, for the magistrates had little doubt of his guilt, though there was no positive evidence; and when a lad's character is gone his fortune is gone. All inquiries concerning him have been fruitless. And pa says sometimes that he feels occasionally as if he had driven the poor boy to destruction. So you see whenever I sing that song it always brings back to my mind this painful story." After the story was ended there was silence for a few moments. Benny would liked to have spoken, but his heart was too full--to think that the shadow was lifted from his life at last! He wished he could have been alone for a few moments, that he might out of the fulness of his heart have thanked God. "What a pity," said Mrs. Munroe at length, "that the boy could not be found." Then Benny got up, and said in a voice tremulous with emotion, "I must go now, please; but before I go I would like to say that I am the lost boy." "You!" they all said in chorus. "Yes. I cannot say more now." And he sat down again, and hid his face in his hands. "How strange!" said Eva; "but I see it all now. I could not think who you reminded me of; but you have strangely altered." "Yes, I suppose I have," he said huskily; "and yet, perhaps, not more than you have." "How thankful pa will be!" she said, not heeding his last remark. "I will write and tell him to-morrow." "Well," said Mr. Munroe, speaking at length, "if this is not the strangest ending to a story that I ever came across!" "It's as good as a novel," said Miss Munroe. "I declare it would make a capital tale." "And your father is satisfied that I am honest now?" said Benny, going towards Eva. "Yes; but I don't think that he ever really believed you were dishonest." "And you never doubted my honesty?" "No, never." That was all that passed between them. When he had gone Mr. Munroe remarked, "A wonderful young man that; I never in my life met with a more remarkable case. How the young fellow has managed to bear up and fight the world as he has is beyond my comprehension." "And he has the bearing of a gentleman too," remarked Miss Munroe. "I expected we were going to be highly amused at his behaviour and his dialect, and so on; but really he speaks quite correctly." "He always was a well-behaved boy," remarked Eva; "and during the time he was in pa's office he told one of the clerks that he was very anxious to speak correctly." "He must have worked very hard, however," said Mr. Munroe; "and a lad with such application, pluck, and determination is sure to get on. I confess I shall watch his future career with great interest." "But what surprises me most," said Mrs. Munroe, "is the sterling honesty that seems always to have characterized him. As a rule, those street Arabs have the crudest notions of right and wrong." "He told me once," said Eva, "that he could just remember his mother, who told him to be honest, and truthful, and good; but his little sister Nelly, who died just before I met him, seems to have been his safeguard, and but for her he said he felt certain he should have been a thief." Meanwhile the subject of this conversation was making his way along the silent lanes that lay between Brooklands and Scout Farm like one in a dream. Could it be really true, he mused, that he had seen his angel face to face, that he had listened again while she sang "Love at Home," and that he had heard from her own lips how the lost bank-note had been found, and how that now no stain rested upon his name? What a wonderful day it had been! Could it be possible that his long-buried hopes might be realized at last? In a lonely part of the road he paused and listened, but no sound broke the stillness. Above him twinkled the silent stars; around him all nature lay hushed and still. "God is here," he said; and lifting up his face to the sky, and clasping his hands together, he poured out his heart in thanksgiving. "O God!" he said, "I thank Thee for all things; for the sorrow, and pain, and loss, for the darkness through which I have wandered, and for the burdens I have had to bear. Thou hast never forsaken me. Thou hast always been good. I thank Thee for bringing me here, and for the discipline of toil. And now that Thou hast lifted off the cloud that so long has darkened my life, help me to praise Thee, and love Thee more and more. I want to be good, and noble, and true. Help me, O Father, for Thy mercy's sake." Benny slept but little that night. In the long silent hours he lived all his life over again, and wondered at the mercy of God. CHAPTER XXIII. The Question Settled. Life's withered leaves grow green again and fresh with childhood's spring. As I am welcomed back once more within its rainbow ring; The past, with all its gathered charms, beckons me back in joy, And loving hearts and open arms re-clasp me as a boy. --Massey. Next morning Benny was unusually quiet, so much so that Mrs. Fisher thought he was not well; but he insisted that nothing was the matter with him, and she did not like to question him further. But when Mr. Fisher came in to breakfast he began to rally Benny at once, and to ask him how he got on with the grand folks on the previous evening. "Very well, I think," Benny answered, simply; "they all seemed very grateful for the little service I had been able to render them." "And did you find the ladies lions, Benny?" inquired Mrs. Fisher. "Indeed no," said Benny, colouring; "they all of them made me think more of angels than of lions." "Indeed?" said Mrs. Fisher, in a questioning tone. "Yes, they treated me with the utmost kindness, every one of them; but, now I think of it, the ladies always have done so," said Benny, with a laugh. "I should think so," interposed Mr. Fisher; "but Mr. Munroe spoke to me about helping you in some way: did he say anything to you about it?" "Yes; that was what he wanted to see me at his house for principally." "Well, lad, out with it: did he make you an offer of some sort?" "Yes, he made me a very kind offer indeed." "Well, Ben, what was it like? You are precious slow this morning." "Am I?" "You are, indeed. He hasn't proposed suicide to you, has he?" "Not quite. But I had better tell you all that passed between us." "Of course you accepted his offer?" said Mr Fisher, when he had done. "No, I did not." "You didn't?" "No; I said I would like to talk to you about it before coming to a decision." "You needn't fear, lad," said Mr. Fisher, with a little shake in his voice, "that I will put a straw in your way. I shall be very sorry to lose you, I confess, for you have been a great help to me, especially as neither Harry nor George would take to farming, and I know you have been a great comfort to the missus." "That he has," said Mrs. Fisher, as if speaking to herself. "But," continued Mr. Fisher, without heeding his wife's remark, "I have thought for some time past that you might do better for yourself than slaving on a farm all the days of your life; and now that you've got the chance of bettering your condition, my advice is, accept it by all means, and think yourself a lucky dog for getting such an offer." "Oh, yes, Benny," said Mrs. Fisher, "I think you had better accept Mr. Munroe's offer: such a chance does not often come twice in a lifetime; and besides, you can still make this your home--that is, you will be able to come on a Saturday night and stay until Monday morning." "Of course you will, Ben; I never thought of that," said Mr. Fisher. "I believe you have got into luck's way at last." "But I have something more to tell you yet," said Benny, looking up with a smile. "More in the way of good luck?" said Mr. Fisher. "Well, I don't think the word luck will apply exactly, and yet what I have to tell you is to me very good news indeed." "Well, lad, out with it: you are beating about the bush in tremendous style this morning, and no mistake." "Oh, you are so impatient!" laughed Benny; "and I declare you look a great deal more curious than Mrs. Fisher does." "Well, and what has that to do with it, you tantalizing young vagabond?" "Oh, a great deal!" said Benny, laughing: "you always profess that curiosity is a feminine weakness which you are a stranger to, and yet here you are as curious and impatient as a schoolgirl!" and Benny laughed again. "Well, Ben," laughed Mr. Fisher, "you have me this time, I'll admit. I am a bit curious; there's no denying it; so let us know what this piece of good news is." "You have heard me speak," said Benny, "of the little girl that gave me my lucky shilling years ago?" "The angel, you mean, Benny," said Mrs. Fisher, with a smile. "Yes, that's who I mean," said Benny, blushing; "and I am not quite certain that she is not an angel yet." "Well, and what of her?" said Mr. Fisher. "I daresay you will think it a strange story, but it seems she is a niece of Mr. Munroe, and is staying at present at Brooklands. She was with Mr. Munroe the night the horse took fright, and so without knowing it I saved the life of the little girl that befriended me in the hour of my greatest need. A little girl no longer, however, for she has grown into a grand lady, and yet she seems as good and kind as ever." "Well, I never!" said Mr. Fisher. "And you recognized each other at once?" inquired his wife. "No, that we didn't: she has grown out of recollection quite; and I suppose I have also." "Well, I should rather think you have," said Mr. Fisher, with a broad grin; "you were a scarecrow when you found your way here, and no mistake." "But how did you find out who she was?" said Mrs. Fisher. "By the merest accident. But you would never guess, so I will tell you all about it." And he detailed the circumstances with which the reader is familiar. "Well, if I ever!" grunted Mr. Fisher. "I'm so thankful, Benny," Mrs. Fisher remarked; "though the finding of the note can make no difference in our regard for you, for we never doubted your honesty for a moment." "Thank you, mammy;" and he looked fondly up into the face of the good woman who for so many years had been as a mother to him. After breakfast Benny took a book and went out into the fields to read, but somehow to-day the letters got hopelessly mixed, and all the lines seemed to run into one. He did his best to fix his mind upon the subject of the book, but in vain: before he had read a dozen words the letters would fade away, and his thoughts would be somewhere else; and not only his thoughts, but his eyes kept wandering in the direction of Brooklands, and he found himself weaving all kinds of fancies. But in every pattern stood out the face of one he had never forgotten either in joy or pain. How grandly life was opening out before him again! The mountain heights that had been so long in darkness were once more bathed in light. The wilderness surely lay all behind him now. Ah! he had thought so once before, and had found out that he had only just commenced the journey across the dreary waste. Was it to be so again? Would this glorious morning close in darkness? Were hopes always delusive, and but the prelude of despair? He knew not; and yet he had no fear. "The Lord," he said, "has always provided for me; I believe He always will." Then a lark rose up from its lowly nest near him, and went singing upward through the sky, and as he listened to the full rich song that floated down to him, he seemed to hear in it the promise of an ever-faithful Friend--"And not one of them falls to the ground without the notice of His eye.... Are ye not much better than they?" Towards the close of the afternoon Benny found himself in the lane that led down to the bridge that crossed the dell. He had no particular object in view, only he loved a quiet stroll through the country lanes in the quiet of the day, and he was useless on the farm till his arm got better. Below in the valley the river rippled pleasantly over its stony bed. To Benny's ears it sounded like a song, while his own fancy supplied the words-- "There is beauty all around When there's love at home." On turning the sharp corner of which we have already spoken, he came suddenly face to face with Eva Lawrence. Benny blushed scarlet; but Eva held out her hand in a simple childish manner, and said frankly, "I am pleased to see you----" (she was about to say "Benny," but checked herself), and added, "I hope your arm is still improving." "Yes, thank you; it will soon be as well as ever." "I am very glad; but how strange, isn't it, that I should have found you again?" "Yes, very; but my life has been a strange one altogether." "I suppose so. Do you remember telling me all about your life up to the time I first saw you on the landing-stage?" "Yes, I remember. Do you remember giving me the shilling? Of course you do, for you mentioned it last night, but I wanted to tell you I have that shilling yet." And Benny took the shilling out of his purse and handed it to her. "How funny!" said she, taking the coin in her hand; "and is this the very same?" "Yes; I have never had the heart to part with it, somehow, though I've wanted bread since you gave it to me. I call it my lucky shilling." "How strange!" she said, more to herself than to him. "Then you have never forgotten us?" "Forgotten you!" said Benny, "I should----" Then he checked himself, and added, after a pause, "No, I could not easily forget those who have befriended me." By this time they had reached the bridge, and Eva sat down on the low parapet, and Benny took a seat opposite her. For a while neither spoke, then Eva looked up and said, "Would you mind telling me about yourself since that dreadful evening you had to leave pa's office?" "If you care to hear it, though I fear it would be a very uninteresting story." "I should like to hear it very much, for I have often wondered what could have become of you." "I should not have kept silence all these years if I had thought any one cared to know what had become of me, but I supposed that I should best please those who had known me by keeping out of their sight." "You were mistaken in that, I am sure; but never mind now, I am all curiosity to hear your story." Benny could not resist this request, so he gave her an outline of what we have given in greater detail, making as little as possible, however, of his sufferings and privations, and dwelling at length, and with much feeling, on the kindness of his friends at the farm. Of his inner life he said nothing. His religious experience seemed too deep for words, too sacred for parade, and he had not framed an experience yet to use on public occasions, and he preferred also that his actions, rather than his words, should reveal his religious life. Eva listened with great attention, and her quick imagination supplied what she felt he had left out. For awhile there was silence after Benny had told his story, save for the clear river that babbled down underneath the bridge, for both were thinking of the old days that had passed away for ever. At length Eva arose and held out her hand, and Benny took the little white fingers in his hard brown palm, and held them just for a moment. "Good evening, Mr. Bates; I must go home now," she said. "Good evening, Miss Lawrence." And Benny watched her glide away among the shadows of the tall trees, in the direction of Brooklands, then turned and walked slowly home. The next morning, as he was leaving the house, he almost stumbled over Mr. Lawrence, who on receipt of his daughter's letter had come over at once. "Mr. Lawrence!" said Benny, in a tone of surprise. "Then you _are_ Benny, I suppose," he said, "as you recognize me, but I should never have known you." "Yes, I am Benny Bates, but you have not altered in the least; I should have known you anywhere." "Well, Benny," said Mr. Lawrence with much feeling, taking his hand, "you cannot tell how thankful I am to see you alive and well." Then, glancing at Benny's arm, which he still carried in a sling, he added, "I beg pardon, I had forgotten your arm for a moment. I have to thank you also for saving my daughter's life." "Do not mention it, Mr. Lawrence; I have received abundant thanks already." "That may be, but I have much to say to you; can you spare time for a walk?" "Yes, with pleasure; I am able to do nothing, as you see, and so time hangs rather heavy." "Benny," said Mr. Lawrence, when they had gone some distance, "when I found that missing bank-note, I resolved that, if ever I saw you again or had the chance of speaking to you, I would ask your forgiveness for the wrong I did you." "Do not speak in that way, please," said Benny. "If you wronged me it was not intentionally, so that I have nothing to forgive; if I had, it should be freely granted." "Thank you. And now, Benny, will you return to Liverpool again? Not to be office boy," he said, glancing at Benny's tall and well-knit frame; "I can find you something much better than that, and I should like to make you some reparation for all you have suffered through me." "Thank you, Mr. Lawrence," said Benny firmly; "but I could not come simply to be tolerated because you fancied you had wronged me, and wished to make amends." Mr. Lawrence looked up in surprise. "You will understand what I mean, I think," said Benny. "I am too old and too big to be any longer an object of charity, but if you think I am able to fill the place you want filled, and am worth the salary that you are in the habit of paying, then I will consider your very kind proposal." "I understand what you mean now," said Mr. Lawrence, "and I must say I admire your independence. I do not wish you to be an object of charity, for Mr. Munroe tells me that he finds, through inquiries that he has made, that you are a good penman, and quick at accounts, and if you will come and take the vacant stool in my office, I shall be sincerely obliged." "Thank you; but do you know that Mr. Munroe has made me a similar offer?" "Yes." "Do you require an answer now?" "To-morrow will do." "Let it be to-morrow, then, please, and I will think about it in the meanwhile." Benny had decided the question, however, before he slept that night. Manchester was a strange place, Liverpool was his home. He knew every street for half a mile around the Custom House as well as he knew the lanes around Scout Farm. He had spent his childhood there; his earliest, ay, and his happiest recollections were associated with it. It had been the scene of his greatest struggles and triumphs. It had witnessed his deepest joy and his bitterest sorrow, and though he had left it in disgrace and pain, he loved it still. There were a few people there he had pined to see. It was Joe Wrag's home; it was Nelly's resting-place; granny lived there, and his Sunday-school teacher, and Mr. Lawrence, and--. But never mind, Liverpool was dear to him still, and in the very spot from which he had been driven in disgrace he would start afresh. Next morning he walked across to Brooklands, and asked to see Mr. Munroe. "I have come," he said, as soon as that gentleman appeared, "to tell you that I cannot accept your very kind offer." "I guessed as much," said Mr. Munroe, with a smile, "when I heard Mr. Lawrence had been after you. So Liverpool has more attractions for you than Manchester, eh?" "Yes, sir, Liverpool is my home, and Manchester would be strange to me; but I am very much obliged to you for your kindness." "I do not blame you, Mr. Bates; on the contrary, I think you have acted wisely. Still, if at any time you should need a friend, you may reckon upon me." "Thank you, sir," said Benny, with a shake in his voice, "thank you very much; and now, sir, could I see Mr. Lawrence?" "Oh, yes, I will send him to you at once." "Good morning, Benny," was Mr Lawrence's greeting; "and have you settled the matter?" "Yes, sir, I will accept your offer." "That's right; I am glad to hear it. And now, when can you be ready?" "In a week, sir." "That will do; and in the meantime I will secure lodgings for you, and make things as straight and pleasant against your arrival as I possibly can." "Thank you very much." "Don't name it; but I will send you word when I have secured a comfortable home for you, so that if you like to send on your luggage beforehand, you may do so." The next few days Benny was busy getting his things together, previous to his departure from Scout Farm. Little Winnie followed him everywhere, and wanted him to promise her that he would not "do away." He did not think until he began to pack his things that the parting would cost him so much, nor did he know till then how closely the little prattling Winnie had twined herself around his heart. "Benny does not 'ove his 'ittle Winnie, to do away," the child repeated over and over again, with choking voice and brimming eyes. "Benny's pet," he would say, taking her up in his arms and kissing away her tears; "he loves you more than he can tell." "Then Benny'll stay with Winnie, won't he?" "Do you want Benny to stay very badly, eh, pet?" "Oh, yes, Winnie 'oves 'oo werry much; don't do away, Benny." "I'll come back again at Christmas, Winnie, and then we'll have rare fun, and I'll bring you a new doll and heaps of oranges." But the child would not be comforted. At length the last morning of his stay arrived. It was a silent party that sat down to breakfast, for the hearts of all were too full for speech. Then the trap was brought round, and they all drove over to the station together. The train was in time this morning, for which Benny felt thankful. There was only time for a hurried good bye good-bye, an extra kiss for Winnie, and the train started for the busy town where Benny was to commence afresh the race of life. CHAPTER XXIV. The Reward of Well-doing. I have seen angels in the gloomy prison, In crowded halls, by the lone widow's hearth; And when they passed the fallen have uprisen, The giddy paused, the mourner's hope had birth. * * * * * And by his side there moved a form of beauty, Strewing sweet flowers along his path of life. And looking up with meek and love-lent duty: I call her angel, but he called her wife. On reaching Liverpool, his first visit was to his sister's grave. He would never have found it, were it not for a curious-shaped stone that he had embedded in the sod ere he went away. As it was, he was a long time before he could discover it among the hundreds of grass-grown mounds lying all around it. It seemed to him that he had lived a long life since he lay there that summer night, and resolved that he would leave Liverpool behind him, and go out into the great world that lay beyond to seek his fortune. "Ah, well!" he mused, "I have made no fortune, but I have lived a life of peace, and God has taken care of me, and now I have come back again no longer a child, though scarcely a man, and I believe God will take care of me here." Kneeling by the little grave, he offered up a silent prayer for help and protection. He thanked God for his little sister that was safe from the world's temptation, and prayed that when he should be laid down to sleep by her side, they might meet by the far-off Jordan river, and part no more for ever. He was in a very subdued frame of mind when he left the cemetery and wended his way in the direction of Tempest Court. He could not help wondering as he threaded his way through the busy streets whether granny was still alive, but he certainly did not expect to find that Tempest Court was no longer in existence. Such, however, was the case. The march of improvement had swept away hundreds of tumble-down houses, in one of which granny had dwelt for so many years. But she did not live to see that day. In the little home in which she had lived so long she was permitted to die; and so, when the "destroyer," as she would have called it, came to Tempest Court, she was gone--gone home to the Father's mansion, to the "house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens." But Benny knew nothing of this, and so he gazed with a look of pain at the heaps of broken bricks and mortar which men were busy carting away, and thought what a grief it would be to granny. His next visit was to St. George's Hall, and for a while he sat in the shadow of the great portico to watch the hurrying crowds passing up and down. How different it was from the silent country and the still, drowsy fields! What a tremendous hurry everybody seemed to be in! Was it always so? He had never noticed it in the old days: surely the great town must have grown bigger and busier in the years he had been away from it. "But I daresay I shall soon get used to it," he said to himself, as he rose from his seat, and started this time for the landing-stage. Here he saw no change. The mighty river was the same as in the old days, a scene of life and beauty. But the children selling matches and the women crying newspapers brought more vividly back to his mind than anything else the days of his own childhood. In the cemetery it seemed a life-time since he went away; here, on the stage, it seemed only yesterday since he was a poor famished child, earning a precarious living as best he could. He could hardly realize that he was a strong, well-dressed young man. Once or twice the word "Perks" leaped to his lips as a shock-headed ragged lad ran against him; and when a little girl came up to him with "Fusees, sir?" the face of his dead little sister seemed to flash upon him for a moment, and he started and turned pale, then handed the child some coppers, and patted her on the head, telling her to be a good girl. He now began to think it time to put in an appearance at Mr. Lawrence's office. But he could not resist the temptation of a sail to Birkenhead and back first. For years he had longed for the day when he would be rich enough to afford such a luxury; that day had come at last, and the wish should be gratified; and surely, as he floated across the broad placid river and back again, no child ever felt half so delighted with a new toy as did he. Mr. Lawrence was pleased to see that our hero had arrived, and offered him the option of a few days' holiday before he settled down to the desk. But Benny said he would be quite ready for work on the following morning; he only wanted to see Joe Wrag and granny, and he thought he would be able to find them before the day closed, and he knew that he should be happier at work than doing nothing. Benny's next move was to make inquiries of the police as to what streets were being repaired; and, having been furnished with a list, he waited until half-past five, and then went in search of his old friend. But Joe was not so easily found as he had imagined. He went from one street to another until his list was exhausted; but all the watchmen were strangers to him, and he began to fear that his old friend was either dead, or that failing health and strength had compelled him to retire from his occupation. Benny now began to consider what he was to do next, for he had not the remotest idea in what part of the town Joe lived, if indeed he were still living. At length it occurred to him that very likely the watchmen knew each other, and that if he were to inquire of one of them he might get some idea of Joe's whereabouts. With Benny to think was to act very frequently; so he walked up to an old man who was keeping watch in the street in which he then found himself, and put the question at once. "Do you know an old man by the name of Joe Wrag?" "Oh, ay, very well." "Then perhaps you could tell me where I might find him." "In course I could. If you keep down Old Hall Street for haaf a mile, you'll tumble over him, unless yer mind where yer goin'." "Much obliged." And off Benny started with a very much lighter heart than he had five minutes before. It was a warm July evening, and Benny espied the old man long before he got to him, sitting on a block of wood outside his hut, apparently buried in thought. For a moment or two Benny stood before him without speaking, and Joe seemed utterly unconscious of his presence. Six years seemed to have passed very lightly over the old man's head. Benny could detect no change in his features; he did not look a day older than he did the last time he saw him. At length Benny said, in a hesitating tone of voice, "Good evening, Mr. Wrag." Joe started, but scarcely lifted his eyes to the intruder; then answered, after a pause, "I'm none so much mister, as I knows on; I'm only plain Joe Wrag." "This is a nice time of the year for you watchmen," said Benny, not knowing exactly what to say. "Yes, it's purty fair; we don't git bothered quite so much wi' the youngsters as we do in the winter." "And so the children bother you in the winter, do they?" "Well, I don't know they bother me so much, arter all; only they like the fire, yer see, when the weather's cold." "Just so; you'll get to know a great many children, I should think?" "Oh, ay, a goodish few." "Did you ever know a lad called Benny Bates?" "Ay, yes, poor lad, I should think I did," said Joe, with a sigh; "an' his little sister too, purty little hangel; she's safe enough, thank God. She's wi' the Lord in heaven, but where the poor lad is the Lord only knows." "Lost, then, is he?" "Oh, ay, poor bairn, poor persecuted lad; falsely accused he wur, an' it seemed to break his 'eart; he's never been heard of since." "Do you think you would know him if he were to come back again?" "Ay, I should know 'im among a thousand," said the old man, still keeping his eyes on the ground. "Then look at me, Joe, and say if you know me." Instantly he rose to his feet, and, coming close to Benny, looked straight in his face. Then raising his hands to heaven, he cried out, "O Lord of mercy!" and fell upon Benny's neck and wept. We will not tire the reader with repeating the conversation that passed between Joe and Benny that night. Each had a hundred things to say to each other, and each a hundred questions to ask. Darkness had crept over the earth, and the great town was silent and still, ere Benny left Joe's hut; and when at length he took his departure, Joe watched him until he had disappeared in the gloom, then looking up into the now star-lighted sky, he clasped his hands together, while the tears ran down his weatherbeaten cheeks, and cried out, "Now, Lord, lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen Thy salvation." Next day Benny settled down to work with a fixed determination to do his duty, and to make his way in the world if it could be honestly done. The same truthfulness and perseverance, and diligence and honesty that had characterized him for so many years still marked his life, and raised him month by month and year by year in the estimation of his employer and in the estimation of all with whom he came in contact. According to promise he spent his Christmas at Scout Farm, to the delight of little Winnie and of all the other members of the household, and returned to town feeling all the better for a week's rest. When Benny had been in Liverpool about two years, a case that was tried at the assizes created considerable interest. The prisoner was found guilty of burglary and manslaughter, and sentenced to twenty-one years' penal servitude. In reading an account of the trial, Benny was struck with the names of the prisoner, John Cadger, _alias_ Peeler, _alias_ Perks. Could it be the Perks that he had known? So interested was he in this question that he determined to find out if possible; and, after some difficulty he was permitted to visit the prisoner in his cell, previous to his removal to Dartmoor. Benny's first glance at the shock head and sinister face convinced him that his worst fears were realized. For a moment he was unable to speak, then summoning up all his courage, he held out his hand, saying, "I'm very sorry to see you here, Perks." "Who are you?" snarled Perks, with a terrible oath. "Do you not know me?" said Benny. "No! I only know you b'longs to the gentry tribe that are always down on poor chaps like us." "You are mistaken there, Perks; I am Benny Bates." "You!" he said in astonishment, eyeing him from head to foot. "Then you must 'ave got mighty 'igh in the perfeshun. I could never dress like that." "I am not in the profession, as you call it," said Benny. "Not in it?" "No." "Do you mean to say you've kep' honest all these years?" "Yes, I have." "An' kep' in Liverpool?" "No." And Benny told him where he had been. "Jist so; you'd a-been bound to take up the perfeshun if you 'ad kep' here." "I don't think so." "I'm sure on it. Look 'ere: do you 'member that chat we 'ad that night I skeered yer so? Oh, lor!" And Perks laughed till the tears ran down his face. "Well, Ben, I tried bein' honest arter I got out o' quad that time. I did for sure, jist by way of speriment; but lor! 't were no use,--I was nearly starved, an' I 'ad to take up the bizness agin or else die." "But why did not you do as I did?" "Never thought on it, and shouldn't a-'ad pluck enough to hacted it out if I 'ad." Then Benny talked seriously to Perks about his sin, and about the everlasting future beyond the grave; told him also about a loving Saviour, who was ready to forgive the vilest, and of the happy home He had prepared for all. Perks listened in silence to all Benny had to say, only remarking when he had finished, "I wish I wur dead." He confessed to Benny the justice of his sentence, though he would insist upon it that society had made him what he was, and was to some degree responsible for his wickedness. To Benny the interview was a very painful one, and he felt it a relief when he found himself once more outside the prison walls. They never met again. In less than three years Perks was summoned to appear before a higher tribunal, to answer for the deeds done in the body. Benny had no sooner got settled in Liverpool than he sought out his old Sunday school, and became a teacher there; and often he told to the ragged and neglected children that he gathered around him the story of his life, and pointed out a bright future that might be theirs if they would be industrious, truthful, and honest. Once during each summer he made it a point of taking his class to Eastham Woods, knowing from his own experience what a joy it would be to the poor boys to breathe the fresh air, listen to the song of birds, and run races on the mossy sward. Benny was never idle. The one aim of his life was to do good, to be "rich in good works;" and grandly he succeeded. His name in many a home was like "ointment poured forth," and young and old blessed him for his kindly words and kindlier deeds. * * * * * And now what shall we more say? for tales must end while lives run on. Years--I need not say how many--have passed away since Benny again took up his abode in Liverpool. He is now partner with Mr. Lawrence, in a business that has become more prosperous than ever. He lives in a beautiful house of his own, and the angel that years ago brightened his childhood now brightens his home; and sometimes on winter evenings he gathers his children around his knee, and shows them a shilling still bright and little worn, and tells them how their mother gave it to him when she was a little girl, and he a poor, ragged, starving boy upon the streets; tells them how, by being honest, truthful, and persevering, he had worked his way through many difficulties, and how, by the blessing and mercy of God, he had been kept until that day. And Ben, the eldest lad, thinks how he will be brave and true like his father, and so grow up to be an honourable man. Here, then, we will end our story--a story that contains more truth than fiction--and hope that the young people who may read it may learn the lesson we have aimed to teach, and so be helped to the cultivation of those virtues that will yield them in this world "a hundredfold more, and in the world to come life everlasting." THE END.